Death in Saint-Chartier

by Ivo Fornesa

  ‘I’ll talk to my colleagues. This Sunday we’ve got shooting practice and are going out to dinner afterward. If they noticed anything, I’ll let you know right away.’ Then she moved closer. ‘And now that I know what a good host you are, I just may come back soon for another visit.’

  Laurent felt Cathy’s body heat next to him and didn’t wait to be asked. He knew perfectly well what she was insinuating: he’d been wanting her since the moment she stepped inside his door. He took her in his arms and led her upstairs. Before she’d arrived, in a fit of hope and optimism, he’d left a few multicoloured candles burning in his room, a detail that brought out a laugh from Cathy. Then she started nibbling on his neck with real gusto.

  L’ANCIEN CHTELAIN

  Three days had gone by since Cathy’s taxing visit, which lasted ‘only’ twelve hours and thirty-seven minutes. Physical fatigue aside, the experience was extremely satisfying in every respect. Yet he couldn’t help but notice how urgently he needed to get back in the habit of regular exercise, and start to go easy on the constant trips to the pantry and wine cellar.

  This was something that became clear especially when he said goodbye to Cathy: she was already inside her car, and he was leaning over to give her one last kiss. As she kissed him, she teasingly grabbed him by a certain belly roll, a bit of fatty tissue that until then Laurent had considered small and even cute. She didn’t have to say anything. That gesture was enough. Then she smiled, gave him a wink and started up her car to go back to Paris, leaving Laurent in the church plaza, anxiously rubbing his abdomen.

  Sometimes it’s necessary, even for men, to make decisions. He went straight to his room and put on his athletic wear as best he could: its tight fit confirmed the accuracy of Cathy’s volumetric analysis. He didn’t want to think about it any longer. He put on his trainers and left with no fixed destination in mind. His idea was to run until he collapsed and not think about the trip back. That way he’d be forced to go back the way he’d come.

  The air in Berry is excessively clean. There’s no industry, the traffic is light, the farmers are mostly aware of the respect due to Mother Nature. The pleasantly rolling hills might even be said to facilitate a purifying wind. Laurent hadn’t gone half a mile before his lungs started burning and he noticed signs of gastric discomfort; luckily it was autumn, and the falling leaves would come in handy in case of emergency.

  He crossed the main road, determined to make it to Sarzay one way or another. His head hurt, but even so after half an hour he could start to make out the towers of the fortress. He’d only been there on one occasion, and he recalled admiring the architecture and its history. According to the brochure he’d read, it was one of the few fortress châteaux still standing in their original state. Recently it had been bought by a sort of Robin Hood who’d taken on the titanic task of doing a faithful reconstruction, and who’d found himself on more than one occasion going head to head with the bureaucrats at the National Heritage Office. They subsisted on a strict diet of regulations that admitted no exceptions.

  As he approached, Laurent recalled that there was a tavern not far from the château. He could easily envision himself seated on the terrace with a beer, admiring the rough-hewn contours of the fortress. Unfortunately, that day he was committed to playing the role of serious athlete and promised himself he’d make do with mineral water.

  He walked the last quarter mile but felt he still deserved credit for this first day in pursuit of his erstwhile physical shape. When he reached the little meadow that bordered the church of Sarzay, he performed several approximations of stretches and exercises, and then went to the tavern in search of as much water as he could buy.

  Half an hour later he was still seated on the terrace admiring the Château de Sarzay, along with several Berry donkeys with white muzzles and intensely black hides that grazed lazily on the surrounding fields.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur. You’ve come from Saint-Chartier, haven’t you?’

  An elderly, bald gentleman with lively eyes stood observing him at his side.

  Laurent, who always showed respect to the elderly, got up from his chair. ‘Yes, that’s right, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’

  The gentleman gave him his hand. ‘You don’t know me, of course, but I know you’re the grandson of old Hubert, the sabotier. My name is Philippe Lancéole. I used to own the château – I’m the former châtelain of Saint-Chartier. And I believe you were a friend of poor Monsieur Shennan.’

  What a marvellous coincidence, thought Laurent, running into the former owner of the château. He immediately offered a seat to Monsieur Lancéole, who, at Laurent’s kind invitation, didn’t hesitate to order a beer with Angostura bitters.

  They studied each other openly, and finally Monsieur Lancéole lifted his glass.

  ‘To your grandfather, and to Monsieur Shennan. But my God, man, what are you drinking? Water? It’s almost the hour of the Angelus! Your grandfather would be ashamed.’

  And turning around, he knocked on the establishment’s window with his cane, which immediately summoned the waitress.

  ‘Chantal, bring this young man the same thing I’m having.’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur Lancéole. Anything else?’ she asked politely.

  Ever since he was a child, Laurent had been quite inept at the deployment and use of the word ‘no’, and that’s why a few minutes later he was raising a glass with the old châtelain. A short while later they were raising a second glass.

  ‘How do you like Saint-Chartier?’ the châtelain wanted to know. ‘Are you happy there, do they treat you well?’

  ‘I have nothing but kind words to say about anyone,’ Laurent said, nose covered in beer foam.

  ‘And what do you think of the château? Quite impressive from the plaza, isn’t it? I miss it dearly, but I had no choice but to sell it. I had operations on both knees, and I could no longer go up and down those damned endless spiral staircases. Besides, Shennan struck me as the only person really capable of restoring it, and I wasn’t mistaken.’

  ‘How did you know it was me?’ enquired Laurent.

  Monsieur Lancéole, who was giving orders to Chantal to refill their glasses, answered distractedly. ‘Someone pointed you out to me at Shennan’s party. As you can imagine, I’d been invited as well. I was there chatting with some old childhood friends, and Tonton Boussard told me who you were.’

  Laurent squinted. He’d run eight kilometres on no breakfast, and now had put back three pints of Pelforth with bitters into his sweaty body, so he thought maybe he’d misheard him. ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur. You know Tonton?’

  ‘Of course. Saint-Chartier is a small town. Everyone knows everyone, and unlike in cities, there are no social differences, and age doesn’t matter much, so we all used to play together. Besides, Tonton was in my gang. We both liked hunting, so we were in the same club. As children we’d always steal pastries and cookies from the château kitchen, and then go and eat them in the basement or the secret passage.’

  Laurent gave a start. ‘The secret passage? But the builder said it was walled off when Shennan bought the château.’

  ‘Yes, it’s true, we walled it off because we used to get horrible draughts, and when we lived there we didn’t have the heating system that Shennan installed. But I’m surprised by what you say, because I told him about them myself when I showed him the château, and he seemed excited.’ As he said this, he looked at his watch and slapped his thigh. ‘It’s almost one o’clock! My wife is going to kill me. I promised I’d pick her up from the hairdresser’s in La Châtre. It’s been a pleasure, and I hope to see you again soon.’

  He made a gesture to ask for the bill, but Laurent stopped him.

  ‘This one’s on me, Monsieur. I insist. I’ll remind you next time I see you.’

  And a broad smile spread across the gentleman’s face as they shook hands.

  ‘Thank you. Hopefully next time will be in La Cocadrille, and Le Juanch will serve us something hearty th
at sticks to your ribs. My wife serves me nothing but vegetables and steamed fish. I can’t stand it.’

  Laurent sat back down, and as he stretched to loosen up his muscles, he thought for a long time about Tonton’s feigned surprise at the existence of the passage, a secret he knew all too well. He recalled perfectly how the man had told him he thought they were a legend, and that a previous owner, Monsieur Lancéole’s ancestor, had sealed them all off. Tonton had told him a bald-faced lie. And he was the second one to do so, after the abominable, preposterous Monattis. How many more lies had he been told? What did the two suspects he had yet to visit have in store for him? He shuddered to think about meeting Yael again.

  On the other hand, why would Shennan feign surprise at the discovery of the passage, as though he didn’t know about it himself? Perhaps he’d planned to put it to some other use, and that’s why he’d kept it a secret, something he could no longer do once Rataille discovered it during construction.

  Chantal arrived with a new pint of beer and, seeing Laurent’s surprise, explained, ‘I saw you raise your arm, but if you’d like I can take it back.’

  Laurent stopped her. ‘No, no, let’s not be hasty. Leave it here, it’d be a pity to let it go to waste.’

  It was the end of autumn, but the sun still shone over the round, pointed rooftops of the proud towers of Sarzay. Laurent could make out the owner in a window, operating an electric pulley to raise a wooden beam.

  He left the money on the table and got up, perhaps a bit too fast, because he felt a slight wooziness. He knew then that the return trip would be an inferno comparable only to Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow.

  PIA DE LA TRESSONDIÈRE

  Laurent couldn’t have imagined Pia de La Tressondière living anywhere else. The architect’s Parisian apartment was one of those elegant eighteenth-century buildings that had survived Haussmann’s zealous reforms, and it must have been an expensive one, too, because it was one of the few that still had a doorman. The very entryway was a profusion of construction details, with a coffered oak ceiling and a hardwood floor inlaid with exotic woods. After showing his identification to the doorman, a tall, broad-shouldered Senegalese man apparently dressed by Armani, he stepped into an elevator that seemed modelled after a cabinetry catalogue, and when he reached the fourth floor, he noted that the building had only one apartment per floor, which gave him an idea of its soaring price.

  A maid dressed in an old-fashioned uniform opened the door, took his coat, led him to a waiting room and offered him a coffee, which Laurent accepted. Paris at this time of year was usually rather chilly.

  The sitting room was the very essence of lavishness: tobacco-coloured walls rose up to impossible white cornices that seemed to pour out over the room from the ceiling, while a plush rug adorned the floor, its elegant designs unobstructed by furniture or decoration. On the northern wall hung a large bronze Tibetan relief that must have cost several years of Laurent’s former salary, while on the southern wall, in a stark but singular contrast, hung a painting similar in size to the Tibetan bronze, a mixture of several techniques whose striking use of colours created a hypnotic juxtaposition. The long western wall, by contrast, held a single piece of art: set in a beautifully carved antique ebony frame hung a hyper-realistic painting, not more than sixteen by twelve feet or so, showing the face of a woman shouting for joy.

  As he studied it, Pia de La Tressondière walked into the room.

  ‘Do you like the painting? It was done by a Mexican friend of mine, Fernando Motilla. It’s titled The Howl.’

  Laurent studied the work more closely.

  ‘Yes, I like it very much, and now I see that it’s you. It’s hard to recognise you laughing. Whenever I see you, you have a serious look on your face, and last time, if you don’t mind my saying so, you were even rather sad.’

  ‘It’s true, I was sad, and also angry. But please, sit down.’

  It wasn’t hard to choose a seat: the minimal decoration meant there were only two black leather chairs in one corner.

  Now settled, Laurent looked around. ‘Madame, everything you touch turns into something elegant and unusual. Promise me that the day I have money you’ll decorate my humble home.’

  Pia put her hands together and looked down, accepting the compliment. ‘Please, I’m not so expensive. The results may look that way, but there’s really more set design than investment.’

  Laurent gave her a sceptical look, but he spoke politely. ‘I appreciate your meeting me, and with your permission, I’ll explain the reasons for my visit, which I hinted at over the phone.’

  With a somewhat indifferent gesture, Pia invited him to continue, and he proceeded to lay out his motives and objectives, omitting what he didn’t want to reveal, such as the names of the others on the list.

  ‘Really, Laurent, I’d suggest you find a serious occupation and stop playing Marlowe, because even though you look the part, I don’t think you could make a living at it. You’re missing that touch of nastiness. You’re handsome, strong and quite a drinker, but you don’t inspire any fear.’

  Laurent nodded, granting the point, but then he took out his most fearsome weapon. ‘What did Carlos Shennan inspire? Was he also a good guy, or was he the tough type that you seem to like?’ He awaited her reply, trying to make an insolent face.

  ‘Laurent, poor thing, don’t tell me my innocent comment’s wounded you,’ she said sarcastically. But then, taking pity on him, she answered his question with an unusual metaphor. ‘Carlos Shennan was a cross between a crocodile, a bird of paradise and a mongoose, all covered in an impenetrable, solid shell.’

  ‘So I take it you’re still angry with him. Can you tell me what he did to you to make you hate him so much even now that he’s dead?’

  Madame de La Tressondière’s eyes were burning. ‘Well, if it’s really of such interest to you, I’ll tell you. Actually it will do me good to vent.’ She pressed a hidden buzzer and immediately the maid appeared.

  ‘Brigitte, please bring us the reserve Calvados from my study, along with two glasses.’

  ‘I have to admit, people of your class know how to live well,’ remarked Laurent.

  ‘Please don’t play the poor man with me. You’re living as a rentier.’

  ‘Living off my savings, Madame, just off my savings. I wish I had some rent. But let me tell you what I’m looking for while we wait.’

  Pia listened patiently to Laurent’s questions about the passageway.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, we knew about the secret passage,’ she confirmed once he’d finished. ‘But we weren’t the only ones. One of the organisers of the music festival, Gimbault, also told me about it. Apparently before they held events in the château they’d go with electricians throughout the château, so he was certainly aware of it. I remember he even offered to show me.’

  ‘Gimbault knew about the secret passage too?’ Laurent was starting to have a sense of humour about the subject. ‘But did no one, not even you, have the decency to tell the police that they knew about the passageway?’

  ‘Listen, Monsieur, I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but I was never asked about that passageway. And in any event, you should know that the reason I didn’t want to be implicated in the matter was that you weren’t the only one who heard me badmouth Carlos at the party.’ Pia de La Tressondière had lost part of her armour. ‘I was even afraid they’d come across a call I made where I really let him have it. I told him I wished he were dead, but in that way you never expect will come true. That’s why I preferred not to get involved.’

  ‘But Pia, you still haven’t told me why you hate him so much.’

  Madame the architect poured herself a second glass of Calvados, saying she was going to need it. Laurent saw that, when necessary, she could certainly drink.

  ‘At first, the job in Saint-Chartier was a godsend,’ she said, starting her story. ‘I restore historical buildings, and with the recent government cutbacks my work had dropped off. I needed money
because I’m still paying off this apartment. Carlos contacted me because he’d called the National Heritage Office to request résumés of architects who specialise in historic preservation. He chose the top three and interviewed us one by one. There were two women and one man. He dismissed the other woman and asked the other two of us to come to the château for a second interview. My colleague arrived just eleven minutes late, but Carlos told him on the spot he could go home, because he didn’t make his customers wait and he wasn’t about to tolerate that behaviour from his suppliers or employees. Then he told me that I had the job. He’d reserved a room in the Hôtel de la Vallée Bleue, just outside the town, a very nice mansion that once belonged to Dr Pestel, George Sand’s personal doctor. Within a few days I was crazy for him, something very unusual for me, because I usually have a high degree of self-control. On the third day he came to my hotel and we spent the night together. His family still hadn’t arrived, and in any case I honestly didn’t give a damn. I hadn’t had sex like that in years.

  ‘Working with him was a bit irritating. I have to admit, he amazed me with his knowledge about historic buildings, but professionally it was frustrating how he never accepted my ideas the first time around but always fought me on them. He also didn’t take advice when selecting suppliers. But to his credit, whenever we did reach an agreement about some aspect of the work, he wouldn’t interfere any more and would heap praise on me, as if the idea had been mine. The worst thing was, he often managed to convince me he was right.’ Here she paused, and Laurent seized the opportunity.

  ‘What you’re telling me doesn’t seem reason enough for such anger,’ he pointed out.

  ‘That’s because the story doesn’t end there. I was still smitten with him, and we’d meet whenever his schedule permitted, which wasn’t often. So for the first time in my life I began to feel jealous. I concluded he must be seeing other women, and I became so pathetic I even considered hiring a detective to have him followed. But I dismissed the idea because I didn’t want to feel even more ridiculous.