Painter Palaver

by Curtis Bausse

  ‘I was having breakfast. I don’t note people’s movements to the nearest second. No one does.’

  Praud narrowed his doleful eye and breathed out noisily. ‘What did you talk about with Carmichael?’

  ‘Oh, various things. He did most of the talking.’

  He sat back, studying Sophie as he drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘Do you have a problem with us?’

  ‘Who, me?’

  He stared from under his eyebrows. Who else? The man in the moon?

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘Not us specifically. The police. Or... I don’t know, authority. People in uniforms. Just wondering.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Madame Kiesser, I don’t want to waste my time. You know very well what I mean. Now answer the question, please.’

  ‘Oh... Literature, mostly.’

  He rapped the table with his pen. ‘Madame Kiesser, come on! The precise topic.’

  Fuck you! ‘Henry James. Then stream of consciousness. Or the other way round, I’m not sure.’ She remembered his voice, smooth as a sedative, the smell of coffee, and the flakes of croissant on his lips. She remembered – but didn’t say – the beads of sweat that rolled down his cheeks. The morning workout.

  Praud glanced at Bondy. Then Praud gave a little shake of his head and jotted something down. ‘Yesterday afternoon you had an encounter with the victim.’

  Had they already interviewed Claire? Was this a hunt for discrepancies? For all her confidence, she couldn’t prevent the feeling that any minute now, they’d whip out the cuffs and drag her screaming to prison. But that, of course, was what he wanted her to feel, part of whatever fun he was having at her expense.

  She folded her arms and glared from one to the other, holding their gaze. The corner of Bondy’s lips twitched into an apologetic smile. ‘Very brief. Nothing was spoken. He just stared at us through the bamboo by the fish pond.’ She added pointedly, ‘Where you found me just now with Thibault Seibel. Who told me by the way that an orchid –’

  ‘Us?’ he butted in.

  ‘Claire Bourane and myself.’

  ‘Describe what happened.’

  ‘Nothing really. It was the way he looked at us.’ She couldn’t summon the sensation now but there’d been a shiver of fear, as Tyson’s eye merged with Henri Seibel’s, then became the eye of Norman Bates. ‘Well, not so much me as Claire. She didn’t have a lot on – just a little dress above her bikini, so he... He didn’t do anything. Just looked. Stared. And she screamed and ran away.’

  For a moment they said nothing. Praud emitted a peculiar form of eructation, somewhere between a cough and a sigh, with a hint of repressed burp, all coming out in a ‘Hmph!’ that she couldn’t decipher. Scepticism? Disagreement? Or something unwelcome in his tummy. He spent a moment taking notes, while Bondy, arms crossed, lowered his head and tucked his chin into his chest.

  ‘Right,’ said Praud eventually. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she said, managing at last to sound chirpy. ‘So what’s the verdict? Are you crossing me off the list?’

  They glanced at each other. No answer, apart from a little sigh of irritation from Praud. Bondy stared at the ceiling.

  He knew she was innocent, surely? But he wanted her to think she was not only still on the list, but might even have been moved up to a prominent position. ‘Madame Kiesser,’ he said. ‘I know you and Captain Eveno have worked together before. I also know you’re a Private Investigator. Well, let me make one thing clear. This is a criminal investigation. Do you understand what that means?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Good. In that case you’ll know that however tempted you may be – I dare say with the best will in the world – you don’t interfere. And you don’t go disobeying my orders. Understood?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Because there’s a name we have for that – obstructing the course of justice. And I hardly need to remind you it’s an offence.’ Satisfied that he’d made his point, he dismissed her with the back of his hand as if batting away a fly. ‘We’ll call you again if we need you.’

  Chapter 19 Wild Glove Chase

  ‘He was only getting at me to get at Cyril but you know what? It worked! He actually managed to make me feel guilty.’

  ‘That’s always been your trouble, dear. Too ready to accept other people’s judgements.’ On stepping out of the interview, releasing the tension in a furious moan, Sophie had bumped into Tatty, who dragged her into the Zenhouse to ‘put her right’. ‘Here. I think this spot is the best.’

  ‘No, honestly, Tatty, I can’t, not right now. I haven’t seen the children since lunch.’

  ‘They’re up at the pool. They’re fine. Dorian actually went for a swim with Eddy, can you believe? I thought he was sure to drown but no, Eddy seemed to know exactly what he was doing.’ She indicated the rubber mat she’d laid out on the floor. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘When I get back, OK? Maybe a swim would do me more good right now.’

  ‘Good, yes, but not more good. It might get rid of the anger but not the guilt. That’s much deeper.’

  ‘It was only him trying to make me feel uncomfortable. I don’t really feel guilty.’

  ‘Not of killing Seibel, of course, because you didn’t. But in general. Heaven knows why. You weren’t brought up a Catholic. But when your parents died, you thought it was somehow your fault. God was punishing you for not being a good girl.’

  There was some truth in that, she had to admit. The hazy belief that she’d done something wrong without knowing what it was. God, for some unspecified reason, had it in for her personally. Unlike her sister Lexie, who’d banished him altogether, Sophie still had a testy relationship with God. Neither able to believe that the universe was meaningless nor to discern any possible meaning to it. Nothing personal any more: God was reduced to some psychopathic killer picking victims at random.

  ‘Well, anyway, I certainly will feel guilty if I don’t go and see my son.’

  ‘No problem, dear. Whenever you feel ready. But before you go, I need my instructions. I’m your second-in-command, remember? Unless you’re obeying your husband and giving up the case altogether.’

  ‘It’s more that I’m getting involved in spite of myself.’ She didn’t of course mention that Pico had asked her to ‘observe’ – relying on Tatty to be discreet was like expecting a guard dog not to bark. ‘I thought maybe – just quietly, you know, without actually asking any questions – but if you could try and see how Isadora fits in here. She’s replaced the cook who dropped out but she clearly knows the Forsters well. That nickname Bumble... Maybe it’s nothing but I wondered what the setup is.’

  ‘Without asking any questions? How do I do that?’

  ‘Nothing obvious, I mean. Not like, “Lie down on the mat, Isadora, and tell me all about yourself.” Just whatever comes out in a normal conversation.’

  Tatty saluted. ‘Isadora, normal conversation. Got it.’

  ‘Small talk, you know. Start with that and see where it leads. She seems very open so it shouldn’t be too hard.’ Tatty’s capacity for small talk being close to zero, Sophie had no illusions – poor Isadora would barely know what had hit her. But it might keep Tatty away from any more damaging mischief and you never knew, if it went well, perhaps she could undertake a far more serious quest: find out all she could about Claire Bourane.

  At the pool she found a picture of normality: Eddy and Lyle in the water fighting over a beach ball, Claire absorbed in Art Press, Maya giving Dorian his bottle under the watchful eye of Luc. When Dorian was satisfied, Maya handed him over to Sophie, who went to sit with Magali in the thicket, out of earshot of the others. Luc, knowing very well what their talk would be about, rolled his eyes, but on Sophie’s recommendation, he and Chloé set off to explore the pile of chippings by the shredder. With the family thus occupied, conditions were right for the Magali Rousseau Detective Agency to assess the state of affairs.

  Mag
ali said the order had been reissued: no cars permitted to leave under any circumstances. ‘Including Luc’s and Tatty’s now, though we all arrived after the murder so none of us is a suspect. What do you make of that?’

  ‘Maybe just Praud stamping his authority.’

  ‘They caught Eddy going out to get some cigars. Trying to anyway but... no cigar.’ She mimed a guffaw. ‘Nothing much to report otherwise. How about you?’

  Sophie gave an update on events: Cyril’s anger, the talk with Thibault, the interview with Praud. ‘He put me through the wringer, all right. Poor Bondy didn’t know where to put himself.’

  ‘Guilty by association with Cyril.’ Magali chuckled. ‘And Thibault’s definitely in the clear?’

  ‘I told him he was. Probably sticking my neck out a bit. If you look at the timing, he could have done it before going down to the drive. I mean, sure, he was with Jérôme, but if he’s anything like Chloé... Stick her in front of Frozen and you could slaughter the whole neighbourhood before she even realised you weren’t there.’

  ‘And this glove you mentioned. Just the one?’

  ‘Mmm. Strange, isn’t it? But until they know different, the assumption is that it’s Seibel’s. They want to search his cabin when they get the key, presumably for the second. Ah.’ Sophie stood up. ‘This little fellow’s getting sleepy at last. Papa tells me you didn’t sleep at all during lunch. Little rascal.’

  ‘Only in the car on the way back. We tried leaving him in there but it was too hot.’

  ‘And all this excitement, eh? All these people to look after you! He’s really hit it off with Maya.’

  ‘I’ll put him to bed if you like. You can go and have your swim.’

  ‘I’ll come to the house. I’ve got to get my swimsuit anyway.’ They started walking back. ‘How’s your investigation going? That painting under the stairs.’

  ‘Confirmation of what I thought. Just a copy. Maybe one of Granet’s pupils. But here’s the funny thing – guess who they got it from? Henri Seibel. A family heirloom, apparently. He gave it them as thanks for letting him build his cabin so close to the fence. They suspect he didn’t have planning permission so he didn’t want them ratting on him.’

  ‘A family heirloom from Granet’s studio. Maybe explains why he hates Cézanne. I mean, if he hadn’t come along and invented modern art, it might actually be worth something.’

  ‘I can’t remember how much Xavier’s parents paid for theirs. I’m sure they told me – let it slip casually – but I know it was their most expensive. Luc has asked Xavier to get the full story – not saying why, of course. If he knew it was for me, end of investigation.’

  ‘So Henri got on better with the previous people than he did with the Forsters. Thibault said he’d been burning leaves for twenty years. I guess they were cool about it.’

  ‘Maybe. But wait, it gets better. They had it valued but were told it was worthless and they didn’t like it anyway so they put it in the outhouse with other junk. When they sold to the Forsters, Henri was furious and demanded it back. Got quite nasty, apparently. But the husband had had a stroke and they couldn’t be bothered to empty the outhouse – the children sorted a bit but left a lot behind, including the painting. And that’s how it ended up beneath the staircase.’

  ‘Why was Henri furious?’

  ‘He wanted the house to go to Escarola, apparently. Which it almost did but at the last moment the Forsters came along. I don’t know if there’s any significance to it, but I thought I’d better tell Praud. Out of courtesy really, there might be something to it or there might not.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He gave me short shrift. Thought I was meddling.’

  They were nearing the terrace when they met Cyril, this time accompanied by Lieutenant Bondy, on their way to search Henri’s cabin – Thibault had called to say he’d found the key and would wait for them outside. ‘Why not come with us?’ said Cyril, and without waiting for an answer, walked on a few paces before turning. ‘Did you get anything useful from Thibault?’

  ‘Mostly what I got is Praud tearing me off a strip,’ said Sophie. ‘And you want me to go back?’

  ‘He won’t know. Valentin won’t tell him – will you?’

  He jerked his chin towards Bondy, who shook his head submissively, like a schoolboy deferring to a teacher.

  ‘And if he comes along himself and finds me there? I don’t want to be a pawn in your little power game.’

  ‘Your choice. I don’t want to get you into trouble.’ He appeared to have calmed down a little, though his voice was terse. ‘He’s the one playing power games. Taking Valentin from me.’

  Bondy shifted uncomfortably. ‘He won’t come along. He’s carrying on the interviews.’

  ‘Who’s in there now?’

  ‘Isadora Waverley.’

  ‘But he released you to go with Cyril.’

  ‘I offered to go. I felt like a break.’ He made explicit what sort of break by taking out a packet of Gauloises and when everyone else declined, lit one himself. ‘Then I met Captain Eveno, who said he’d come with me.’

  ‘If you want to know what’s come out so far in the interviews, now’s your chance.’ Cyril gave her a knowing smile, extending a hand to invite her.

  Magali reached out and removed Dorian from Sophie’s arms. ‘Looks like your swim will be for later.’

  As they walked up the path, Bondy revealed the most curious clue to emerge so far – Penelope Best’s necklace. At Praud’s request, she’d brought it down to show them, saying that Martin had found it in the thicket, where he’d gone to look when Penelope came back without it. ‘She said it must have slipped from her neck because the clasp was broken. But it’s quite a thick necklace – you wouldn’t think it could fall without her noticing. And when you look at the clasp, it’s not that obvious – there’s a bit missing but what’s left seems more bent than broken. She said it’s been like that for a while, she wanted to get it fixed but... I don’t know, it just seemed odd to us. We had her husband in just now and he gave us the same story, but frankly we’re not convinced.’ He turned to Sophie. ‘What you said about meeting her on the stairs doesn’t really fit with losing a necklace.’

  ‘She certainly seemed more upset than you’d expect.’ She wondered about Martin’s chirpiness, the joke of the Agatha Christie formula. A front to hide his own guilt? What had really happened up there? ‘And Claire Bourane? What did she say?’

  ‘She’s still to come. Her, the Ferruccis, and Carmichael.’

  ‘So how did you know about our encounter with Seibel?’

  ‘Gareth Forster. We asked if any of the guests had met Seibel. He told us more or less the same as you.’

  ‘And Ferrucci,’ said Cyril. ‘Did he know Seibel?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. But we’ll ask.’

  ‘But he knows Escarola. So does his wife, since she had her paintings in L’Ophrys. And Escarola and Seibel were friends.’

  Bondy shrugged. ‘Maybe. I suppose we’ll get more in the interview. Or Captain Praud will. He’s the one asking the questions.’

  ‘You know what?’ said Cyril. ‘I’m going to sit in. You can tell him when you get back.’

  ‘Cyril, are you sure?’ Sophie put out a hand. ‘Pico said you were –’

  ‘He can’t stop me. I’m here to investigate Ferrucci. I don’t want him screwing up my case.’

  She let it pass. If he wants to ruin his precious career, so be it. Petulance, bitterness, obstinacy. Captain Eveno was unable to come to terms with your decision. He showed himself to be –

  They reached the cabin. Thibault stood awaiting them by the gate, to which was attached a metal sign: Privé. The cabin, enclosed by a wire fence, was no more than a shed, but clearly larger than the twenty square metres one could build without planning permission. It also stood very close to the Forsters’ property, though from the other side it was mostly hidden from view by a thick hedge of cedar.

  Thibault held
up the key. ‘I haven’t been in yet. I was waiting for you to arrive.’

  The first impression was of cleanliness and neatness: shears, rakes, hoes and forks fixed to the white-washed walls; pots and boxes stacked on shelves; a lawnmower, hedge trimmer and chainsaw, all impeccably maintained, on a square of green plastic that protected the pale blue lino from unwelcome drops of oil. A milky luminance poured down from a skylight, more than making up for the niggardly dimensions of a couple of windows protected by wire mesh. And at the far end, on a row of shelves carefully placed to avoid direct sunlight, was Henri’s collection of orchids.

  ‘They’re beautiful!’ Skirting the lawnmower, she took a closer look. Various sizes and colours, not all of them in flower, but twenty or so different species, delicate and fragile, some in tiny pots, others suspended from hooks. ‘Thibault told me one went missing, stolen at the weekend probably. Quite a rare one.’

  ‘Bombyliflora,’ Thibault provided. ‘Not very rare but enough to be a protected species.’

  ‘Indeed? Something to look into then.’ Cyril came to examine the orchids. ‘How much was it worth?’

  ‘Couldn’t rightly say. That was Dad’s department. He gave us a few of the commoner ones to sell but mostly he kept them here. His big hobby. Anyway,’ – he held out a wicker box containing an assortment of gardening gloves – ‘what you’re looking for isn’t here. These pairs are complete. I didn’t think so. Dad wouldn’t use gloves unless he had to. Brambles, firethorn, things like that.’

  ‘Right. That’s all we came for.’ Bondy moved to the door. ‘I’d better be getting back.’

  Unaccountably, Sophie shivered. She looked up at the skylight, thinking a cloud had passed, but the light was undimmed. Probably due to the stuffiness inside the shed, the air thick and heavy with a mix of different smells: motor oil smothering the fragrance of orchids, while caught between them both, barely perceptible, was something sharper, something she ought to know but couldn’t identify. ‘There’s kind of a funny smell here.’ She sniffed. ‘Not the oil. Something else.’