A Dangerous Goodbye: An absolutely gripping historical mystery (A Fen Churche Mystery Book 1)

by Fliss Chester

  ‘And this is Clément, Pierre’s father. Papa to us and the boys, head of our household here.’

  Fen turned to the old man and reached out a hand to him in formal greeting. He extracted one of his own hands from under his wriggling grandson and returned the handshake.

  ‘Good evening, mademoiselle, it is a pleasure to have you here.’

  Estelle appeared at the kitchen door and, without saying much to anyone, sat herself at one of the places furthest away from the old man at the head of the table. Before she knew it, though, young Benoit was off his grandfather’s lap and onto hers and she shrieked as his grubby hands grabbed at her skirts and dirtied her pinafore.

  ‘Ooh la la!’ she exclaimed, but Fen could see that she was smiling behind her admonitions. There was something so charming about the whole scene and Fen felt all her fears about being surrounded by strangers diminish as she took her cue from the housekeeper-cum-nursery-maid and sat down opposite her at the table.

  Once Sophie and Pierre, plus the shy Jean-Jacques were seated, Fen noticed that there were two more place settings left to fill. One might be for that English chap she’d met in the courtyard earlier and one for… She didn’t dare hope that there might be another Englishman yet to come out of the woodwork – her Englishman.

  Fen wasn’t sure what the protocol was next. This was far removed from her parents’ rather erratic suppers that would come as and when her mother or father could get their nose out of a book, or the jovial if well-mannered evening meal served up at Mrs B’s farmhouse. Her heart ached, thinking that right now Kitty and Dilys would probably be sitting down to whatever Mrs B had cobbled together from their rations and the glut of vegetables, thanks to a summer of constant care in the veg patch. They’d be giggling over some local gossip, no doubt, flushed cheeks made pinker from the warmth of the stove. At least she would be able to take great pleasure in describing this place to them, so different it was to the cosiness of Mrs B’s kitchen, though a family home too nonetheless.

  The thought of writing them another letter raised her spirits further and she looked around the table for inspiration. She could imagine her next letter now…

  They’re a funny bunch all right, very rustique if that’s the word. Mrs B, you’d be in awe of the stove, set as it is in such a deep and magnificent fireplace, but absolutely spotless and garlanded, if you will, with the most wonderful display of glistening copper pans hung above it. The light from the new electric bulbs (this part of the house at least seems to be connected to the electric supply) glistens off them in the most beautiful way.

  I’ve met the family now, I think, and they’re all very pleasant. Dark-haired and Gallic, to be sure, except for the grandfather, who has skin as brown as a nut but hair like a dandelion clock, and the youngest child, who is as blond as one of those cherubs Rev Smallpiece paints on his Christmas cards.

  No need for jealousy on the fashion front either, Kitty, as the ladies of this house seem to favour simple cotton and very outdated skirts, though I must admit to only being here a few hours so far, so we’ll see. I mustn’t judge too harshly, though, as there has been a war on and they really can’t have had much in the way of choice or interest, I suppose, while trying to fend off the Nazis…

  Fen was happily musing over what else she’d write when a noise from the doorway announced the arrival of the tall Englishman whom Fen had met earlier.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he apologised to the waiting diners and sat himself down in the chair next to Fen. ‘Hubert and I were in the far field, checking the Pinot grapes,’ he spoke in fluent French, and Fen was impressed at his perfect accent and mannerisms. She was sure he was English, wasn’t she?

  ‘And where is Hubert?’ Sophie asked, drumming her fingers on the table.

  ‘Still at the winery, he sends his apologies.’

  ‘Apologies… men are always sorry for something. Eh la.’ She shrugged and then pressed her hands together into the prayer position and Clément mumbled a grace.

  After that, Sophie and Estelle got up from their chairs and brought the cassoulet and freshly baked bread to the table. They served the men first, starting with Clément, then Pierre, the young boys, then the Englishman and finally Sophie, Estelle and Fen.

  ‘Hello again,’ Fen had waited until the family and Estelle were engrossed in their own conversation about local politics before she introduced herself to the man she thought was a fellow countryman. ‘We didn’t introduce ourselves earlier, I’m Fenella Churche.’ She would have stuck her hand out for a formal shake, but it was a little awkward in that he was sitting right next to her at the table.

  She waited for a reciprocal greeting and snuck a glance sideways at the sun-beaten face, rough stubble and straw-like hair of her neighbour. If there was a man who suited his environment more, she couldn’t think of one. Instead of speaking straight away, he raised his ice-blue eyes up from the cassoulet and turned to meet hers, the intensity of his stare making her feel distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘I say,’ Fen flustered, ‘I do think you could at least let me know your name.’

  ‘Lancaster.’ The way he said it, she felt like it was about to be followed by rank and number, as if she were the captor and he the reticent prisoner. But a moment later he continued. ‘Fenella Churche. Fen Churche. Ha, like the station?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fen sighed and looked heavenwards but was pleased that her bizarre birthright had at least broken the conversational ice. ‘And you’re Lancaster. Like the bomber?’ She wondered if he was a man who couldn’t take teasing. But there was something in his demeanour that seemed familiar to her and reassured her that he wouldn’t take offence. Somehow, he reminded her of Arthur, even though he was much stockier, blonder and far more dishevelled than she’d ever seen Arthur look, especially at a mealtime.

  ‘James Lancaster actually. Captain.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain Lancaster.’ Fen felt less at sea now she knew his name.

  ‘And you, Miss Churche.’

  ‘Oh please, call me Fenella. Or Fen. I really don’t mind.’

  He nodded. ‘So what brings you here? I take it you’re not with the War Office or on some official business?’

  Fen wanted to tell him there and then about her mission to find Arthur, or at least find out more about what happened to him, but she reminded herself that as friendly as this man was currently being, he was a stranger and had not proved himself trustworthy – yet.

  Sit on your hands, Fen, she reminded herself, this is only the read-through…

  ‘No, nothing like that. I’m an enthusiast on churches.’

  ‘Nominative determinism as its very best.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Never mind. Churches though. Are you expecting to find anything of interest in this one?’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Fen caught up with the captain’s joke about her name and then kept going as he stayed quiet, spooning cassoulet into his mouth. ‘Well, I’m here to write about them for our local rag. I’ve heard there are some excellent panels dedicated to the archangels.’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ he barely looked at her as he spoke, seemingly more interested in his food. Eventually he put his spoon down and turned to her. ‘What are you really doing here?’

  His question in all its stark bluntness took Fen completely by surprise and she had to admit she was relieved when, at that very moment, Sophie leant across and caught her attention, asking her to pass the bread back up to the family end of the table.

  ‘You are joining us at an excellent time, mademoiselle,’ Clément Bernard had the sort of natural bonhomie that one would expect from a rural winemaker. ‘We are mid-harvest, and, God willing, it will be a good one. The war is over and the grapes are ripe – we have suffered much over these last years, but finally He smiles upon us.’

  ‘Amen,’ his son, Pierre, spoke up.

  ‘You know it will be like 1918 all over again. The end of war always brings a good vintage.’ The old man
looked to his son for affirmation and received a nod in reply.

  ‘Were your vines terribly affected by the occupation?’ Fen asked, genuinely curious.

  ‘No,’ it was Pierre that chipped in, ‘the army left them pretty much alone, but our weather seemed to hate the Germans as much as we did. Plus, it’s been hard getting the manpower as so many of our local men left the countryside to fight.’

  But one or two came to fight for you, Fen thought to herself.

  ‘I think the town was more ravaged than the vineyards,’ Pierre continued. ‘Nightly raids on properties, the sight of rows of soldiers goose-stepping their way around the square. The local hotel was overrun with them, like vermin.’

  ‘It must have been…’ Fen couldn’t think of what to say, everything she could think of seemed inadequate.

  ‘Then the random shootings started and the patrols became more frequent. We feared for our lives, all of us.’

  ‘That’s enough now, Pierre,’ the soft voice of Sophie urged him to stop. ‘You’ll give our new guest nightmares.’

  ‘It has been a nightmare for us.’ Pierre punctuated the end of his sentence with a mouthful of cassoulet.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Churche,’ Sophie apologised for her husband, who merely shrugged.

  Fen was just protesting that Pierre had every right to describe the last few years as nightmarish when Clément interrupted.

  ‘Right, no more talk of the past. Let us talk only of our tomorrows – here’s to a brighter future for us all in the long term,’ he raised his glass, ‘and in the short term, literally tomorrow, we will be celebrating the holy day of our church’s saints, Raphael and Gabriel.’

  ‘Oh how marvellous!’ Fen was truly cheered by the thought of a party, not to mention the opportunity to meet some of the townsfolk and find out more about these saints. ‘What will the celebrations be like?’

  ‘Oh,’ Sophie chipped in, ‘do you not celebrate like this, a fête, in England?’

  ‘Well, to us a fête is sometimes associated with a church, but not a saint, although Mother always joked that most of the ladies who ran it were absolute saints.’ Even in her near-faultless French, her sentiments obviously confused the French around the table.

  Captain Lancaster, who Fen felt was eyeing her up extremely oddly, helped her out, ‘Fenella means that fêtes in England are a little different than they are to the ones here. More cake, less carousing. More sedate, you could say.’

  ‘But jolly fun all the same.’ Fen felt like the captain wasn’t sticking up for the home team as much as he could do.

  ‘Well, here, mademoiselle,’ old Clément took over the conversation, ‘you will see that at our fête we eat and dance late into the night. It will be a double celebration this year, as although the filthy Nazis stole our relic,’ he thumped his fist down on the table in the first sign Fen had seen since she arrived of some sort of retaliation against the recent occupation, ‘not to mention a lot of our wine, it is thanks to the bravery of our Resistance fighters and our Allied friends that we are now free of the Germans.’ He spat down onto the floor as soon as he mentioned that nation.

  Sophie tutted and Estelle stared at Clément.

  ‘I suppose it is I who will be clearing that up?’

  ‘I’m sorry, dear Estelle.’ Clément reached across the table and clumsily tried to take her hand. He settled for patting it and then sat back in his chair. ‘I’m so heartbroken for my sons, my church, our pillaged wine and for belle France herself.’

  Fen knew all about these Gallic mood swings; she’d seen enough of the pastis drinkers in the local bars near their apartment in Paris to recognise an old man slightly in his cups.

  She noted the plural of the word sons, but decided to let it pass. Instead, she asked Sophie more about plans for the next day’s celebrations. ‘Shall we need to prepare anything for the fête? I can bake something for you if you’d like?’

  ‘That’s a very nice thought, Miss Churche,’ Sophie answered, ‘but I think you will be needed in the vineyard all day, isn’t that right, Pierre?’

  ‘True, true, I’m afraid we can’t afford you to be here as merely our resident cake baker! Full board,’ he swept his hand over the table, indicating the meal they’d all shared, ‘and lodging just for a cake?’

  Fen nodded while the French family laughed and she sat back as the conversation turned back to the harvest, feeling more than a little chastised. She hadn’t meant to cause any offence and told herself off for not taking her employment with them more seriously. This was a vineyard in the middle of harvest after all.

  Lancaster glanced sideways at her, that intensity back in his eyes.

  ‘They’ve been through a lot.’

  It was all he said. Comforting women was perhaps not his strong suit, and before long he too had chipped in about the harvest and his voice was lost in the cacophony of the dinner table.

  Seven

  By the time the church bell thudded out ten clanking rings the next day, Fen had been hard at work for more than two hours. She was pleased that she’d packed her kit of sturdy overalls and rubber boots, as although the sun was shielded by a light covering of cloud, the work among the vines was tough. The discussion around the dinner table last night had mostly been about the harvest, and the mysterious Hubert had joined the table half an hour after they’d started eating.

  Fen had known, really, that the spare place couldn’t have been laid for Arthur, but still, seeing the Gauloises-smoking Frenchman walk in had made her a little sad. Hubert Ponsardine, who looked as weather-beaten as Clément but with none of his joviality, had tucked into what was left of the cassoulet and talked solely about the current state of the harvest. Clément had argued that they had started too early and the rest of Burgundy wouldn’t start until October, but Pierre and Hubert together insisted the grapes they had left, having survived an early frost and a bizarre summer cyclone, as well as the strafing of bullets from retreating Luftwaffe, were ripe and ready, and the juice already coming from the first pressings was of excellent quality.

  ‘We won’t be alone in trying to make the best out of this harvest,’ the winemaker had said, pulling a piece of bread in two, one bite of it clamped between his yellowing teeth. ‘Already they’re saying this will be a better year even than the best of the 1930s vintages.’

  ‘That is welcome news indeed,’ the old man had sat back in his chair and lit his own thin cigarette. ‘If it’s so, you might even be able to fix that terrible truck of yours, Hubert!’

  Fen blushed. She hadn’t seen more than one at the winery earlier and it didn’t take a genius to work out that the one that had almost killed her must obviously belong to this Hubert chap. Luckily, Sophie had indicated to her that she might like to help clear away the plates at that moment, which rather stopped Fen from denouncing Hubert and his appalling driving there and then.

  ‘You have come at a very convenient time,’ Sophie had said to her, as she had helped her wash the dishes after the meal. ‘Although when I first saw you I had hoped to have you here with me to help in the house, I see now that I will lose you totally to the vines. You don’t mind field work, do you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Fen had then been at pains to express how she was used to outdoor work; she needed more time to find out about Arthur and becoming indispensable would help with that. Being able to give Hubert a piece of her mind too would be an added bonus.

  ‘It’s very important to this château, you see, this harvest. Without a good wine this year, we will be… well, I shouldn’t talk of the occupation,’ she had glanced back towards the table where the men were still sitting and then whispered, ‘but whatever happens we need a good harvest…’ her voice faded to nothing as she scrubbed the plates clean.

  ‘Don’t worry, madame, I am here to help.’

  And so Fen had turned up bright and early the next day to the winery to meet Hubert and receive instructions. Gauloises cigarette firmly wedged between his teeth, he’d done not much more t
han issue her with a large wicker hod – just like the ones she’d seen the workers labouring with the day before – and a pair of secateurs, and this less-than-warm welcome into the world of grape picking gave Fen the confidence to pull him up on his driving yesterday.

  ‘Monsieur Ponsardine,’ Fen thought the formality of using his surname would help her cause, ‘I do feel like you might owe me an apology.’

  Hubert, who had already turned his back on her and was heading into the winery, stopped and turned to face her. He slowly took his stubby cigarette end out of his mouth and held it between his finger and thumb. ‘Excuse me?’

  Fen wasn’t sure if it was wise to continue, especially as Hubert then closed the gap between them with a few purposeful steps, combined with quite a threatening look.

  ‘For, well, for yesterday. With the…’ Fen stammered slightly but managed to raise her hand, still holding her newly acquired secateurs, towards the grey Citroën van.

  Hubert stared at her, then rolled his tongue around his teeth and spat on the floor. Fen wanted to fill the silence with more explanation of the accident, but there was a menacing aspect to the winery manager’s countenance that made her open and close her mouth a couple of times before clamming up.

  ‘Hubert!’ the call came from behind the vehicle and broke the stand-off.

  Fen released the breath, which she hadn’t been aware that she’d been holding, and was more than slightly relieved when Hubert turned on his heel and followed the voice over towards the vines.

  ‘How rude!’ Fen managed to whisper to herself, hoping the less-than-pleasant winemaker was now out of earshot. She bent down and picked up her wicker hod, noticing the slight shake to her hand as she did. She hated confrontations.

  You need to keep this job if you’re going to find Arthur, she reminded herself as she stumbled over the roughly ploughed, summer-hardened soil between the vines until she got to her allotted post.

  As the hours passed, the wicker hod on Fen’s back grew gradually heavier as she neared the end of a row of vines. After it was full, the manoeuvre for unloading it into a large well-head-sized basket had to be performed and the trick was to do it without throwing out her shoulder or losing any grapes as she teetered over the edge of the massive container.