by Nell Goddin
“Pascal was the one to get the light on? Was Monsieur Valette with him?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know where he was.”
“And Madame Valette, do you know her whereabouts during the darkness?”
Dr. Vernay paused. He put his hands into the pockets of his coat. “As I said, I did not see her, or anyone.”
Paul-Henri sensed the doctor had something more to say. “And what is your sense of Madame Valette, doctor?”
“Sense?”
“What kind of person is she? I know you did not give her an examination, it was a dinner party after all—but was there anything about her that, well, concerned you in any way? Or inspired some curiosity on your part of a, say, professional nature?” Paul-Henri understood that he was blatantly leading Vernay along, but they weren’t in a courtroom after all, and the questioning was perfectly legal.
Dr. Vernay nodded slowly. “I think I see what you mean. Well, I don’t like to…she’s not one of my patients, so I am free to discuss…but nevertheless, it’s not how I like to do things, you understand. I’m really not one for gossip.”
“Gossip?” said Paul-Henri. “This is a murder investigation, doctor. Please, proceed.”
Vernay looked uncomfortable, but eventually shrugged and said, “As long as you write down that this is definitely not a professional opinion, because without an actual examination and various modes of testing, what I am about to say qualifies as…nothing more than an impression. And not an informed one.”
Paul-Henri gave a short nod and waited.
“Camille Valette did interest me, as a matter of fact, beyond simple social curiosity. At the start, I wondered about this dinner party for a group of strangers. I understand that the Valettes were new in the village, but most people would let social connections develop rather more…organically, I think we might put it. Don’t you agree?”
Paul-Henri shrugged, but he thought the same. For a well-connected rich Parisian to have invited over a pack of strangers on the say-so of a waiter, also unknown to her, was pretty much unthinkable as far as he was concerned.
“So the fact of the dinner party piqued my interest, you could say,” Vernay continued. “But then, there were some other moments, exchanges with various people…” he trailed off.
“Yes?”
“Well, again, let me state with some force that I am not a psychiatrist and so anything I might say on the subject has merely been gleaned from reading medical journals, not from clinical experience or specialized training. Barely worth more than the opinion of a random person on the street. But I did wonder, Officer Monsour—and perhaps we all did, who were invited on Friday night—why it was that a prominent, successful family such as the Valettes landed in Castillac? If they were much older and looking to retire, then possibly it would make some sense, though even that would be a stretch. But a man with his distinguished job, in the prime of life, with a young family—you do have to ask why, do you not?
“It occurred to me that the answer might be with his wife and not Monsieur Valette himself. And so with that in mind, I became somewhat more watchful of Madame Valette, and I noticed…”
Paul-Henri waited. He was generally a patient man, but the itch on his calf was distracting and unsettling, and he blurted out, “Yes? Noticed what, please?”
“I wondered if—pure speculation, I remind you—if perhaps Madame Valette might have received the sort of diagnosis that…that makes social settings problematic, if I may put it that way. And that perhaps Monsieur Valette wanted her hidden away in a little village where she might not have as much of a chance to do harm.”
“Would you be more specific? What kind of diagnosis?”
“A personality disorder is what came to mind. Such persons can be…they can behave inexplicably,” said Dr. Vernay. He dropped his voice almost to a whisper. “And they can be violent.”
“Interesting,” said Paul-Henri, reaching down to scratch his leg though he was certainly well-brought-up enough to know that scratching oneself in public, during a police investigation or anything else, was intolerably impolite behavior. “Can you tell me what she did or said to give you that idea?”
“Well, impulsivity is a hallmark of the condition, and the dinner party certainly qualifies, in my opinion. Then, when the storm hit and the lights went out, I saw no evidence that she was concerned about her children at all. Completely wrapped up in herself, was how she appeared to me. Oh, I sound like the worst village gossip! Really, it would make me happy if you would cross out everything I just said, Officer Monsour. It’s nothing but the wispiest day-dreaming, no doubt brought about by the human insistence on finding reasons for everything, when sometimes there are no reasons.”
Paul-Henri thanked the doctor, deciding to see how the itch developed rather than ask for him to take a look on the spot. It had been a fruitful interview, no matter how much the doctor demurred, and Paul-Henri looked forward to presenting the chief with yet more evidence that there was a better suspect at hand than poor old Lapin. Even if he was a boor.
26
That Friday afternoon, Ben was off in Bergerac again, dealing with Bernard Petit. Molly walked with Bobo over to the renovation project and watched with satisfaction as several men began preparations for wall building, mixing a tub of mortar and arranging their tools just so. Enjoying the warmth of the late September day, she was tempted to go for a long, mind-clearing walk, but that would have to wait.
She needed to talk to Simon again. It would be much better to see him somewhere other than at his home, but Molly was in a hurry. If she could convince him to tell her why his wife had been in the psychiatric hospital—along with a few details, such as whether it had been a voluntary stay—Molly figured she would have a firmer idea about whether her hunch about Camille was right. So she went back to La Baraque and ate a piece of toast with Madame Sabourin’s strawberry jam, put on a jacket and scarf, and rode the scooter to the other side of the village to the Valettes’ manor.
She spotted Simon immediately; he was working on the ruin, shirtless, muscling a big rock into a wheelbarrow.
“That’s pretty rugged work for an ENA,” she said, with a hint of a smirk.
“You calling me soft?” said Simon, grinning. “I could tell you stories of data analysis that would curl your hair,” he said. “Not that it needs curling,” he added, looking at her wild mop, made wilder by the scooter ride.
“I’m sorry to show up unannounced,” said Molly, liking him more each time she saw him. “But something’s come to my attention that could use some clarification.”
Simon looked at her with an open expression. “Yes?”
“It’s about Camille,” said Molly, lowering her voice. “And the Hôpital Sainte Anne?”
Simon made a small grimace. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and grimaced again. “It’s not how it looks,” he said.
“I’m not saying it looks any particular way. It’s just…you understand my asking, I’m sure. It would be unforgivably nosy to ask such questions in any other circumstance. But was Camille…was she there of her own accord? It’s important that Ben and I know.”
“Yes,” said Simon. “Very much so. It was…it was a moment of some distress for her, and…” He brought a hand to his face, and stroked his cheek with one finger as he considered what to say next. “She has always struggled with tremendous anxiety,” he said. “And one day, it rather came to a head.”
“And the diagnosis?”
“I’m not entirely sure she had one, at least beyond severely anxious and depressed.” He took a deep breath and put one foot up on a stone. “I wholeheartedly supported her time in the hospital, but I can’t say I have been impressed with the care given her. Mental health remains more mystery than anything,” he said. He looked down at the ground for a moment before lifting his eyes back to Molly. “Now you see a bit better, I suppose, why the move to Castillac seemed a good idea?”
Molly nodded. “Yes, of course. I mean, I
love this village with all my heart, so it’s never surprising to me if anyone else is attracted to it. I…I moved here myself because I needed some emotional repair.” She considered saying more but stopped herself. “The issue is…I think people are curious about the move because of you. A random American showing up doesn’t inspire the same amount of curiosity as an ENA with a big-shot job at Byatt Industries. As I said, we don’t see too many people with your accomplishments down this way.”
He shrugged and turned his head away. At that moment, the light hit the side of his face and Molly saw a scar on his cheek she hadn’t noticed before. It was about two inches long, going from his cheekbone toward his jaw, exactly where his finger had been stroking a moment before when he was thinking of his wife’s hospital stay.
She cut him, thought Molly, simply, and in the instant of having the thought knew that she was right. Who knows what the circumstance was—maybe it had been an accident (though she bet not). Whatever the story was, Molly was certain that Camille Valette had taken a knife to her husband and left that scar on his handsome cheek.
It was not the time to press. Better to talk to Ben and the gendarmes, see if they could get confirmation from the hospital one way or another, and let the next steps proceed from there.
She stood in the driveway of the Valette home for another twenty minutes, bantering with Simon and enjoying herself perhaps more than she should have. It was appealing, a husband willing to cover for his wife that way, and in the back of her mind as they talked of local news and village goings-on, Molly was imagining the scene in which Camille had flicked the blade into her husband’s face.
Had they been fighting? Or had she crept up and surprised him? And how on earth do you forgive someone attacking you like that?
She wasn’t sure she would be capable of it, if she was honest. Ben better stay clear of the cutlery, she thought with a little smile as she waved goodbye to Simon and set off for La Baraque.
27
The bawling was so loud the decanter on the sideboard rattled.
“Good God,” said Simon, coming through the front door, scowling. “What is all that about?”
“It’s Maman,” said Gisele quietly. “With Chloë.”
Simon shot his daughter a quick look of trepidation before bounding up the stairs three at a time. He burst through the door to the bedroom to find Camille still in bed, wearing the same Chanel quilted bed-jacket that she’d worn all week, leaning against a heaping pile of pillows with embroidered cases, her expression dour. Chloë stood at the foot of the bed, crying in great gusts.
“What is the matter?” he said in a low voice.
“She hit me, and I’m running away! I hate this family!” shouted the girl at the top of her voice, and rushed out of the room without stopping for any comfort from her father.
Simon took a deep breath. “Stop,” he said, squinting his eyes at his wife. “I’ve told you countless times, you must stop.”
“Do you think they should be allowed to be impertinent? I should just let the girls, my own daughters, say and do anything they please? Is that what you want, Simon?”
“Of course not!” he said. “That’s not what I’m saying at all and you know it very well! We’ve talked and talked about this, Camille. Your therapists—”
“You forced me down here so I can’t see them anymore! It’s your fault, Simon. All yours.” Camille bent her head and made snuffling sounds. “You know I can’t bear it when you shout at me,” she said, groping blindly with one hand for a handkerchief.
Summoning every last bit of control, Simon walked through the bedroom to the bathroom, and began taking off his dusty trousers to get ready to shower.
“And now you’re ignoring me, is that it?” said Camille.
As Simon stepped into the shower, he heard Raphael start to howl. He reached for the soap, a fresh bar of Marseillaise lavender, and inhaled its scent before ducking his head under the water, doing his best to block them all out.
Oh, what a loss Violette has turned out to be, he thought.
He tried to brush away the feelings of resentment and fury that were bubbling up inside, but he did not succeed, and the hot water did nothing to quell them.
28
“Come on, Molly—you’re just guessing and you know it!”
She shrugged. “Well, maybe. Okay, of course I’m guessing. But—that feeling you get when you have an idea and you know in your bones it’s right, no matter whether you have proof or not? I know you know what I’m talking about.”
“Yes. And I admit, your intuition has a fairly good record.” He reached out and touched her cheek. “I’m not dismissing what you say, not by any means.”
“Thank you!” said Molly, pleased.
“But I still don’t think we can go to Charlot with our suspicions. Not yet. For one thing, as I know I don’t need to point out, all we’ve got is circumstantial evidence and suspicions. Even if Camille did attack Simon and slash him, that doesn’t mean she strangled Violette. And second, Charlot doesn’t know us at all. It’s not like Maron, where we had history, and we knew going in that he valued what we had to say.”
“Point taken,” said Molly. “I suppose there’s no way to get confirmation from the hospital that Camille was there because she attacked Simon?”
“Not legally. Privacy laws being what they are.”
“Well, how about illegally, then? Aren’t P.I’s supposed to offer the odd bribe here and there? Don’t people expect it of us, actually?”
“In TV shows, maybe. It would be different if the hospital were in Castillac. But up there, a suburb outside of Paris, we have no leverage, no contacts.”
“Maybe Paul-Henri does.”
Ben shrugged. “I’ll feel him out.”
They sat at the table, both thinking.
“You’re still not really convinced, though, are you?” said Molly. “Is it because you don’t really believe she stabbed Simon in the face, or because even if she did, that wouldn’t be enough to make you believe she’s the killer?”
“A little of both. Let’s play the scenario out: let’s say Camille is unstable and violent, and one day takes a knife to her husband. Maybe she was provoked, maybe she had some sort of psychotic episode. But either way, what does that have to do with the nanny? Attacking a spouse, to my mind, is entirely different from attacking anyone else. The potential for resentment and rage are so much greater.”
“Disturbing words, coming from my fiancé,” said Molly, deadpan.
Ben grinned. “I have heard that simply leaving the toilet seat up can eventually doom one to an early grave.”
Molly was not about to get sidetracked. “But don’t you see, if the marriage was a mess, that’s even more reason why an unbalanced wife might kill the nanny. She would be furious and jealous in equal parts, and especially so, given who Simon is.”
“Elaborate, please?
“I just mean he’s a charming man. He likes women. I would not be surprised in the least to find out there was something going on between him and Violette—or that the nanny wished for something to be going on, and Simon led her on, or some such scenario.”
“So you don’t trust him?”
Molly laughed. “Trust him? Of course not! A young woman was brutally strangled in his library, of course I don’t trust him.”
“But you don’t consider that he is perhaps the murderer and not his wife?”
“No. Well, I did consider it, we have to consider everyone who was in the house that night. He had means and opportunity, I’ll grant you that. But where is the motive, Ben? Like I said, he loves women. I would imagine he rather misses having Violette around, whether there was anything between them or not.”
Ben took a moment before saying anything. He knew he had nothing to worry about—at least he hoped he didn’t—but hearing Molly speak so admiringly of Simon’s charms was not his favorite thing. When the pang had passed, he said, “Maybe they were having an affair, Violette threatened to tell C
amille, and Simon felt he had to shut her up?”
“Does Simon seem that unhinged or desperate to you? Untold legions of wives—and marriages—have survived infidelity without anyone getting murdered.”
“Some marriages have no problem with it at all.”
“Is that so?” said Molly, mischievously. “So in our case, if I—”
“No,” said Ben, reaching out to pull her closer. “I don’t like to share.”
Molly grinned. “Not my idea of fun either. Glad we got that settled.”
Ben kissed her, then sighed. “I’m finding this case to be a little impenetrable. It seems, from the outside, as though it should be the easiest thing—a group of people stuck in the house when a murder is committed, most of them with no connection whatsoever to the owners of the house or to the murder victim. I know it looks right now that Camille is the obvious perpetrator, and I don’t mean to be, what is that English phrase, sticks in the dirt?”
“Stick in the mud,” said an unsmiling Molly, the charm of Ben’s confusing that particular idiom having worn off long ago. The truth was, she always felt irritated when she had an idea and couldn’t convince him she was right, even though his insistence on evidence was absolutely proper—which only made it more annoying.
“Well,” she said, brightening. “Let’s not sit around all night arguing about Camille. It’s Friday night, the gang will probably all be at Chez Papa. Shall we join them?”
Bobo lay down by the door with her head on her paws, looking as mournful as possible, so Molly gave her a liver treat on the way out the door.
“I don’t know about you, but I find sleuthing exhausting, even when all I’m doing is sitting at the computer,” said Molly as they got into Ben’s car.