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

by Fliss Chester

  She realised that not only had her arrival in the village been exceptionally well-timed for someone wanting work, but that there were technically a lot more people involved with this vineyard than had dined at the Bernards’ table last night.

  As her body worked in an almost mechanical fashion; identifying, selecting, cutting, placing, walking, tipping… her mind slipped back to supper the night before. Her excellent French had allowed her to eavesdrop on the family’s conversation and among the small talk about the harvest she’d heard a few more names, including those of two men – Jacques and Thierry. From the way that Monsieur Bernard’s face had sunk when they were mentioned, Fen inferred that perhaps they were the sons he had alluded to. Seems like this poor family took a real pasting, she’d thought to herself as she’d strained to keep listening, hoping to glean anything that might relate to Arthur.

  On that front, sadly, she had been left wanting, although she did now know an awful lot more about how the mayor’s daughter’s poodle was the prime suspect in a sausage theft, how the German-created potholes would be a disaster for next year’s Tour de France race and how it was only now coming to light that the neighbouring vineyard had hidden their wine from the thieving Nazis by pulling a kitchen dresser over the door to the cellar, concealing it for the duration of the occupation. Hubert had bristled at the thought of wine being stolen by the occupiers and had made his feelings very clear on the matter with a few well-chosen expletives.

  ‘That Weinführer, Spatz, was a bastard.’ Clément had spat at the floor in disgust. There had been a murmur from the men in agreement, while Clément had continued, ‘At least we—’

  ‘Shh, Papa,’ Pierre had stopped his father from saying any more and Fen had wondered if it was on her account.

  She stretched her back and looked up over the vines. She saw the heads of the other workers bobbing up and down, methodically selecting the bunches of grapes, cutting their stems and placing them in their hods. She picked up a few words here and there, mostly curses as knives slipped or perfect bunches of grapes fell to the hard, dry ground. Otherwise, the fields were quiet, save for the whinnying and solid plods of the horses that carted the massive baskets of grapes back to the winery.

  Fen, never one to shirk from her duty, went back to harvesting, and in her head she pretended Arthur was next to her, prompting her to ‘give him a clue’. Perhaps a riddle would be more apt, she thought to herself as she recounted the chain of events that had brought her to this vineyard, deep in another country, so far from home. Who am I? My first is in graft, but never in grapes; my second makes eyes from a possible yes; but my third will say no…

  ‘Oh Fen!’ she scolded herself out loud and then berated herself more quietly. ‘Stop pretending Arthur is here now. And stop making up silly games when you should be working out what’s happened to him!’

  Muttering to herself, she finished her row of vines and carried the heavy hod to the collecting basket. Once she’d heaved the grapes into it, she paused to adjust her headscarf. Years of working in the fields had made her relatively strong for her size, and it had also given her the ability to know exactly how to tie her scarf and smooth her hair without needing a mirror. Though she did miss having Kitty next to her to tell her if her scarf was completely skew-whiff, or Dilys to lick a hanky and rub dirt smuts from their faces. War work had been hard, but it was bearable – and sometimes even the slightest bit jolly – with best friends.

  Fen sighed and had no sooner finished adjusting her rather snazzy, or at least she thought so, scarf when the gruff voice of Captain Lancaster behind her made her start.

  ‘This isn’t Saint Germain, you know. I don’t think it matters to the grapes what you look like.’

  ‘It matters to me,’ Fen turned around to see him staring at her, his silhouette looming large against the recently reappeared sun, swollen by the fact that he was carrying two hods, not just the one like she was.

  ‘I don’t think the Bernards pay you to look pretty.’ He dumped the contents of his hods into the cart, then turned and walked back towards the far end of the vineyard from whence he had come.

  ‘How rude! Again!’ Fen rested her hands on her hips and, for no one’s benefit except her own, said out loud, ‘You’d think the only other English person out here would be a bit more sporting than that!’ But as Lancaster disappeared down another row of vines something occurred to her. She was sure that at no point had she told him, or anyone here in Morey-Fontaine, that ten years ago, or so, her family had lived near the École des Beaux-Arts in that area of Paris beloved by artists and academics called Saint Germain.

  Lunch was brought to the workers via a horse and cart – bread and cheese and, of course, wine, though Fen would have preferred to have slugged down a bucket or two of fresh water. Some of the workers, those near enough to home, had sloped off back to their own kitchens or shaded gardens, for a home-made meal and a comfier seat. But Fen didn’t mind sitting on the ground, just resting her legs and stretching out her back was good enough for her, plus the bread and cheese were most welcome.

  Lancaster appeared from one of the rows, another two hods on his back for the final dump into the grape cart.

  ‘Here, come and eat.’ He may have been rude to her earlier, but Fen wasn’t about to lose the best lead she had when it came to finding out about Arthur.

  ‘Water?’ he asked.

  She nodded a ‘yes please’ and he disappeared for a moment or two before coming back to where she sat, in the shade of the grape cart with an earthenware bottle.

  ‘There’s a pump at the end of the rows; you should drink as much as you can out here in this heat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Fen was too grateful for the chance to slake her thirst to try and stand up for herself and mention that she knew full well the benefits of hydration, having worked in the fields for the last few years. ‘I was worried it might be Chardonnay for lunch.’

  Lancaster smiled and Fen wondered if the gruff exterior was merely that: a mechanism for coping with what he’d seen in the war. She was itching to ask him something, anything, about why he was here in France, when Sophie came past, carrying an apronful of apples.

  ‘Here, windfalls from this morning. They’re fresh.’

  Fen and James took one each and bit into them.

  ‘Thank you, Madame Bernard.’

  ‘Please, Fenella, call me Sophie.’

  Fen nodded and was about to strike up some more conversation, but Sophie walked on, handing out the fruit to the other workers.

  ‘How did you know that I grew up in Saint Germain?’ Fen decided to come out with it.

  ‘Did you?’ His reply was innocent enough.

  ‘Yes. And I assumed you knew, as you commented…’

  ‘Just a throwaway phrase. I didn’t realise everything I said was so analysed.’

  ‘It’s not, I mean, I didn’t think that much of it, you know, I…’ Fen was flustered and feeling more and more like an idiot, so she changed the subject. ‘This fête tonight should be a gas, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps not so much now they don’t have a relic to parade through the square.’

  ‘What was the relic? I know it must have been quite special and all that, I mean, I know how Catholics feel about these things. The toe of Job, or the eyelid of the Virgin, or suchlike.’

  The captain snorted. ‘It was a piece of the True Cross actually.’

  ‘Oh. Big-time stuff then. Christ’s cross itself. Lumme.’

  ‘And the Nazis took it away, but not without a fight.’ He stopped talking and his words hung in the air.

  Fen opened her mouth to ask him what had happened, but he had scrambled up to standing and strode away from her, without a backwards glance.

  ‘How rude…’ Fen said, but this time she didn’t feel affronted, more like perplexed. James Lancaster knew a lot more about what had happened around here, but he sure as anything wasn’t going to let her into any of his secrets that easily.

  Lun
ch was short, but Fen was happy to get back to work; the motion of the labour helped her mind relax somewhat and she started to plan out how she was going to start looking for Arthur. One thing was clear at least, he wasn’t here now and she hadn’t yet done a great job yet of working out if he ever had been.

  A frown set itself on her forehead and she puzzled on. She had been so sure that she had the right village. All his clues had brought her here and finding Captain Lancaster was an obvious connection.

  ‘What’s an Englishman like him doing here? I’ll have to break cover and quiz him later.’ Fen told the vines her plan. ‘And if he knows nothing about Arthur, well, then I guess I’ll have to go home.’ The thought didn’t sit easily with her, for what was there for her at home? And nowadays, where was home? And with whom? With her parents, of course, but she was a twenty-eight-year-old, well, spinster. She should live alone, or at least try and find her way in the world without hanging onto her mother’s apron strings.

  If only Arthur hadn’t…

  No, keep the faith, Fen, he might be alive… But then where are you, my darling?

  Maybe Kitty, Dilys and she could share a flat… that would be something to look forward to perhaps. The thought cheered her a little, though it was scant compensation really, and she progressed through the rows of vines, selecting and cutting the ripe grape bunches, trying not to imagine what the rest of her life would be like back in England without her beloved fiancé.

  By the time she’d finished for the day, her allotted vines picked of all their jewel-like fruit, she was adamant that the fête tonight would turn up something, anything, about Arthur. She hoped a quick nap and a freshen-up would set her up for some serious investigating.

  Eight

  ‘Vite! Vite!’ Estelle was chivvying Fen along as she applied her lipstick. Even with her year of saving coupons, Fen had hardly anything with her in the way of party clothes, except her Sunday best, so decided it would have to do, along with a jazzy headscarf. Estelle had squeezed into a skirt and jacket that looked like they might have once both come from separate suits sometime in the early 1930s, and was now standing at the door of the bedroom, holding it open impatiently.

  ‘I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying!’ Fen said, then smacked her lips together and pouted into the mirror.

  ‘Ooh la la, it’s the village fête not the Folies Bergère!’

  Lipstick applied and final accessories tweaked – Fen had chosen to wear her cameo brooch and Estelle had made a corsage from some lavender – the two women hurried downstairs and were in time to catch the Bernard family as they bustled around the kitchen getting ready. The weather was still warm and Clément and Pierre had chosen to stay in their shirtsleeves, but Fen noticed that, like Estelle, Sophie had gone to the trouble of finding a two-piece suit and had teemed it with smart white cotton gloves and a striking feather-laden hat.

  ‘Jean-Jacques! You will not be allowed out late, you know?’

  ‘But, Mama!’ his whine joined that of his brother as they tried to wheedle the promise of an hour or two later.

  Fen smiled to herself, remembering being about Jean-Jacques’ age and demanding, along with her brother, the same sort of late pass. Her parents hadn’t been the types to expect Nanny to bring in a nicely washed and fresh pyjamaed child to kiss goodnight at about cocktail time, but they had insisted on proper bedtimes. Fen wondered if these children even knew what a proper bedtime was, but then chastised herself for her uncharitable thought.

  Once the boys had been wrestled into jackets they most certainly felt were unnecessary, the family, along with Estelle and Fen, were finally ready. Benoit and Jean-Jacques ran ahead, and Sophie called upstairs to hurry James and Hubert, both of whom, Fen had found out from Estelle as they’d been getting ready, had rooms on the floor above them. ‘They’re no more than eaves rooms really, the old servants’ quarters,’ she had said sniffily.

  A clattering of boots on stone heralded the men’s appearance and they too were then ushered out of the kitchen so that Pierre could lock the large old wooden door. Fen watched as Clément beckoned the men to join him, a nod of the head indicating that they may as well get walking.

  Fen sighed. She’d missed her opportunity to prise any details from the captain, although she was fairly relieved not to have to walk with the horribly unfriendly Hubert, and instead she joined Sophie and Estelle as they tried to corral the overexcited young boys as they careered through the vegetable patches.

  They walked through the old formal gardens and then into the orchard that offered the grand house a little protection from the rest of the town. Soon they reached the church and Fen had to restrain herself from trailing her fingers along its wall, and instead listened as Estelle reeled off a list of the local people she had some sort of grievance with. She’d only managed to slander the butcher, and grocer’s boy and the second cousin of the nearby cheesemaker when they reached the heart of the small town, the Place de l’Église.

  And what a heart to a town, however small, it was. Fen couldn’t believe this was the same dusty, quiet backwater that she’d arrived at only a day before. The square was alive with people, with the general hubbub focusing on the grand front entrance to the church. Townsfolk were mingling and filling the Place de L’Église with a wonderful atmosphere of expectation and gaiety.

  The Bernard family were well met by all sorts of friendly grinning faces and hands were gripped tight and shaken warmly. Other people even seemed to like Hubert, who Fen had to admit to herself she was keeping a beady eye on. Jean-Jacques and Benoit tore off with a pack of similarly scuff-kneed children and were soon lost to their parents and negligent nanny, who seemed none too bothered by it all. In fact, Fen had noticed how Estelle had moved away from the family group and was talking to a tall, heavily browed gentleman in a dark suit and homburg hat. ‘So that’s why you were in such a hurry earlier, Estelle,’ Fen noted, and smiled to herself, remembering how Edith used to chivvy all the girls along when she too was desperate to get to a dance.

  ‘Love’s young dream,’ Captain Lancaster’s voice in her ear startled Fen.

  I must stop talking out loud, she thought to herself.

  ‘Who is he?’ There was no point being embarrassed in front of the captain now, plus her natural curiosity was getting the better of her.

  ‘That’s Pascal Desmarais, he’s the local pharmacist.’

  ‘And they’re…’

  ‘Courting, I think is the polite word.’

  Fen and James stood in silence together for a moment, watching, as if mesmerised by the joyful look on Estelle’s face as she gazed up into the eyes of her lover. She was quite transformed without the sulking scowl Fen had mostly received from her, and her face now looked far younger, the smile on her lips plumping up her rouged cheeks.

  ‘It’s rather wonderful, isn’t it, to…’ Fen wished she hadn’t started saying that. Suddenly she felt terribly alone – albeit with a vast crowd around her – and blinked a tear or two away, resorting to a fingertip dab when they became more persistent.

  ‘She met him through Sophie,’ whether Captain Lancaster had noticed Fen’s tears and was trying to move the conversation on, or not, Fen was grateful for the distraction. He carried on. ‘Sophie used to collect the script for the tank-cleaning chemicals, but what with the boys and taking over the chatelaine duties at the château, she’s less involved with the actual winemaking now. So Estelle started heading down to Pascal’s shop and, hey presto, the future Mr and Mrs Desmarais.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

  ‘Sophie’s winemaking background or Estelle’s love life?’

  ‘Both.’ There was a brief pause as they continued to watch the French couple. ‘So, Madame Bernard, Sophie I mean, was a winemaker too? Isn’t that rather uncommon? Not that I disapprove, what a wonderful job.’

  ‘She studied oenology or some sort of biological sciences. Or was it petrochemicals? I can’t remember. She was at the Sorbonne, I think.’

 
; ‘Gosh. I studied in Paris too. Speaking of which, Captain Lancaster, how did you become so proficient in French? You speak it like a native.’

  ‘James.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You don’t have to keep calling me Captain Lancaster, you can call me James.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Fen wondered if she was going to get an answer to her previous question when James suddenly gripped her shoulders and turned her away from watching Estelle and Pascal to where a rustic sort of dais had been set up outside the door of the church. The crowd were quietening down now, shushing each other and peering over heads and hats to catch a glimpse of what was happening.

  ‘Look there.’

  Fen followed James’s gaze as the doors to the church opened and several robed altar boys exited, carrying with them large silver crosses held aloft. They processed down the stone steps of the church to the dais. Another pair soon came along behind them with candles, more followed with yet more crosses and finally the priest, who carried in front of him a small casket, resting on a deep-red velvet cushion. When the vast church doors had been closed and the priest was stationed on the dais, the casket now resting on a lectern in front of him, the crowd finally fell to a complete silence.

  ‘Friends!’ The priest’s confident voice carried well across the assembled crowd of villagers.

  Fen looked around and estimated that there must be several hundred people amassed there, in front of the church, waiting expectantly for the priest. And he didn’t disappoint. His speech was so full of drama it could have come from the Bard himself. He described to the townsfolk the story of the True Cross – its place in Catholic lore and how their church had been blessed by the archangels Raphael and Gabriel themselves and tasked with keeping safe the piece they had. He had paused and the crowd had waited. You could have heard a pin drop as far afield as Dijon; no one was making a sound. Then he grabbed one of the candles from an attendant altar boy and threw it against the wall of the church behind him.