by Ivo Fornesa
‘So he’s got no idea about what happened between you and Shennan.’
‘Exactly. And I intend to keep it that way.’
‘But if he doesn’t know anything, why did he show such spite for Shennan when I ran into him at the party?’ He proceeded to tell her the details of that encounter.
‘Like I said, Thierry was morbidly jealous of Shennan, despite the fact that he had no idea what happened between us. Carlos, the whole time, in public and in private, always flattered me and showed me exaggerated attention. In fact, I’m sure Madame Mayumi got a whiff of it, but she’s every inch a lady, and she never treated me with anything other than kindness and respect. The day of the party, Carlos was so proud with how good the park looked that he spent the evening introducing me to people, smothering me with compliments and praise, and that made Thierry hit the roof. In any case, Thierry never did more than throw the occasional tantrum. He wouldn’t have been capable of killing Carlos. He doesn’t have the imagination to plan anything as intricate as a murder in a secret passageway. If they’d ever had it out, it would have been with fists. Besides, one thing you may not know is that Thierry has never set foot inside the château.’
‘You make a convincing case, and I have nothing to counter your arguments with, so I have just one question left. Do you have any idea what could have happened? Did you ever see Shennan argue with anyone unusual?’
‘Laurent, did you not know him? Shennan was the king of arguments! He’d always get business calls, and he’d lose his temper at the drop of a hat. You can’t imagine how many languages he knows how to curse people out in over the phone. On a few occasions I heard him dictate what seemed like battle orders to that dreadful bulldog of a secretary. Speaking of which,’ said Solange, looking at him with a feline smile, ‘have you put her on your list? She had a visceral hatred for any woman who came close to her dear boss, and I get the impression she’s a force to be reckoned with. Besides, if the butler is always a suspect in crime novels, I don’t see why she can’t be one too.’
Laurent felt like an idiot. Solange was completely right, and it hadn’t even occurred to him to put Xiao Li on his list. Still, he didn’t like looking like a fool in front of her, so he tried to defend himself with an argument that sounded plausible.
‘I don’t think it was her. She was with me when we discovered Shennan’s body, and I don’t think anyone could fake a look of horror like that.’
Solange rolled her eyes theatrically and shot down his theory.
‘Men are very gullible. For how many thousands of years have you been believing our orgasms are real?’
‘There’s nothing like talking to an intelligent woman to shatter the male ego. I’ll spend this very evening thinking about how many women have lied to me about that. But honestly now, you don’t remember anything that stood out about his death, or in the days running up to it?’
She seemed to think, and finally shook her head.
‘Honestly, I don’t remember anything, but I’ll try to think back, and if I come up with anything I promise to let you know right away. But let’s get going. I’ve got a meeting with the town planning councillor.’
Laurent, thanking her for the pleasant meal, called Sandrine for the check. A bit later, as they were putting on their jackets, Solange asked, ‘I know it’s none of my business, but have you ever thought of fixing up the garden in the vicarage? It’s really in a sad state.’
‘I’d like to,’ sighed Laurent. ‘I’d love to have you come and take a look. As long as Thierry approves, of course.’
‘That’s impossible, Thierry can smell a rival miles away,’ joked Solange, and gave him a delightful kiss on the cheek goodbye.
Laurent watched her walk off with her Victorian air, and in the wake of all the surprising revelations during the meal, he wondered, not without a certain envy for Thierry, what she’d be like in a more intimate setting.
TONTON BOUSSARD
The next day, as he ate breakfast in the kitchen in the vicarage, Laurent mentally reviewed the details of his conversation with Solange. He was happy to cross both her and Thierry off his list, but that meant he was running out of possible culprits. The prospect of having to admit Sergeant Lafonnier was right was galling.
This thought led him to reconsider the figure of Xiao Li, Carlos Shennan’s loyal, efficient, self-sacrificing secretary, yet he dismissed the idea almost out of hand. No one could feign the tears and immense grief he’d witnessed when they’d discovered the body together.
On his schedule that day he had a formidable interview, one of the ones he looked forward to the least: his dear enemy Tonton Boussard. Deep down, Laurent wanted the farmer to have something to do with Shennan’s death, although he thought it entirely impossible that he could have woven such a complicated plan to murder him. He could more easily imagine Tonton showing up one afternoon in the château with a loaded shotgun ready to pump Shennan full of lead, or better yet, running him down with a tractor in the rows of colza, backing up over him again and again with diabolical savagery.
Tonton’s farmhouse in La Preugne, like most in the area, had an enormous barn on the side for storing hay and a smaller structure for the cows. All the roofs were covered in Verneuil tiles. When he reached it, Laurent dreaded running into the cassowary he’d heard about. Hopefully it was just a rural legend – maybe what some fool took to be a cassowary was actually just a wild turkey, since after all they were both birds from distant lands. Now that he thought of it, though, such an animal would make an extremely effective watchdog, or he supposed watchbird, given that one peck of its beak could easily split any thief’s head open, and the noise they make when irritated is deafening. Maybe Tonton knew what he was doing and wasn’t such a fool after all.
When he looked out over the Vallée Noire, it was like a postcard scene, and everything seemed tidy and in its proper place. For now, he couldn’t hear the Jurassic squawking of any cassowaries, nor even any barking or lowing. A deep silence hung over the whole area. Suddenly a shot rang out among the trees, and all at once the racket that must be the norm returned as the farm snapped out of its torpor. Laurent even thought he could hear the broad strides of a large, flightless bird. Just in case, he stood by one of the buildings where he could take refuge if necessary.
From there he saw Tonton making his way up a path between elm trees. He carried his shotgun over his shoulder, and he was dragging by the tail a sort of gigantic mutant rat, with terrifying, violently orange incisors. Tonton walked up to Laurent and pointed to a stone bench.
‘Have a seat, Monsieur, and while we talk I’ll skin this coypu, which must weigh a good twelve kilos.’
‘Is this your way of getting me to leave early?’ joked Laurent, trying to hide the disgust he felt at the sight of that giant rodent. And since Boussard didn’t reply, he asked again, ‘Is this that species of beaver they say lives here in Verneuil-sur-Igneraie?’
‘That’s right,’ replied the farmer, hanging the rodent from a hook and taking a rhomboid-shaped hunting knife from his belt. ‘They’re a real plague. They brought them from Patagonia for their hides, and they couldn’t adapt to captivity. Then someone had the brilliant idea of setting them free, and now all the riverbanks are crawling with them. And the worst part is, they’re protected. I wish the people who made laws in the cities lived in the countryside. There’s a stream down there that runs through my fields, and the habitats these creatures build are almost ten square feet each. You can imagine what kind of erosion they cause when there’s a whole colony. I reckon that on my land alone there must be around eighty.’
The farmer, like all those of his profession, was accustomed to talking without stopping working. Judging by the swift, clean way he skinned the animal, Laurent had to admit that Tonton was no doubt an expert hunter. With just two more strokes of his knife, he gutted the animal and cut off its head.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ asked Laurent. ‘You’re not going to eat it, are you?’
‘Of course I am. Their meat is much better than pork. It’s a herbivore that lives in unpolluted rivers. I’d like to see what conditions many of the chickens they sell in the supermarket live in. The taste is a bit stronger than rabbit, but in a terrine it’s delicious. I make it by soaking the meat in Armagnac and blending it with a cream of carrot, pumpkin and chive.’
‘And the hide? You’re also going to keep that?’
‘It’s fabulous, even better than otter fur. With the ones I’ve hunted I’ve already made a bedspread, and now I want to make a lining for my work jacket.’
Tonton wiped his hands on a rag and, holding the knife and the body of the victim, he invited Laurent to step inside the farmhouse, where he went straight to the kitchen sink to wash his hands and the knife.
Laurent took the opportunity to look around. The house was immaculate and decorated pleasantly but simply, with no photos or family souvenirs on display. He noticed that Tonton, who stood with his back to him, bore a resemblance to his home: he must be around seventy, but he kept himself perfectly fit, and radiated solidity and physical vigour, with a blacksmith’s wrists and hands as big as loaves of bread.
‘Make yourself at home, Monsieur de Rodergues. I’ll be right with you.’
Before Laurent had a chance to sit down Tonton was already at his side with a bottle and two glasses.
‘This cherry liqueur I distil myself – illegally, but it tastes better that way. If it went through the public distillery, the flavour would be very different, I can assure you. Too many laws and regulations kill the spirit.’ He served them each a glass, then got up as if he’d forgotten something. A few minutes later he returned with a sort of pâté spread on toast.
‘Don’t tell me that’s a cousin of the one you just killed.’
Laurent knew that this was price of entry, so he picked up the toast and took a healthy bite. He wouldn’t be daunted by a little rodent canapé. Each one had a thin slice of gherkin and two capers, and the flavour wasn’t bad: if he’d been told it was rabbit or wild boar he would have believed it. He felt obliged to give the farmer some well-deserved praise.
‘Honestly, it’s very good. The flavour is much more delicate than I expected, and the liqueur is excellent. I never imagined you’d be so domestic.’
‘What did you expect me to be like? I bet if you told me the truth, it wouldn’t be very pleasant. Though perhaps I deserve that.’
It was the second time Tonton’s words had disarmed Laurent’s initial animosity, the first being at the party, when he’d apologised.
‘You’re partly right, but I had good reason: the first time we saw each other, you began ranting at me, and then you filed a complaint against me for something that I didn’t do.’
‘You’re right about the first occasion,’ the farmer replied, ‘but not about the second, because, by law, unless a third party was seen carrying out the action in question, complaints always fall back on the owner of the land. Unfortunately that owner was you, but I promise there was no express intention on my part, and honestly, I didn’t remember that the field belonged to your grandfather.’
Laurent realised that Tonton wanted to talk or open up to someone. Rural life can be very lonely if you live on an isolated farm like this one.
‘Tell me what brings you here, Monsieur. If I understood you correctly over the telephone, you want to talk about the death of Monsieur Shennan. I have no objection, though I should tell you I don’t see how my opinions could be of interest.’
Laurent didn’t know how to broach the subject without showing his hand, so he opted to take it head-on, and to gather his courage, he downed the rest of the liqueur.
‘Well, Monsieur Boussard,’ he began, ‘I really don’t see how I can play games with you, so I think it’s best if I get straight to the point and tell you what I’m after, even at the risk of offending you and getting run off your property.’
‘Let’s hear it, then. Tell me what you want, and I’ll decide whether or not to unleash the cassowary on you.’
‘Do you really have a cassowary running around on your land?’ he asked in an almost childlike tone, which brought a faint hint of a smile to Tonton’s face.
‘Yes, it’s a long and unbelievable story, but I do have one. I’ll show it to you later. Now get to the point.’
‘I’m trying to determine what several people were doing at the time of Monsieur Shennan’s death.’
‘In other words, there’s a series of people you think have something to do with Shennan, and you want to know if any of them were involved in his death. And I have the singular privilege of being on this list,’ said Tonton, not even looking up from the table. ‘And therefore you’re here to interrogate me, more or less. Have I got that right?’
Laurent had to admit, the farmer couldn’t have summed it up any better. ‘Yes, exactly, you’ve got it perfectly right. If it’s any consolation, I can tell you I’m interviewing around ten people. You’re not the only one.’
Tonton didn’t seem offended by Laurent’s insinuation but looked genuinely interested in hearing his questions about the day Shennan died. So Laurent decided to confront the awkwardness head on and started with his questions.
‘If you recall, Monsieur Boussard, we had a conversation in the park shortly before Shennan died.’
‘Of course. I said hello, apologised for the day I was a bit rude with you and Madame Shennan, and I apologised for the complaint as well, saying I’d withdrawn it and wanted to give you a calf as a peace offering – a gift you rejected, saying it was all in the past.’
The innocent face of the farmer didn’t fool Laurent, who knew he was being mocked with that cheek that often farmers have, no matter where they’re from. Tonton was a sly one, and he almost managed to make him feel guilty. Laurent opted for a tactical retreat to gather his troops for the next charge.
‘Yes, that was quite gentlemanly of you, and I appreciate it. As for the calf, please understand that I live alone and have a very small freezer, and can’t really store seventy kilos of anything, no matter how delicious. But as you can see, I didn’t turn my nose up at your river rat pâté.’
‘Eighty-eight, the calf weighed eighty-eight kilos, really fantastic meat, but don’t worry about it,’ said Tonton. ‘Shall we continue?’
If his goal was to confuse his guest, he was succeeding, because for a moment Laurent didn’t know what to do next.
‘As you’ll recall,’ he finally said, ‘after we spoke I didn’t see you again. Do you remember what you did, or whether you saw anything that caught your attention?’
‘Yes.’
To call Tonton’s response laconic would be an understatement.
‘Yes to which part?’ Laurent was starting to get agitated.
‘Just that I remember what I did, and I did see things that caught my attention.’
Laurent couldn’t sit still. ‘Please elaborate.’
The farmer got up slowly from his chair, and Laurent couldn’t contain his exasperation.
‘But for God’s sake, where on earth are you going?’
‘Where do you think? To milk the cows. It’s time. Come along and we’ll keep talking. Unless you’re afraid of them …’
Laurent let his head drop.
Perhaps Interpol has agents who specialise in interrogating farmers. As for him, he was about to throw in the towel, along with the sponge and the bucket for good measure. But he had no choice but to follow him obediently to the cowshed.
When they got there, without a word the farmer handed him a short three-legged wooden stool and a tin bucket.
‘Most farmers have milking machines, and probably have more cows, too. I just have eight Normandy cows, and I don’t like to be in a hurry. We can sit back to back and continue talking.’
Laurent had milked a cow on more than one occasion in the south, but he wasn’t dressed appropriately, nor was this the purpose of his visit. Even so, he made an effort and got down to work.
A
fter a few minutes of silence, he had to admit that it was a very relaxing chore. The stable was clean, as were the cows, and there was something intoxicatingly bucolic about the smell of hay and manure. No doubt George Sand would have put something like this in one of her novels. The spurts of hot milk, the steam rising from the tin bucket, the whorls of foam forming on the surface – it was also terribly absorbing, and it distracted him from his initial desire to give Tonton a whack in the head with the stool.
Tonton chose the moment when Laurent was most thoroughly absorbed and carefree to speak.
‘I didn’t do anything in particular. I wandered around the park, looked at the garden, tried the food, listened to the music, and that’s where I was when the gendarmes came. Most likely you can corroborate this with the list they made as they tried to get us to leave in an orderly fashion.’
‘You didn’t speak to anyone? There’s no one who can vouch for where you were at the time?’
‘Hmm, I don’t know. I said hello to a lot of people, but just in passing. I didn’t spend long talking to anyone. I’m not very sociable.’
‘You don’t say. I never would have guessed. And what did you see that surprised you?’
‘Oh, that.’ And he fell back into silence.
Laurent was at his wits’ end. ‘Yes, that. Out with it, because if that cow there doesn’t give you a kick in the head I’ll give you one myself. I’ve had it up to here with the getting the run-around.’
The farmer turned on his stool, guffawing, and even slapped his thigh.
‘Now this I like. Just now you reminded me of your grandfather. He was a good person, but he had a terrible temper whenever someone wouldn’t get to the point. Sorry, but today I’m in a good mood and feeling playful. But don’t get upset, I’m getting to it.’ Then he turned back around to continue milking Josephine, which was the name of the cow. After a few minutes he started to speak again.