Death in Saint-Chartier

by Ivo Fornesa

  Laurent gave a start. ‘A detail? What do you mean?’

  Tartarin was clearly delighted to take the lead in the conversation, and he paused dramatically before replying. ‘Inside Monsieur Shennan’s jacket pocket we found three tiny leather pouches, each containing a gold bangle inscribed with the name of one of his daughters.’

  ‘I didn’t know that, but it doesn’t strike me as the least bit strange,’ Laurent countered. ‘Shennan doted on his daughters and probably wanted to surprise them with a gift. He loved that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Tartarin confirmed. ‘But if he wanted to surprise them, he didn’t need to go through the passageway, since there was no one in the girls’ room, and he could have easily used the door. And that’s not even the oddest thing. Think about it: he died falling down the stairs, when logically he should have left the gifts in his daughters’ room, not still have them on him.’

  ‘I see. You’re right – either he’d be going up the stairs with the gifts or coming down without them. It wouldn’t make sense for him to have the bracelets on the way back down. Funny, here I come looking for answers, and you start by raising another question. Wonderful.’

  Tartarin couldn’t help giving a mischievous laugh. ‘Well, Monsieur Laurent, I just want you to understand how difficult this job is.’

  ‘So what does it mean, Lafonnier? Give me your version. Your own, not the department’s.’

  ‘Honestly, Monsieur de Rodergues, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I think the official version is correct,’ he replied after a moment’s thought. ‘I admit, with Shennan’s turbulent private and professional life, we were all predisposed to think his death was a homicide, but there was nothing, not the slightest sign, indicating anything other than the official conclusion.’

  ‘At no time did you ever doubt the cause of death?’ insisted Laurent, not willing to give up.

  ‘The theory that Shennan was murdered had a lot going for it: the controversies around the closing of the festival, the anonymous letters, his love affairs – after all, he left his feathers in every henhouse in the area … It’s true, for a long time I had my doubts, but I didn’t find anything to back them up, and if he really was murdered, you have to admit, he died one of the most bizarre deaths in the history of crime. He barely even fitted in that passageway.’

  Laurent saw that the clock was ticking and he was getting nowhere, so he decided to be more direct.

  ‘I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a list of people who caught my attention. One them is Mademoiselle Yael. You asked me about her once. Do you remember her?’

  ‘Well, well, I was wondering how long it would take you to bring her up. Actually she had us stumped even before the accident. Have you heard from her again?’

  ‘In fact that’s one of the reasons I’m here. I’ve located everyone on my list except her,’ he lied.

  ‘Why don’t we go to the courtyard? We can smoke a cigarette there.’

  Laurent understood the sergeant was about to reveal a secret.

  The courtyard behind the station was as dull as the inside of the building, but at least smoking was allowed there. Tartarin offered him one of his Gitanes Maïs, and Laurent, more out of politeness than desire, took one from the pack, letting Tartarin light it for him.

  The sergeant blew a cloud of smoke.

  ‘I buy them for tradition’s sake. It’s sad to see something that’s been a part of us for so long get legislated out of existence. It’s one of my little crusades. How many suspects are on your list, Monsieur?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t call them suspects,’ said Laurent, coughing from the cigarette, which was too strong for him. ‘They’re just people I’m curious about. There are a total of nine people on my list, but I don’t have the least bit of evidence against any of them. They simply had their differences with Shennan.’

  Tartarin laughed again.

  ‘They had their differences? Only nine? Clearly you’re limiting your investigation to the immediate area. Shennan had a long list of enemies scattered around the world. In business he had an iron fist, from what we learnt.’

  ‘Do you mean he was mixed up in illegal activities? I’ve heard rumours, but nothing specific, just the odd remark here and there.’

  Tartarin took another drag on his Gitanes.

  ‘Illegal? Well … there was actually nothing that could be proved, and he was never charged with anything. Monsieur Shennan had small industrial labs in various countries, and individually none of them produced anything dangerous. However, as we heard from a special agent from the national security services, Shennan’s name was linked to the production of chemical weapons. The unproven theory was that while each factory’s product was innocuous on its own, through his network he could supply all the components needed for chemical weapons. You can imagine the enormous interest such a supply could arouse in certain powers subject to international constraints. That’s why the US and Israeli intelligence agencies took an interest in Shennan’s move to Saint-Chartier. They even requested reports on his activities. Now, as I said, nothing was ever proved, and Shennan’s behaviour here, dalliances aside, was nothing short of exemplary, so over time these agencies began to lose interest.’

  ‘And what does this have to do with Yael?’

  ‘Her presence didn’t escape our notice, of course, especially since Shennan himself told us that the mademoiselle in question carried an Israeli passport.’

  Laurent couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Shennan talked to you about Yael? When was that? I thought they didn’t know each other.’

  The officer answered readily. ‘I remember it perfectly. It was just after the incident with the worker from Mauritania. Shennan came by to reassure us about the episode, and in the course of the conversation, he jokingly brought up Mademoiselle Yael’s nationality. It was his enigmatic way of informing us. How did he know? I couldn’t say, but he always knew everything. Personally I think he had contacts at our head office. Based on that information, we briefly tailed her, but she rarely left home, and when she did it was to go to Bourges, where she’d meet with an older man in a cafe. You might even say she was boring, though on the other hand I should note that we never figured out what really brought her to Saint-Chartier.’

  ‘And doesn’t it seem odd to you that she claimed to be a potter, but no one ever saw her work, and she didn’t sell in any local markets or shops? Don’t you think her job was an excuse, a screen?’

  ‘Perhaps. As you know better than anyone, Laurent, life in Saint-Chartier is so monotonous that anyone whose head is filled with crime novels and cop shows can let their imagination run wild and start suspecting any of their neighbours’ actions. It’s understandable that you’d want to try your hand at being a detective,’ added the sergeant condescendingly, ‘but that’s what we’re here for. We didn’t find anything to indicate Shennan’s death was a homicide, just like we didn’t find anything criminal in Mademoiselle Yael’s behaviour, no matter how suspicious it appeared. And that’s all there is. Honestly, I’m quite fond of you, but you should really give up your investigation. You’ll just end up wasting your time.’

  Lafonnier had finished his cigarette, and Laurent took the hint and put his out too, flicking it into a nearby rubbish bin.

  Tartarin spoke again. ‘Well, Monsieur de Rodergues, I think we’ll have to stop here. Even though I stand by the official theory and don’t think Monsieur Shennan’s unfortunate end was premeditated, or involved anyone else, I hope I’ve been of service to you.’

  Laurent held out his hand. ‘I appreciate your time, Sergeant. You’ve been very helpful, and I’ll keep you posted if I reach any conclusions. Hope to see you around Saint-Chartier soon. As you know, Monsieur Charbonnier is organising a Town Preservation and Promotion Society, and the first meeting will be at La Cocadrille. Hope you can make it.’

  ‘It would be an honour,’ replied the sergeant, shaking Laurent’s hand. ‘Besides, now with that Carterius beer, there�
�s all the more reason to stop by more often. Tell them they can count me in.’

  FATHER GÉRARD DE MONFORT

  Laurent found moving about to be a bother. He didn’t especially like having to leave his home terrain, and he usually tried to condense all the errands he had to run into a single morning. That day was no exception. His conversation with the sergeant had lasted longer than expected, so he decided to stay and have lunch in La Châtre, a pretty town of around five thousand inhabitants that had just about everything, including a cinema inside the old chapel of the Carmelite convent.

  Whenever he found himself in those parts, Laurent headed to the Lion d’Argent, a hotel and restaurant at the roundabout on the road to Montluçon. He was in search of the Rue Nationale when he caught sight of a familiar figure coming out of one of the beautiful bourgeois houses that lined the street down from the church. It was Father Gérard de Montfort: his stout frame, cassock and black beret were unmistakable.

  Laurent didn’t take such coincidences lightly. He was investigating the death of Shennan, and now providence had placed before him one of the last people to speak to him. It was too much of a coincidence not to take advantage of it. He quickened his pace and called out to the priest by name, who turned around and smiled in recognition.

  ‘Monsieur de Rodergues, what a pleasant surprise!’

  As they shook hands, the worldly priest sensed that Laurent sought something more than a simple conversation in the street.

  ‘I get the impression you want to talk about something specific and in private, so why don’t we step into the church? It’s very spacious, and I don’t think we’ll run into many parishioners. We can chat in peace there.’

  Once inside, they chose to sit at the end of the nave, under the organ, since it was a weekday and the main entrance was closed. They sat down on the pew, and the priest cut to the chase.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve committed any sins you need to confess, so there’s no need to beat around the bush. Ask me whatever you like. I’m not easily scandalised.’

  Laurent smiled, remembering his childhood years at a Jesuit school. ‘Father, as I told you at the party, Saint-Chartier is such a quiet place that my greatest sins are sins of thought.’

  The priest studied him as the light from the stained-glass windows danced on their faces in multicoloured flickers. Finally he spoke.

  ‘I fear you want to speak to me about Carlos Shennan, God rest his soul.’

  This surprised Laurent. ‘How did you guess? In any case, if you’re uncomfortable talking about him …’

  ‘Not at all,’ the chaplain said. ‘I’ve thought about that day often, and perhaps it would do me well to talk about his tragic death, too.’

  Laurent told him everything he’d been thinking recently, as well as the investigation he was carrying out of his own accord, up to his meeting a few hours before at the police station. Father Gérard listened without interrupting, nodding, at times showing surprise and at other times smiling.

  When he’d finished, Laurent said, ‘You must think I’ve lost it.’

  ‘Quite the contrary.’ Father Gérard gave him a sympathetic look. ‘I believe everything you’ve said, and I agree that certain circumstances about Monsieur Shennan’s death do make it look suspicious. I’m happy to assist you, provided we don’t violate the seal of the confessional.’

  Laurent stifled a laugh. ‘Don’t tell me you’re hearing confession from someone on my list …’

  ‘You’re right, almost no one goes to confession nowadays, but you’re not considering the possibility that people who aren’t on your list may have seen or heard things you don’t know about.’

  ‘Does this mean that you know something I don’t?’ asked Laurent with excitement.

  ‘Don’t get excited,’ said the priest. ‘Nothing I know is important enough to solve the mystery. Keep in mind, priests don’t just hear confession, we also have to put up with parishioners’ long, boring stories, and we get a fair amount of gossip passed off under the dubious pretext of “good intentions”. We specialise in determining how good those intentions are, or whether it’s really just an excuse to badmouth dressed up as casual conversation. You can’t imagine the kinds of nasty remarks people slide into their confessions. In Monsieur Shennan’s case, obviously I heard a lot of stories, almost always about his love affairs, and I must admit, moral considerations aside, I marvel at his ability, because I can’t understand how he managed to juggle so many.’

  Laurent couldn’t help chuckling. ‘Honestly, Father, I still wonder how he did it. Carlos had more active fronts than the Wehrmacht.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the priest. ‘Oddly, though, almost no one was ever critical of him. People found it normal for a man like him to stand above good and evil, and they told me about his exploits as if he were some sort of sexual Robin Hood. I brought it up with him, of course, and not because I was his guardian angel, but because of his family, and above all his wife – a remarkable woman. And because I thought in the end it would all blow up in his face.’

  Laurent struggled to get comfortable on the hard pew and with a look asked him to continue. The priest sized him up, then seemed to make up his mind.

  ‘I see you really were fond of Carlos,’ he said. ‘And I can trust you. That’s why I’m going to tell you something. I think I ought to tell you, and in any case, what I’m about to say wasn’t told to me in confession, and I wasn’t asked to keep it to myself.’ He closed his eyes to gather his memories, and began his tale.

  ‘About five months before the inauguration, I met Monsieur Shennan at a lecture after a traditionalist Mass we held in Niherne. One of the people attending was an aristocrat from Lignières who I’m very friendly with. He came over to me with Monsieur Shennan and introduced us. You know what he was like, it was impossible not to be charmed. But much to my surprise, he also turned out to be quite an expert in theological matters. He had bold but intriguing ideas – he told me he’d worked out a theory for setting up traditionalist rural collectives that would be like a cross between an Israeli kibbutz and an Amish community. He was even willing to provide us with an estate in Argentina to carry out his idea, if we were interested.’

  ‘I’d never have imagined Carlos would take an interest in such things, much less want to get involved as a kind of patron,’ Laurent remarked.

  ‘You ought not to be surprised. Monsieur Shennan was a very complicated man, and I can assure you he had a rich inner life. He was tormented and suffered horribly on the inside, though he took pains not to let it show,’ said the Father, seeing Laurent’s scepticism. ‘Though perhaps in order to understand this, you should know that in one of our conversations, Shennan revealed to me that he was gravely ill.’

  ‘What do you mean? He was the very picture of health!’

  ‘Apparently he’d contracted some rare disease on one of his trips. He didn’t explain in detail or tell me the name of his illness, but his hints made it abundantly clear this was so. I think that’s why he was so worried about making adequate provisions for his family’s future. I got the impression he wanted to do so before his health deteriorated.’

  ‘His daughters are certainly quite young. But Madame Mayumi would be able to manage …’

  ‘She’s a very intelligent woman, but apparently she wasn’t up to speed on his business. It seems it was the sort of thing that’s not easy to explain or pass on to someone else. You have to understand the nature of our conversations,’ he went on. ‘She was dead-set against the idea of the château, and especially against taking their family to France. Carlos, who adored her, felt he couldn’t open up to her about his dreams or his anxieties. That’s why he came to me so often, and how I came to learn so much about him, and about his problems.’

  Laurent sat for a moment in thought, digesting everything the priest had told him.

  ‘I understand, Father, but I must say I’m a bit stunned: Carlos never struck me as a man who was ill or worried about communication problems
with his wife. Just the opposite: he seemed thirsty for life and action.’

  ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you he was burning his candle at both ends? That he was living on the edge because he knew his life was ending?’ asked the priest. ‘Besides, you know Carlos wasn’t the kind of person who wanted people to feel sorry for him.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I’m still surprised I never sensed his inner struggle.’

  ‘He was definitely a bon vivant,’ the priest went on. ‘He was like a gladiator: he knew his life lay in the colosseum, but he knew well he’d die there too. That’s why he didn’t keep himself from doing anything he liked. And yet, I assure you, he was painfully aware of everything he did wrong. And unable to stop himself. In his last days he spent a long time thinking about everyone he’d hurt, and he even asked me to help him figure out how he could be forgiven by them, or partly alleviate the damage he’d done.’

  ‘And what did the two of you decide?’

  ‘That’s the sad thing,’ said the Father. ‘We spoke the day of the party and made plans to discuss the matter the following week, but as you know, it was not to be …’

  Laurent looked at his watch, well aware that he couldn’t keep taking up the priest’s time. However, everything he’d told him was so new, so unexpected, that it left his head spinning with new questions.

  ‘I’m more confused now than when I walked in, Father,’ he confessed. ‘Next you’ll tell me Carlos didn’t even like chasing after women.’

  ‘That’s another matter entirely. His love of women was part of his very essence, and there was nothing he could do to change. Even after he found out he was dying – or perhaps because he found out – he fell madly in love with someone, adding yet another problem to the ones he already had.’

  ‘I don’t see how one more dalliance would have been a problem for Carlos …’

  ‘He told me his meaningless affairs had led him to do many foolish things, but his family was fundamental to him, and until then he’d never done anything to jeopardise it. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Carlos was willing to do anything for love. He was anxious, confused; he didn’t know where to turn. What I’m saying, Laurent, is that you should consider adding the name of Carlos Shennan to your list.’