‘I’m even more impatient now.’ Isadora lay back on the sofa, one hand holding the phone, the other fondling Vita. ‘Speaking of orchids, how’s the neighbour been behaving?’
‘All right, touch wood. But we’re scared he’ll dump something horrible in the pool or burn leaves again or... God knows what, there’s any number of ways he could ruin it. I get these revenge fantasies, like smashing his greenhouse to bits or stealing his whole collection. It’s terrible.’
‘Have you spoken to him? They know about the course, right? How important it is.’
‘I didn’t actually say it’s important just in case it goads him even more. But they know about it, sure. I’ve asked Jackie and Thibault to make him behave. If they can.’
‘Perhaps if I speak to him. He might listen to a stranger more.’
‘A foreigner, Bumble. And a writer. The sort of person he detests, I’m afraid.’ She sighed. ‘We’ll see how it goes. I’d love to talk all day but I really ought to be off. The painters are coming for the dining room today and there’s all sorts of stuff being delivered. I tell you, it’s a madhouse round here. We’ll never be ready, I’m sure.’
‘Of course you will. And you’ve got your cook now. Food, wine, and sun. That’s what they’re after. The rest will be a bonus.’
Isadora went back to her desk.
Maria looked admiringly at Clover’s slender legs, crossed at the knee, and the delicate, pointed foot at the end of it. She brushed Clover’s blond hair away from her neck and then ran her hand around her shoulder and back again, then across her perfect, soft breast onto an equally perfect, hard nipple. She felt Maria’s breath shudder as she...
Chapter 37 Anything For Adeline
Isadora was surprised when Sophie, after a gentle tap, opened the kitchen door. ‘You’ve come to help? How sweet! But I think it’s all under control. Aïoli. Just a matter of getting the sauce right. The rest is easy.’
‘Quite. Actually, no, uh... there was something I wanted to ask you.’
Isadora cracked open an egg and expertly separated yolk from white. ‘Fire away,’ she said brightly. She carried on preparing mayonnaise as Sophie spoke, her only reaction at the end being to stare straight ahead for a few seconds, eyes wide, features immobile. Then, in the sweetest of tones, as if a favourite niece had presented her with a beautifully wrapped dead worm, she said, ‘Conducting your own little private investigation. How quaint! Dilly did mention it but I’d almost forgotten. You and Magali, a detective agency or something.’
‘We just can’t help being curious, I suppose.’ Sophie leant against the sideboard, arms folded. ‘Luc doesn’t like it. Maybe he’s right, I shouldn’t.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s rather a quality, I think. Writers couldn’t write if they weren’t curious.’
Sophie watched while Isadora whisked the mayonnaise. Eventually, above the noise, she said, ‘A gift.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Not the rarest orchid there is, nor even the prettiest, but it does make a lovely present, don’t you think? Of course,’ she continued, switching off the whisk to speak in a mock-horrified whisper, ‘it’s dreadfully naughty of me. But as soon as I saw it, I thought, “I must have that!” Don’t tell anyone but’ – she emitted a childlike giggle – ‘I’m a bit of a klepto at times.’
‘Ah.’ It wasn’t the admission itself that surprised her but the nonchalance, as if it meant nothing more than dipping a hand into a box of chocolates on the table. ‘Doesn’t that get you into trouble?’
‘Oh, no. I only ever take what’s not for sale. Stately homes, small museums, libraries – there’s nothing easier. Shoplifting?’ She snorted. ‘Never!’
A niche form of kleptomania. Fair enough. She imagined Isadora’s home stuffed with Victorian dolls, pewter tankards, maharajah’s jewels...
‘Why did you hide it?’
‘They’re searching all over the house. I could hardly leave it on the window sill in my bedroom, could I?’
‘A gift. For Adeline, I presume.’
‘All my loot is for her. Gareth doesn’t know, so I’m counting on you not to tell him. He thinks what I give her comes from my mother’s house. I knew I couldn’t pretend the orchid did, so it wasn’t very sensible of me, I confess. Dilly said I ought to return it but it’s absolutely gorgeous and she does so love flowers.’
‘Bombyliflora. The Bumble Bee orchid. Any connection to your nickname?’
‘Only the private joke. We went to a fancy dress party once. I was a bee. I’ve been Bumble ever since.’
‘I’ve been reading an excerpt from The Tip of My Tongue. Very interesting.’
‘Oh, did you like it? Wonderful, haw, haw!’ Isadora dipped a finger in the mayonnaise and held it out to Sophie. ‘Would you taste? I like it quite peppery.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Sophie sucked the finger. ‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘Where did you learn to cook so well? Everything we have is delicious.’
‘New York. I spent six years there after Uni – arrived the day before the Twin Towers fell. I got a job in a community arts centre, they needed a cook. I couldn’t cook for toffee but I lied and they hired me. Then of course I had to prove I could cook, so I learnt very quickly. Absolute peanuts for pay, but I met all sorts of people. I was backing vocalist in a band for a while, wanted to be the next Debbie Harry but it didn’t work out. I came back and started writing erotica. Absolute tripe, I know, but at least it keep me alive.’
‘I see why my aunt says you’ve had an interesting life.’
‘Oh, I’ve been around the block. That’s not the half of it. Would you like to peel that?’ She slid a clove of garlic across the worktop. ‘Your aunt’s quite a scream, I must say. We’ve been getting on famously. She wants to have an affair with me but I’m afraid I had to decline. Life’s complicated enough as it is.’
‘Right. Since you’re with Adeline already.’
‘For the past five years.’ She removed a pan of potatoes from the heat, and for a moment was hidden in a cloud of steam as she drained them. ‘It began after Lily died. Their daughter.’
‘Really? I didn’t know.’
‘She was run over. Utterly tragic. Poor Dilly was so upset, and Gareth wasn’t an enormous comfort so she turned to me. Not out of the blue – there was something between us as soon as we met. Like the song, you know?’ She closed her eyes and crooned, ‘Something deep inside cannot be denied... I adore that song.’
Smoke Gets In Your Eyes. Nothing to it? Or mischievous, brazen allusion? ‘Gareth seemed to think you wrote the Mosquito Murder text.’
‘He flatters me. My writing’s not that subtle, I’m afraid.’
‘Who do you think did write it?’
‘That’s your job to decide. Martin? Penelope? Far be it from me to cast aspersions but they do seem to have a very curious marriage.’
‘Perhaps everyone’s is when you look closely. What does Gareth think about you and Adeline?’
For a moment Isadora didn’t answer, as she laid out fish fillets, cauliflower, radishes and potatoes. ‘Have you ever been to Sissinghurst?’
‘No. Where is it?’
‘Kent. It’s a glorious garden that belonged to Vita Sackville-West, Virginia Woolf’s lover. Both were married and their husbands knew but the affair lasted for years. So you see, it’s quite possible to be open-minded about these things.’
‘And is Gareth?’
Isadora sighed. ‘Poor Gareth. He tries so hard. With everything. But some things, I suppose, are more difficult than others.’
‘Such as accepting you and Adeline.’
‘Oh, we’ve talked about it many times and I know he’d like to but... I don’t know, maybe he will one day. Because really, you know, he’d do anything to please Dilly.’ She turned to Sophie with a sorrowful expression. ‘Absolutely anything.’
Chapter 38 The Nature Box
In the final minutes before dinner, Sophie had two conversations: the first, with Luc, an
swered one question but raised another; the second, with Pico, baffled her.
Tikar-Bom, as it happened, had neither flown to Venturi nor been planted by Gabrielle – on hearing about it, Luc led Sophie into the studio and poked around in the plastic crate where Adeline had tipped the contents of Chloé’s treasure box. Against his better judgement, he said, he’d allowed her to search for treasure in the car boot sale drawer, where the one item she fixed upon was Tikar-Bom. Sophie was much relieved that Gabrielle played no part. For one thing she preferred to think that Cyril’s wife, when not consumed by jealousy, was a likeable, sensible person; for another she had no wish to be the target of a voodoo curse. On the other hand, it was hardly less spooky that Tikar-Bom, despite a reassuring inability to fly, had nonetheless found an ingenious way of getting there all the same. And the final hop of the journey, from the crate to the path by the pot shed, now required its own explanation. Assuming again that Tikar-Bom hadn’t done it all by herself, someone had given her a hand. Decidedly, she moved in mysterious ways.
As for Pico, apart from a non-committal grunt, he showed no interest at all in Tikar-Bom’s travels, and when Sophie, somewhat miffed, moved on to her talk with Isadora, the response was merely a brief pursing of the lips and one raised eyebrow. Then, with an eagerness quite unlike him, he returned to the upcoming première of The Amazing Arrest. ‘All set?’ he asked. ‘I hope you’re on board with this. It’s a bit unorthodox, I grant you.’
‘Uh, no, it’s fine. It’s your show – whatever you think is best.’
‘Quite. If all goes to plan, we’ll get a confession before the evening’s out. Bondy puts the case very well, don’t you think?’
‘Very convincing, yes.’
‘Opportunity, method, motive – couldn’t be clearer. Did he say anything else when I was out?’
‘About Martin? No.’
‘About something else? What was that?’
‘Oh, a different thing altogether. A little enquiry Madame Rousseau has been making.’
‘Indeed?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got a few minutes. Tell me.’
Why, when she’d finished, did he probe, demand details, accompany her to the alcove to see the painting itself? He gave no clue. Sophie said if he wanted the full story, he’d have to ask Magali, and he nodded. Then, after inspecting Portrait of The Artist in His Studio with all the care of a dermatologist examining spots, he said, ‘Good. The guests are assembled. If you go on out, we’ll be along in a while.’
Dinner was late. Rumbles of discontent came from Eddy and Maya, but Lyle said they were lucky to be getting dinner at all. Rumbles of tummies were stilled by crisps, hummus dip and slices of saucisson sec. Dorian was put to bed; Chloé conscientiously transported gravel from the car park to the patio. The sun began to set. Alcohol was consumed.
The aïoli had just been placed on the table when the two gendarmes appeared. General Pico stood with his hands behind his back, until the only chatter remaining was the cicadas’.
The guests turned their chairs to face Pico, making two rows of spectators separated by the table. A couple of yards behind him, centre left, Bondy stood to attention, a small cardboard box at his feet.
‘I’m aware,’ said Pico, ‘that these past two days have been unpleasant. But as I’m sure you realise, investigations of this nature often are. Nor is this one over yet, not quite. There are still a few questions that need answering but I’m glad to say we expect those answers very soon. You’ve been patient and cooperative – thank you. How you would like to spend the rest of your week isn’t my concern, but if any of you wish to leave, we have no need to retain you here any further.’ He left a pause, looking at no one in particular. ‘Except, of course, for one of you.’ He extended a hand to his partner. ‘Lieutenant Bondy, please proceed.’
Pico took a few steps to the side. Bondy moved centre stage. The terrace lights hadn’t yet been switched on, and while his body was illuminated by a ray of sunlight through the trees, his head was dimmed in shadow. This went against the most elementary rules of stage production but the effect was curiously powerful: when he spoke, the voice emerged from a headless apparition. And a clear, confident voice it was, as he launched into his role with admirable gusto, his features barely visible but the speech underlined by the mesmerizing movements of his hands.
Opportunity, method, motive – the three ingredients needed for a person to be a suspect. Opportunity: why, it took no more than a minute or two to lure Captain Praud into the shed, there to thrust a knife into his neck, severing the carotid artery; push him violently forward with the double aim of avoiding any blood spatter whilst causing the victim’s head to come down hard on the clay pots lined against the wall; and finally, for good measure, plunge the knife into his back. The killer would be back to participate in the game going on in the house before anyone noticed he was gone.
The audience noted two points: the killer was male; the killer had been playing hide and seek. All eyes turned towards Martin. His hands tightened into fists. His mouth opened but he said nothing. Lieutenant Bondy continued.
Motive. Plain as day – prevent Captain Praud from discovering a crucial clue that would incriminate the suspect in the murder of Henri Seibel.
Martin wriggled his shoulders, shifted in his seat. Sunlit beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Sophie glanced at Penelope: lips pinched in a curious smile, her eyes were fixed upon Bondy.
Method. By this, said Bondy, he didn’t mean the killing itself, with which he’d already dealt, but what came after, the cover-up. A truly astounding machination that drew upon the work of Agatha Christie. A locked room mystery (here he described the bolt and the loosened bricks); a crude attempt to frame another person (Eddy’s workshop notes by the body); clues scattered deliberately to make it seem that the person the killer was framing was in fact framing him. The first clue – here he stooped to produce an evidence bag from the box at his feet – was a broken cup, smashed against the wall behind the pot shed. He moved to the table and walked slowly past the guests, holding up the bag for all to see. Prosecutor, jury, exhibit A. you couldn’t help but admire the performance. Returning to the box, he produced exhibit B, which he displayed in the same way: a piece of green cloth found by the French window in the leisure room. And where, he asked, do these clues come from? The Mysterious Affair at Styles, which the killer referred to right from the start as being a model to be followed. Furthermore –’
‘That’s crap and you know it!’ Unable to contain himself any longer, Martin leapt to his feet. ‘If you think I’m going to sit here and –’
‘Monsieur Best.’ Pico stepped forward. ‘Please sit down and let the officer finish. You’ll be given ample time to express your views afterwards.’
Bristling with anger, Martin did as he was told. Bondy went to the box and produced another bag. ‘Now, this was found yesterday morning next to Henri Seibel. We fully expect it to reveal traces of DNA that will match that of Seibel’s killer. We further expect more DNA to be found on the second glove of this pair. You may have been wondering how Captain Praud was lured into the pot shed. Simply by telling him that the second glove was there. The killer pretended he was ready to confess, but in reality –’
‘Lies!’ Martin slammed his fist down. ‘Fucking lies! You son of a bitch!’
Sophie stared at the bag in Bondy’s hand. The glove had been slit open to scrape fragments from inside, and the colour of it confused her, as when something is in the wrong place and your mind struggles to make sense of it.
She rose from her chair and walked over to Chloé. ‘Your nature box, sweetheart – is it still downstairs? In the studio?’
‘Um...’ Absorbed in making miniature mountains of gravel, Chloé had to think for a moment. ‘Yes.’
‘What did you do with the bits that aren’t nature? You said you took them out. Where did you put them?’
Chloé put on her sorry face, the one designed to melt her parents’ hearts when she’d done so
mething wrong (such as surreptitiously gouge Dorian’s cheek). ‘On the floor.’
‘Good, that’s fine, don’t worry. Can you show me?’
As she gathered Chloé in her arms and walked inside, everyone must have wondered why she was leaving just as the show was reaching its climax. And when she returned a couple of minutes later, passing a forensic officer on the way, it seemed indeed that she’d missed something dramatic.
‘... found,’ Bondy was saying as he displayed an evidence bag in which nothing was visible, ‘on the computer keyboard in the lobby.’ He swung it in front of Martin. ‘Would you care to explain this, Monsieur Best? The next clue in that book you’re so fond of. Honey.’
‘Bollocks!’ Martin was on his feet again, ready to leap over the table and assault him. ‘You don’t even know –’ He swivelled a finger at Penelope. ‘You put them up to this! Why, you scheming, two-faced –’
‘Excuse me.’ Sophie cut short whatever insult he had in mind for his wife. Approaching Pico, she murmured, ‘I’m very sorry, but I have to interrupt. Here,’ she said, ‘is what my daughter found at the top of the garden.’ And she held out the remains of the rubber glove that Gareth Forster had shredded.
Chapter 39 The Ultimate Test
He slept. That’s the fact of the matter. Anyone can sleep, can’t they? It happens all the time, any time. Power naps, daydreams, moments of switching off – those are absences too. Perhaps his lasted only a few seconds. Not even worth mentioning.
Cyril feels much better as he drives towards Moudiret, mind, body, and soul. A temporary lapse. Over now. Why did he even tell Gabrielle? Now he’s got her all worried and upset.
It’s written down, sent to General Pico, and that makes it official. Will Pico interrogate him? Sleeping, you say. Very convenient. Just when Captain Praud was murdered. No, of course he won’t. Pico trusts him.
He remembers anyway, remembers clearly now. By an effort of will, retracing movements the way you do when you’ve lost your phone or your keys, he retrieved the hours and minutes and put them together. The morning’s sex with Gabrielle (when he should already have been at work) became the study of Eddy Ferrucci’s assets in Cameroun; that mournful walk through the scenery of the fire became the investigation of arson; and the absence – what to make of the absence?
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