The Undertaker's Son

by Bev Spicer

  ‘Rue Fleurie. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s near the market square, just off the main shopping street. Is there a telephone number?’

  ‘Yes. Shall I call now?’

  ‘The sooner the better.’ Time was running out, and they needed to formulate a plan that he had faith in. Estelle was an idealist, after all. It would be up to him to make a case that would stick, and not lose his father’s home in the process!

  Estelle smiled at Clement and dialled the number.

  ‘Cousteau.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Cousteau. I am calling regarding a survey on rental accommodation standards in Royan. We are committed to tracking down landlords who do not respect the rights of their tenants. Would you be kind enough to answer a few questions?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘What is your name, young woman?’

  Estelle hesitated, surprised by the question and the man’s tone. ‘ … Sirop, Madeleine Sirop.’

  ‘Well, Mademoiselle… Sirop. I am extremely happy with my accommodation but I would be delighted to answer your questions, nonetheless. Would it be convenient for you to call at six?’

  ‘That would be perfect, Monsieur Cousteau.’

  ‘Very well, until six. I take it you have my address?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur, you are at number sixty-six Rue Fleurie.

  ‘That is correct, mademoiselle.’ And, with that, Claude Cousteau rang off.

  ‘Who is Madeleine Sirop?’ asked Clement, beginning to laugh.

  ‘She was an old school friend, actually.’ Estelle giggled, her eyes shining.

  But, after they had laughed until they could laugh no more, they both agreed that Claude Cousteau seemed like a bizarre character and that Clement should go with her to sixty-six Rue Fleurie.

  Clement continued to curse Felix Dumas and to reproach himself for being such a fool. Estelle said that he should not blame himself for trusting other people, and he noticed that her brown eyes had flecks of green and yellow radiating out from the pupil, like beautiful, imaginary flowers.

  Fifty-nine

  Jane telephoned early in the morning, and Martha ran to catch the phone before it stopped, thinking it might be Clement.

  ‘Hello? Martha?’

  Her heart sank, but it was too late to hang up and pretend that she had missed the call.

  ‘Yes,’ who else would it be! ‘Hello, Jane.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right! And, yes, I got your email, before you ask.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh, indeed! Since when do I need your advice about what to do with my money? I’m not as stupid as you seem to think, you know?’

  ‘Look, Martha, I’m sorry. I was worried, that’s all. It was all so sudden. I just–’

  ‘It’s okay. I know you meant well. But, just don’t! All right?’

  ‘All right,’ said Jane, laughing a little nervously. ‘So, how’s it all going?’

  ‘Oh, I had a call from Marcus warning me that I should look out for crooked lawyers sneaking up behind me, but apart from that, I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Sorry, Martha. Me again. I had to tell someone and, well, Marcus cares about you almost as much as I do.’

  ‘So, he’s told you all about it, has he?’

  ‘Yes. It all sounds very dramatic. Do you think he’s over-reacting, then?’

  ‘Even if he’s not, it’s got nothing to do with me. I’m teaching Felix Dumas’ son English, for God’s sake, and Clement is selling his apartment through his agency. Don’t see what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Marcus says this Dumas character might have been involved in some kind of murder years ago. His maid, or something. Did he tell you about it?’

  ‘Yes. She drowned in the Charente, apparently. These things happen.’

  ‘Well, just be careful,’ said Jane. ‘You know what a crap swimmer you are!’

  When they had stopped laughing, they talked about a visit at Easter the following year and Martha said she would spend Christmas in France. And, when she put the phone down, she was pleased to have spoken to her friend.

  Later that afternoon, Patrice arrived, his father dropping him off and driving away without coming to say hello, as usual. Martha let Patrice in and closed the door, making a point of not looking over at the notaire, not trusting herself to catch his eye without giving away her new knowledge of his activities. Patrice was sitting at the kitchen table, getting out his books when she came in. She made tea and listened to how his day had gone. He said that he was going to stay with his mother for three days and would go to visit the Louvre and the Pompidou Centre.

  ‘Make sure you see the Mona Lisa,’ said Martha. ‘It’s very small and behind a glass screen, but it’s still captivating.’

  The boy looked up ‘captivating’ on Martha’s laptop and thought of Estelle, which made him blush.

  ‘Do you like Paris?’ he asked.

  ‘Some of it. It is a city, though, just like any other in many ways. Noisy and dirty. But the buildings are interesting and I loved the Jardins des Tuileries.’

  ‘My mother likes opera. She said we will go to see Madame Butterfly if she can get tickets.’

  ‘I saw that in Istanbul. I hope they do it better in Paris!’

  He laughed at this.

  The lesson was interesting. They talked about Paris and looked at pictures of famous places on the Internet. Patrice told her what he knew and she did the same. He noted down new vocabulary, as usual.

  ‘I think my father is not a very nice man,’ he said, when they had finished.

  Martha looked at him and knew that he had been waiting to tell her this since the beginning of the lesson. It made her feel uncomfortable because of what Marcus had told her and she wondered how much Patrice knew of his father’s shady dealings.

  ‘People are not nice sometimes,’ she said, hating the way she sounded so noncommittal.

  ‘He has a secretary who is a good person. Efficient at her job and kind, too. He does not treat her well.’

  ‘That’s a pity. If she is a good secretary, he should value her,’ said Martha, waiting for him to get something more off his chest.

  ‘And I think he is not honest.’ Patrice hung his head. ‘I think he is tricking one of his clients, to make money out of him.’

  Martha’s worst fears were being realised. Here she was with the son of a dishonest lawyer confiding in her about a crime his father was in the process of committing.

  ‘What do you think you should do about it, Patrice?’ she asked, as calmly as she could.

  ‘I don’t know, Madame Burton. That’s the problem!’ He looked directly at her.

  There was a pause, while Martha considered the boy’s need for help.

  ‘Do you know his secretary well enough to talk to her in confidence?’ she asked, finally.

  He put his head to one side, considering the suggestion, a smile slowly spreading across his face. ‘Yes! Estelle and I were talking about my wanting to be a vet. She was kind.’ Then he frowned. ‘But I think she already knows about my father.’

  ‘Then, if she already knows, and if she is a good person, as you say she is, she won’t mind if you talk to her about it, will she?’

  ‘You are right. Of course! Thank you, Madame Burton. I will speak to Estelle. Thank you for your advice.’ He stood up and put out a hand.

  Martha went to him and hugged him, patting him on the back.

  ‘If you need to talk to me again, you know I am always ready to help you.’

  And so he left her, bright with confidence in her advice and, as she watched him walk across the square and get into his father’s car, she hoped that the man who stared ahead and never turned to wave, would not find out that she had had a part in encouraging his son’s suspicions.

  The BMW pulled out and narrowly missed Michel’s car as he came into the square and parked outside his house. He smiled at her and came over.

  ‘Martha! I
have sold the house!’

  ‘That’s good, Michel. I hope the new one in Ronce-les-Bains is going well?’

  ‘Ah, yes. You should have come to see it! Marianne loves it.’

  ‘I’m happy for you both, Michel. Truly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Michel, smiling as brightly as a child who had received its greatest wish.

  Martha looked across the square at the girl in the florist’s, who looked right back at her.

  Sixty

  The gardens were dull at this time of year, but it was also the season to make sure that dead leaves were cleared and compost was dug in so that, next spring, the plants would be healthy and strong. There was a richness in the damp soil that seeped into the air and made Guy’s work seem less arduous, his spade sharper and his back stronger. Occasionally, he stopped and looked back at the hotel, where a number of guests would be sitting in the conservatory, looking out, if not directly at him, then in his direction. On days like these, he felt appreciated, even admired.

  Monsieur Valerie stood nearby, always ready for a chat, watching him work and picking up on anything he might miss.

  ‘Don’t go too close to the roots of that rose bush, we don’t want to disturb the root ball. Dig deeper and follow under the bindweed, it’s a difficult one to shift.’

  Guy didn’t mind. Even if he already knew what he was doing.

  ‘Are you still having your English lessons?’ asked Monsieur Valerie, after a moment.

  ‘Yes. I have one tomorrow. Would you like to come with me?’

  ‘Ha! You would like that, wouldn’t you? Make you seem like a genius in front of the English teacher. What’s her name?’

  ‘Martha, Martha Burton.’

  ‘No, well, I think my learning days are over. Too old to start anything like that now!’ He laughed, remembering something from the distant past.

  Monsieur Valerie wandered off to the other side of the garden and Guy continued his digging. His thoughts went back to his wife. She had been on edge at breakfast. As though she had wanted to say something and it had got stuck in her throat. She had gone out to take Adrian to school and had hardly said goodbye. Her birthday was the following weekend, on a Saturday. She had invited some friends for dinner and was not expecting the present he had bought her. It was in Madame Alizee’s office, wrapped in silver paper with a red ribbon and a card, in which he had written how much he loved her. It would be a wonderful moment when he presented her with the music centre she had always wanted, but which had been too expensive, until now. Adrian had come shopping with him and had spent his pocket money on the new compact disc by Adele. The boy had been beside himself when he saw the gift his father would buy for his mother, sitting on a high shelf in the Technology Centre. Guy had been proud and had felt a little smug to hand over his carte bleu to the assistant, putting in his number as though four hundred and thirty euros was nothing to him.

  ‘I will not say anything, Papa,’ said Adrian, solemnly.

  ‘I know, my son. It is our secret.’

  And, after he had taken the gift to the hotel for safe-keeping, and returned home with Adrian, they had been so very careful not to mention where they had been and what they had been doing that it must have been obvious to Angeline that they were up to something. It was all part of the fun! So, when Guy got home that evening, it did not cross his mind that his wife was about to tell him news that would change his opinion of her forever and test his love for her to its limit.

  ‘Go up to bed now, Adrian,’ she said, after she had cleared away the dishes and wiped the table in the kitchen.

  There was something in her voice that made Adrian do as she asked without question, even though Guy had tried to argue that his son might stay up just a little longer.

  ‘Do you love me?’ asked Angeline, when Adrian had been tucked in and kissed goodnight.

  ‘You know I do,’ he replied, moving closer on the sofa.

  But she was rigid against him and he sat back, looking at her.

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ she said, simply.

  As she spoke, telling him the things she had done, he felt as though he were in a revolving tunnel, similar to those you found at an amusement park, and that his wife was at the other end of it, spiralling away from him ever faster so that he felt dizzy trying to get to her. He listened to her words and yet his brain would not allow him to make sense of them. And, when she had finished, he looked at her as though he did not believe a word she had told him.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said again, her head lowered and her hands in her lap.

  Guy got up and moved towards the door unsteadily, taking the car keys from the sideboard and stepping out into the light drizzle of a November evening. There were no stars, just a fog of darkness, wrapping him up inside himself. He drove away slowly, not thinking about anything, but noticing the clocks and buttons on the dashboard as though he had never seen them before. At the end of the road, he turned right, towards Royan and the notaire’s house.

  Sixty-one

  Felix Dumas was not used to being messed around.

  When he received the call from Claude Cousteau, his colour rose and his jaw tightened. It was incredible to him that his own secretary could be interfering with the smooth running of his latest deal. From Claude’s description, there was no doubt in his mind that Estelle and Clement Berger had been the visitors to his property in Rue Fleurie. They had wanted to know about the accommodation, whether it was well maintained, whether the rent was receipted by the landlord. They had taken photographs. It was infuriating.

  ‘What do you want me to do, Maitre?’ Claude had asked.

  And Felix Dumas had felt the weight of his words, a memory from the past urging him to consider his reply carefully.

  ‘I will deal with this, Claude. Thank you.’

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘Very well. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.’ His voice trailed off, like unfinished business.

  Claude Cousteau was a man of few words. He preferred action. If there was a problem, there was a solution. There were no grey areas, as far as he was concerned.

  Felix Dumas had found this out the hard way, many years before, when he had confided in him that his maid had taken to looking through his private papers and had discovered things about him that he would prefer to remain private. He had had no idea that the young Claude would act so decisively. No idea at all.

  ‘I will not need your services in this matter, Claude,’ he said, again. He hoped, categorically.

  There was a longer silence this time and Felix Dumas heard Claude Cousteau lick his lips. ‘I understand,’ came the sticky reply, followed by an almost inaudible sigh.

  The notaire felt a surge of relief when he rang off, and realised that he was sweating. His heart beat faster and more loudly than normal.

  He remembered the important meetings that used to take place at his father’s home, when Claude’s father would arrive and the two men would talk for hours while he and the doting Claude wandered down through the orchard. There had been something about the boy, even then. Something cold and inhuman but, at the same time, gentle. He was like a loyal dog. Or rather, a tamed tiger. And Felix had known from the start that the boy had worshipped him, hanging close, gawping and grinning. Somehow, a simple encounter they had shared on a bright summer’s afternoon had affected Claude Cousteau more deeply than it should have done, so that there had been created a kind of bond between them. It was beyond reason! Absurd!

  Felix Dumas looked out of his window, and the street, with the ordinary shoppers passing by, brought him back to the present and Estelle’s meddling. He would have to sort this one out on his own. It should be possible for an experienced notaire to get the better of his secretary, surely? What irritated him more was the fact that the purchase of the apartment would not be completed in time for Christmas, and that his son would have to wait. Felix would have to offer Clement Berger a sweetener, if the worst came to the worst. Th
ere was nothing more to worry about. The other properties he had purchased were all safely in his name and could not be traced back to … well, to anyone else. What did it matter that the stupid girl had convinced herself that she could bring a case against him? She would find out that it was difficult to get a job when you had been dismissed by one of the most respected figures in the region.

  With a mind set against defeat, Felix Dumas did not dwell on the wheedling insinuation of violence in Claude Cousteau’s offer of help. An offer which he believed he had put to rest. The man was a psychopath, that was clear. But there was no reason to fear him. The notaire had made his wishes explicit and had no doubt that Claude would respect them.

  When Estelle brought up the first clients to his office the next morning, Dumas did not look up from his desk immediately, as was his habit, leaving them for just the right amount of time to ensure that they appreciated his superiority. When he did stand and come over to greet the two gentlemen who had come to sort out a dispute over a wall between their properties, he did not look at Estelle, neither did he acknowledge her polite introductions.

  She went down the stairs believing that her boss was behaving in an exceptionally oafish manner, coveting the knowledge that soon he would be facing charges of fraud that would send him to prison for a very long time.

  At her desk, she put together the information she and Clement had gathered from their latest tenant. Even though Monsieur Cousteau had been happy with his apartment, it was clear that he was making the best of a bad job: the place was damp and smelled of mildew, there was no double glazing or central heating, and the water heater was temperamental. He could not show them a rent book, either, just like all the other tenants they had visited.

  He had been a strange man, come to think of it. Quietly spoken and very interested in what she and Clement had to say, offering them a creepy kind of hospitality, totally out of keeping with the visit, asking them how they came to know Felix Dumas and what business they had in criticising such a man. And his eyes, sunken and dead-looking in his bony face, were unlike any she had seen before. They were of the palest blue imaginable, so that the black of the pupil seemed sharper, denser. As he had spoken, those eyes rested upon her, as cold as a reptile’s and just as alien. Clement had said that Monsieur Cousteau would be more at home in a horror film than above a sweet shop.