Death in Saint-Chartier

by Ivo Fornesa

  The passageway was constructed in the fifteenth century, a time when the average man was noticeably shorter than today. At a height of 1.81 metres, the deceased was taller than today’s national average, while the passageway, due to the nature of its construction, varies in height and width, reaching 1.73 metres at its highest point.

  It has an irregular ceiling, with stones protruding in various places. On one of these stones, which comes to a point, remains of the victim’s scalp and blood were found. The investigation has concluded that, by moving quickly and with only the dim light of his mobile phone, presumably used to light the steps, the deceased struck his head on the protruding stone.

  Following this impact there are two possibilities:

  that the deceased lost consciousness, fell forward down the stairs and broke his neck, which the autopsy identified as the cause of death;

  that the deceased lost his balance without losing consciousness, resulting in the same outcome.

  Yet what still had no reasonable explanation was Carlos Shennan’s presence in the passageway in the first place. The police opted to conclude that he knew of its existence in advance, and for whatever reason, perhaps out of his well-known predilection for jokes and secrets, had decided not to tell anyone about it.

  Laurent, much to his relief, was freed from suspicion, and the police apologised for the inconvenience the investigation had caused. That same night his friends took him out to celebrate in La Cocadrille, where everyone, especially Le Juanch, raised several glasses in camaraderie and friendship to the memory of Carlos Shennan.

  Once the investigation had concluded, a massive funeral was held and Shennan was buried in the town cemetery, in the stately mausoleum of sculpted porphyry that he himself, with considerable foresight, had arranged to have built by the workers who had carried out the restoration of the château.

  A few days later, without a word to anyone, Madame Shennan, her daughters, the nanny and Xiao Li left for Asia. The château was entrusted to the care of Khun Suan, the Thai gardener, and Yammei, the cook, who seemed to have found common causes for meeting.

  Sooner or later all mortal things are forgotten, and the fleeting glory of the restoration gave way once more to the silence that had long reined in the château. Still, the renovations would captivate tourists and wanderers for years to come, and for some time that mysterious death regularly came up in every conversation anyone had about the town. No doubt Shennan, from the next world, was delighted to see himself become one more figure in the local Berry legends.

  SECOND CHORD

  ON THE CHURCH STEPS

  Laurent extinguished his cigarette on the stone steps and got up to toss the butt in the rubbish bin. He wanted to stop by Isabelle and Roger’s farm and pick up milk, butter and fresh cheese. The local cheese, called Valençay, is moulded into a truncated pyramid, and tradition holds that it owes its shape to Napoleon, who was presented with a pyramid of cheese in memory of his expedition to Egypt; yet the emperor had unpleasant memories of that adventure and lopped off the top with his sabre. As the Italians say, se non è vero, è ben trovato – it’s a good story, even if it’s not true. In any case, Isabelle and Roger made an outstanding cheese.

  The news from the lawyer, the unexpected inheritance from Shennan, the fact that he’d been included in his will and everything else had plunged Laurent into feverish thoughts, and after recalling all the details of his friend’s death, he realised that, as much as he wanted to believe the conclusions of the police investigation, deep down he had never been convinced.

  Nothing gives you a new perspective on things like a bit of distance. Laurent, because of the painful ordeal he’d undergone as a result of Shennan’s death, had tried to put the entire sorry incident out of his mind, but looking back now over his memories and the circumstances of those distant summer days, he rediscovered the doubts and questions that beset him when he’d first found Shennan’s body. His sixth sense, his intuition, his nose – call it what you will – told him, shouted at him even, that his death was premeditated, though cleverly camouflaged to look like an accident. And if there was anything Laurent had in abundance, it was time, peace and quiet, three things that are indispensable when searching for answers. And answers were what he needed.

  On his way back home, with a bag full of farm products, he made up his mind to investigate everything that had occurred during the celebration at the château. Laurent felt he owed Carlos this last attempt to clear up the mystery surrounding his death.

  THE AMATEUR’S LIST

  Using what he’d read and seen in crime novels and films, Laurent devised his own method of investigation. The first thing he did was to get a notepad and write down everything he remembered; next he drew up lists of the people he knew who might be involved in the case, no matter how tangentially; and last, he wrote down a brief description of each of those people. Then he reviewed his list again and again, and slowly he worked out a chart showing everyone’s potential connections to Carlos Shennan and to each other. The hardest part of the entire process was establishing what motives everyone might have had for wanting Shennan dead, or how they would benefit from his death, and then to determine where they were at the time of death, according to the coroner.

  In Berry, the weather in October tends to be gentle, and making use of his good relationship to Khun Suan, who allowed him onto the grounds, he would often stroll around the château park. He always wound up on the Cynic’s Divan, where he’d sit and think, trying not to recall his bitter final encounter with Yael. From there his gaze would linger on the proud shape of the medieval fortress, and he longed for it to unveil the secrets it had accumulated over the centuries. In particular, he wished the château could reveal what had taken place in the secret passage on 15th July.

  Even with the good weather, the day was drawing to a close, and Laurent’s stone bench was gradually getting colder. But Laurent hadn’t finished studying his notes. From the pocket of his pea coat he took out a flask of cherry brandy, just to warm himself up a bit from his throat to his tail, since he’d resolved not to get up until he had a concrete plan. Again he looked at his notes and glanced over the list, with the addresses and contact information of everyone on it. He’d decided to visit them and interview them each in turn, and if their explanations seemed convincing, he’d cross them off the list. The only thing he needed to do now was decide on the order he’d approach them in – though Laurent knew perfectly well who he’d leave for last.

  He glanced at his watch and saw it was almost dinner time. He got up, mechanically brushing off the seat of his trousers, gathered up his notes and crossed the park to head back to his place. Along one of the paths he noticed phrases in Latin carved into the side of one of the flower beds. Most of them didn’t look familiar. Laurent lingered reading them before finally continuing on his way, smiling as he thought about Shennan’s complicated, eclectic personality. No doubt the idea for the wall was his, and had given rise to lengthy arguments with his Parisian architect.

  One of the Latin maxims that Laurent didn’t notice would have been especially relevant: stare decisis et non quieta movere, stir not what is still. Wise counsel which humankind stubbornly ignores, and which Laurent would have done well to heed – though in his defence, it was a line he’d never heard.

  As he descended the steps that surrounded the fountain in the park, he saw Khun Suan on one of the side paths, pushing a wheelbarrow full of dead leaves. At his side, beaming with love, walked Yammei, the Chinese cook, cradling a tiny white kitten in her arms. They waved from afar and Laurent waved back, thinking that the château had dealt its dwellers quite different lots, and clearly the gardener and the cook were among the most fortunate.

  Back home at the vicarage, as his oxtail pot-au-feu with potatoes and carrots simmered in the kitchen, Laurent reviewed his list over a glass of wine. This wasn’t the list on his notepad but one on a cork bulletin board he’d set up in the middle of his living room, which doubled as a study. On
it he’d pinned all the photos and blueprints he had of the château, along with the photos he’d acquired through various means of the people on his list. Forced to set aside his technological prejudices, he’d set up an enormous printer, a scanner and a large computer screen and keyboard on a side table. He’d used the computer to expand his network of information, and through it he’d uncovered a lot of material on all the names on his list – all except one, though that fact didn’t surprise him. He gave it some thought, and the order he should follow became clear. He proceeded to read the list aloud as the aroma from the cast-iron pot wafted into the living room. Only God knows what the future will hold, but one thing was clear: tonight Monsieur Laurent de Rodergues was going to dine splendidly.

  His plan of action was to visit the following people:

  Sergeant Gilles Lafonnier, at the police station in La Châtre. Laurent needed to ascertain details about the case that weren’t released to the press and hear first-hand the sergeant’s thoughts about Shennan’s death and the people on the list.

  Jean-Pierre Gimbault, head of the Association of Friends of the Festival des Luthiers. He was one of Shennan’s detractors, but he’d attended the party and disappeared during the range of time when Shennan was determined to have died. Laurent arranged to meet him the day after his meeting with Sergeant Lafonnier.

  Jeannette and Claude Monatti. He’d visit them at their house in Montgivray. Shortly before the Shennans’ party, the newsletter they wrote and published had lowered its level of vitriol, but they didn’t attend the celebration and hadn’t been seen in the vicinity. Nevertheless, the fact that on the day of the event several leaflets and fliers had appeared in Saint-Chartier and La Châtre signed by La Cordophonie, the name of the Monattis’ newsletter, made a trip to their home essential.

  Thierry Chanteau, Lignières. Just one day before the festivities at the château, Laurent would readily have vouched for the arboriste-grimpeur – he’d have sworn an oath in front of anyone. Thierry had a face that radiated idealism and integrity, and Laurent didn’t think he was a good enough actor to fake those values with such perfection. Still, he recalled the scene on the staircase, and the way Thierry had grimaced when Laurent suggested he talk to Shennan. It was that memory that made a chat with the forester necessary. After doing a little digging, Laurent learnt that Thierry was now in Lignières, near the racetrack, where the Cirque Bidon was camped out. The circus was a quirky show that every summer toured around the towns in the area in caravans pulled by Frisian horses. It blended acrobatics and humour with an environmental message and a certain social critique in a setting that called to mind a more romantic past. Thierry had once been a member of the troupe and had a good relationship with the owner, and was probably helping out with maintaining the props, equipment and caravans in the off-season.

  Solange Vartel, Saint-Août. The landscape architect was the very embodiment of pacifist principles, and Laurent thought her incapable of anything even remotely violent. Yet given her close friendship with Thierry, she perhaps knew something about the source of his apparent hatred for Shennan. Solange was now working on an urban landscaping project in Saint-Août, a town just five miles from Saint-Chartier, and Laurent had heard from her parents that she’d be delighted to see him.

  Tonton Boussard, La Preugne. This was the interview he most dreaded, but given their past there was no way around it. Tonton had of course apologised to him at the party, and he’d even spoken highly of Shennan, but that might have all been a ruse. Laurent arranged to see him on his own farm, where he lived alone with his dogs, his cows, and – inconceivable as it seemed for someone like him – a pet cassowary, a large flightless bird similar to an emu.

  Yves Rataille, Châteauroux. In theory, the cordial, affable man had nothing to do with the object of his investigation. But the pugnacious Ahmed El-Kubri, the Mauritanian worker with whom Shennan had gotten in a fight, was one of his employees, and Laurent hadn’t managed to contact him directly or determine where he was. When Laurent phoned, Yves told him that from his work on the château he’d landed a project with the Châteauroux prefecture government, so they made an appointment to meet at his office on the new construction site.

  Pia de La Tressondière, Paris, 13th arrondissement. The architect had agreed to meet him, though she had warned him she couldn’t spare much time. When Laurent explained why he was interested in talking to her, she seemed reluctant, and her nervousness was palpable even over the telephone. Laurent couldn’t quite believe she had anything to do with the case, but the rage and indignation she’d shown Shennan on the day he died were grounds for a closer look. Clearly she was a woman scorned, and Laurent knew from his own experience that hell hath no equal fury. The memory of her steely blue eyes sent a shiver down his spine.

  Yael Golani, Paris, Le Marais. The scene Yael had caused just moments before Shennan’s death, her sudden departure from the party and her haste in cancelling her lease in Saint-Chartier gave her the honour of topping the list of likely suspects. Besides, Laurent felt he’d been treated unfairly and deserved an explanation, because – and this is what hurt the most – he hadn’t gotten over her. Far from it. Tracking her down been a Herculean task, and he’d managed to do so more by chance than by tenacity: when his perseverance in the search had begun to flag, to distract himself from his pessimistic thoughts he’d gone to take a stroll around the market at Thevet-Saint-Julien. There, browsing the old junk and used books, he ran into Hervé, Lilly’s partner, whom he’d met at Caroline and Pierre’s house the same day he’d met Yael. They exchanged pleasantries and news, and Hervé asked teasingly whether Laurent was still in touch with her. He said he wasn’t, and Hervé, with an impish grin, told him he’d recently been distributing goods in the old Jewish quarter of Paris, Le Marais, and there, from his lorry, he thought he spotted Yael through the window of a shop that sold religious objects. She seemed to work there.

  After this review of his line-up and a lavish dinner, Laurent closed the folder and headed to his bedroom. Even as he lay in bed, he couldn’t stop thinking about how best to approach each suspect.

  AT THE POLICE STATION

  Sergeant Lafonnier was an honest, endearing man – a true agent of the law, fully committed to safeguarding the public order and protecting the upstanding citizens from the unscrupulous ones. These were his positive traits, and they were only partly offset by his total lack of imagination and his absolute faith in the rules, with which he identified so thoroughly that he was unable to skirt their provisions even in the most intimate moments. Laurent intended to extract as much information as possible from him, so he had no choice but to have a long conversation.

  The place they’d arranged to meet at was the new police station, a building entirely devoid of charm, with a dour modern aesthetic seemingly dreamt up by state architects of the Pyongyang regime. The sergeant stood waiting at the door, and after they exchanged the usual pleasantries, he led Laurent to a conference room and poured him a cup of fairly decent coffee. On the table sat an enormous file folder, which he said contained all the information about the Shennan case.

  Laurent wanted to pounce on it, but Tartarin stopped him. He would be the one to consult it and decide which responses to give him, since certain pages were marked as confidential.

  ‘How can the report be confidential if you determined that Shennan’s death was an accident?’ Laurent asked with irritation.

  The sergeant nodded slowly, calibrating his response.

  ‘That is indeed what we determined,’ he replied, ‘but the information marked confidential has to do with Shennan’s business dealings or private life, not his death. Let’s get right down to it: tell me what you want to know and I’ll do what I can to answer in as much detail as possible. I’ll have to request that you not ask too much, as I’m doing this without consulting my superiors, and I can’t overstep my authority.’

  Embarrassed for his impulsiveness, Laurent apologised and took out his notepad, where he’d written
down a long list of items he wanted to clarify or ask. Tartarin couldn’t help laughing, and looked at him with a certain compassion.

  ‘Monsieur Laurent, you’re taking this very seriously, and while I value your zeal as a citizen, I’m sorry to see you wasting so much time on this. I myself was fond of Monsieur Shennan, and I admire what he did with the château, so I personally took an exceptional interest in the investigation, and believe me, there were no third parties involved, I promise you.’

  ‘Sergeant, I hold you in the highest regard, and I’m certain you did everything you could, but I also know that you have other cases and matters occupying your schedule. As an individual with time on his hands, and a witness to the events, I’ve gone over everything I know about the case and have reached the conclusion that there are factors worth reconsidering. That’s why I asked for this meeting: no doubt one or several of my assumptions are mistaken, and my suspicions have logical, coherent explanations that I haven’t taken into account. With your help, I’m hoping to dispel them.’

  ‘Understood. Then let’s begin,’ said the sergeant, cutting him off.

  Pencil and pad in hand, Laurent let loose a volley of questions.

  ‘For starters, did you ever find out what the devil Shennan was doing in that passageway that no one else except his daughters and Mademoiselle Tum knew about?’

  Sergeant Lafonnier seemed to have given the matter a considerable amount of thought.

  ‘That was a question that kept coming up again throughout the investigation. And to date no one’s managed to provide a logical or convincing answer. There’s one detail that could explain his presence there, but it cancels itself out, so to speak, given the position of his body.’