by Ian G Moore
Lombard eyes narrowed in concentration. He had reasons to despise smoking, nicotine and its effects and the image he had in his brain right now wasn’t the poor Englishman, but the ravaged body of Madeleine. ‘How, though?’
‘Nothing concrete, Lombard. Again nothing in the mouth to suggest pills, no puncture marks for a lethal injection, no liquid drink.’
‘A cigarette?’ Asked Lombard, with a touch of sarcasm.
‘Again, there’s nothing to suggest that, no traces of filter or direct burning on the lips.’
‘An e-cigarette then?’
‘Yes. That’s what I was thinking. Well done Juge. A vapeur. It would be cleaner and leave few, if any, traces. That’s my guess.’
‘OK.’ Aubret wanted this clear. ‘A blow to the back of the head, extreme but not fatal, followed by carbon monoxide poisoning, extreme but not fatal. A dose of pure nicotine possibly, via a vaper, extreme but not fatal in this instance. Know what I think? He’s either in complete control or not very good!’ Lombard snorted and Sebourg remained silent at the other end.
‘Any idea what could have been used to knock him out? Are there traces of wood, for instance?’ Lombard said all of this very quietly and very deliberately. Also, he knew the answer.
‘Yes, there were!’ An excited Sebourg came through at the other end.
‘What difference would that make?’ Lombard could tell that the Commissaire was torn between annoyed and impressed.
‘Maybe nothing. A silly guess really. But what if the initial blow to the head was from a bouffadou?’
‘I don’t get it.’ Snorted Aubret.
‘I can’t hear you.’ Sebourg shouted. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Sorry Doctor, excuse us, we were just speculating.’
‘The juge thinks our blunt instrument may have been a bouffadou!’
‘Right.’ Sebourg paused. ‘What’s a bouffadou?’
‘It’s an ancient type of bellows.’ Again Lombard sighed through his sentence, modestly embarrassed by his own knowledge. ‘A heavy stick with a narrowing hole right through it, carried by hunters mainly.’
‘I’ve just googled it. That would work, it would have to be heavy though.’
‘I still don’t get it.’ Aubret sounded like he was beginning to lose his temper, as he knew he was beginning to lose control of ‘his’ case. ‘What difference does it make whether it’s a bouffadou or not?’ Aubret slowed the car right down, now going at about 30kmh and with a line of impatient traffic forming behind him.
‘Burnt three times.’ Lombard muttered, almost under his breath.
‘What?’ Again Sebourg sounded frustrated, and on the verge of losing her temper as well.
‘Burnt three times!’ Lombard said again more loudly, as though explaining something that should have been obvious.
‘How do you mean, burnt three times? Stop talking in bloody riddles.’ Aubret got it, though.
‘Joan of Arc was burnt at the stake three times. The English,’ Lombard stressed the word, ‘didn’t want any trace left of her. So they burnt her three times.’
‘Bouffadou, carbon monoxide, nicotine. Burnt three times.’ Aubret was trying not to sound excited. ‘It’s an anti-English thing then. That’s what it looks like anyway.’
‘Perhaps.’ It wasn’t that Lombard didn’t go with the theory, but something was nagging him.
‘It seems pretty obvious to me.’ Aubret was now driving even slower. ‘We have a Joan of Arc fête, an Englishman, who was also one of the organisers, disappears. He reappears on a cross, his hair cut Joan-style, he’s been bashed on the skull – alright only possibly – by a bouffadou, that is a pure guess. He has carbon monoxide poisoning and nicotine poisoning. Now, I’m not saying it’s not a crazy theory, but I am saying it’s pretty clear cut. We’re looking for a Frenchman with a grudge.’
‘I’ve never met a Frenchman without a grudge!’ Sebourg came back over the phone. ‘There’s another Joan of Arc connection too. The victim’s left hand was sort of branded.’ The two men looked at each other.
‘What do you mean?’ Lombard was the first to ask.
‘A Joan of Arc medallion or coin was burnt, literally burnt, into the palm. I imagine the piece was heated and then pushed into the hand. It’s a very clear imprint. A profile shot, she’s holding her standard. Jeanne d’Arc 1429.’
‘Burnt three times.’ Aubret whistled while Lombard stayed silent.
‘By the way, I appreciate you two now think you’ve solved this but, if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t given you the juiciest part. And I mean that really quite literally.’
Sebourg had become a very popular visiting lecturer of pathology at Rabelais University where she’d gained a reputation as someone who could cut through medical jargon like she cut through a corpse. Without hesitation or formality, she had the knack of relating every explanation into everyday routine. But it wasn’t for everyone and an amused Lombard could see Aubret grip the steering wheel tighter, bracing himself for whatever grisly detail was about to come.
‘You remember Christmas a couple of years ago?’ the pathologist began. In any other circumstances or conversation this would be regarded as a gear-grinding non-sequitur, but not with Sebourg. ‘Llhermanault treated everyone, cops, judiciary, even us lowly butchers to a meal out. We went to that fish restaurant in Rochecorbon…’
‘L’Atelier Val des Rois.’ Lombard instinctively threw the information in.
‘That’s it,’ Sebourg replied, not hiding her impatience.
‘Overpriced and ordinary,’ muttered Aubret, equally instinctively and on home territory with restaurant reviews.
‘Personally I agree, Monsieur le Commissaire, but there was one fan. Commandant Pouget – who’s here by the way – had another one of her disastrous dates with her, you remember? Oh, face facts Lydie!’ This last sentence was obviously said away from the mouthpiece and presumably in response to Pouget’s own reaction. ‘Some geeky engineer type, he kept raving about the smoked mullet.’
‘Mulet de Loire fumé au poivre exotique.’ Lombard recalled, trying also to guess where this was going.
‘Over-seasoned as I recall.’ Aubret couldn’t help himself. ‘And about as exotic as a tin of sardines, if you ask me.’
‘I think we all agreed on that, but putting that aside, Pouget’s date loved it. Loved it so much…’
‘He got the chef out to explain the recipe, I remember, yes.’ Lombard knew where this was going now.
‘That’s it and the chef was so happy he came out into the restaurant and, for the benefit of the engineer only I suspect, what was his name Lydie? You can’t remember. One of those, eh? Anyway the chef went into great detail about the smoking process. Specifically a “cold-smoking” process, remember, as opposed to the hot one. The very specific temperature levels,’ like all enthusiasts she was beginning to talk quickly now, ‘the woodchips, the large “smoking oven” and, in particular, the smoke infusion. How the smoke cured the fish.’
Aubret, now driving so slowly that they were practically stationary, braked anyway, causing one of the now many drivers behind them to lose their patience and bang on his horn. Which he ignored. ‘Are you saying Singleterry was smoked?’ He asked dubiously. Lombard sensed the affront his colleague felt that the sanctity of the kitchen might be sullied.
‘Yes,’ answered Sebourg simply. ‘However the carbon monoxide poisoning was administered, it was in a controlled environment. Enough to give the impression of carbon monoxide poisoning and, don’t get me wrong, it would eventually have killed him, but here just enough to severely poison him, weaken him surely, but not kill him.’
‘Burnt three times.’ Lombard was running the phrase through his head. ‘Burnt three times’ He said out loud, emphasising the word ‘three’. The emphasis was lost on Aubret.
‘You’re sure about this, Doctor?’ Aubret was struggling to take in the ghastliness of the theory.
‘Well, yes... Yes I am, dammit. There is colouration t
o the skin, the exposed skin anyway, face and hands. And a moisture, like he’s been in a bath. That shows he was immersed somehow, but not in a liquid, in a damp atmosphere. A heavy fog if you like.’ She paused and then added, ‘Smoked.’
‘That’s great work, Doctor. Thank you,’ Aubret said flatly.
‘You don’t seem very pleased.’ Sebourg’s professional pride was a little dented by the muted reaction. ‘I thought it would narrow things down for you. There can’t be that many human sized fish-smokers close enough to have been used…’
‘Not necessarily, I’m afraid.’ Lombard actually seemed quite sullen. ‘Madeleine had an uncle who made his own, not man-size of course, but it’s a fairly easy thing to put together.’
‘Ah. I see.’ Sebourg seemed equally disappointed.
‘My cousin did that too.’ Aubret had speeded the car up a bit now, but was as always stubbornly sticking to the legal limit. ‘He used to hang Sandré that he’d caught in an old metal bin in the garden. Anything big enough, with a vent and that can take heat would do really.’
‘An old Absinthe still for instance,’ Lombard offered, almost absentmindedly.
‘A converted fridge,’ Aubret responded, ‘a humidor, a central heating ballon.’
‘A suit of armour,’ Lombard snorted derisively
‘A suit of armour?’ said Sebourg at the other end. ‘Well there’s no shortage of them around here! Good luck with that! Anyway, I’ll type up the full report and send it over with Pouget.’ The phone went dead before formalities could be offered.
‘A suit of armour? Do you really think so?’ Aubret sounded disbelieving and yet wanting to believe at the same time.
‘Why not?’ Lombard seemed to be dismissing his own theory. ‘It fits. It’ll be a suit of armour that fits a woman and has “Joan of Arc Was Here” stamped into the breastplate!’
‘What’s your problem?’ Aubret snarled. ‘We have a pile of evidence all pointing in a certain direction and you have a problem with that?’
‘Burnt three times.’ Lombard repeated.
‘Yes. Burnt three times.’
‘He was burnt four times though.’ Lombard was well aware how his colleague would react to this pedantry, but he had to say it nonetheless. ‘Bouffadou, carbon monoxide – smoked - nicotine, medallion branding…’
‘I don’t get it. Why is all that a problem?’ Aubret was angry, as predicted.
‘It’s all too loose, that’s all. Then you have the cross, insufficient kindling to actually start a fire. Also, the couleuvrine. Maybe that was meant to work as an actual gun rather than as a pretty symbol? Shot closely the scorch marks would have caused vicious burns as well as making a sizeable hole. How many ‘burnings’ is that: five, six?’
‘So the killer is labouring the point. It’s still the same point. Joan of Arc is the connection, the reason, the motive, whatever. Just because the killer gets carried away with their own cleverness doesn’t mean anything.’
‘And why wasn’t the victim a woman? Why not Madame Singleterry?’
‘The victim only had to be English for the theory.’
‘Really?’ Lombard sunk his chin into his chest, his normally straight posture lost as he receded moodily into his thoughts.
An irritated Aubret finally put his foot down.
Chapter 13
Lucy stood to the side of her bedroom window, enough to hopefully not be seen from the outside but also enough to get a decent view of the car parked at the end of the driveway. It was a dark blue saloon, she knew which make and model but it didn’t matter to her. She’d once had a boyfriend who thought he was complimenting her when he’d said that she had ‘good car knowledge, for a girl’. She tried to remember his name but couldn’t, like the nondescript saloon car out the front, the old boyfriend was just a generic; no distinguishing features, ordinary. Nothing to set them apart from the crowd.
The car had been there for five minutes or longer now and she assumed it was the police come for the promised interview, but why were they waiting? From her semi-hidden vantage point she saw two men occupying the front two seats, both sat staring out of the windscreen towards nothing in particular, obviously talking, but without looking at each other like an old couple rowing on a family holiday. Lucy knew all about that. Her mother had unhappily remarried when Lucy was still quite small, to an earnest young doctor who, without her mother’s intervention, would surely have been destined for a much happier life as a bachelor. He was the exact opposite of her actor father; timid, frugal, passionless. Another one of life’s dark blue saloons. Too many people in this world, thought Lucy, were just clogging the place up with their ordinariness. Dull, two-a-penny, safe ‘family’ range vehicles occupying the middle lane and getting in the way of people who wanted more.
The driver’s side opened and Lucy shrank back further into the shadows. A heavy-set man got out, retrieved something from his jacket pocket and put something in his mouth. He took a deep breath like it was a comfort pill. He stood there and didn’t move, looking away from the car, as though deliberately turning his back on the vehicle itself. The passenger sat totally still and then slowly opened his own door and got out in a calm, languid movement. He shut the car door carefully and made for the front door of the house. He looked up as he walked the path and, Lucy thought, caught her eye. The eyes weren’t unfriendly, they looked tired though, a bit sad even.
‘Janey!’ Lucy shouted, ‘Oh Janey! It’s the cops!’ She laughed to herself. This whole situation was stressing Jane out, ‘my nerves’, she had said more than once, ‘are shredded’. Poor Jane. What a dreadful shock for her, for them both really, but Lucy, if she was honest with herself, was quite enjoying the whole thing. She had been dreading boredom in this rural French nowheresville, with Jane organising any enjoyment or spontaneity out of life. Murder was proving a welcome, quite thrilling distraction.
The doorbell rang as Lucy came down the stairs. It was a loud, chiming, tuneless, rendition of Greensleeves chosen by their father during a ‘Henry VIII’ phase. There as a brash reminder to everyone who visited that they were entering his ‘court’. Jane had already talked about changing it to something a little less daunting for the visitor but, in a rare moment of solidarity, both Lucy and Madame Hervé had strongly objected.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Jane, hurrying out of the sitting room, desperate as always not to inconvenience anyone by making them wait even a few seconds. She was too late anyway as Madame Hervé was at the door already, a superior look on her face as she met Jane’s surprised and slightly put out glance. Lucy was secretly beginning to like Madame Hervé, but she couldn’t admit that to her half-sister any more than she would the woman herself. The older woman opened the door with a flourish to see an impeccable Lombard on the welcome mat and a slightly more harassed Aubret just joining him.
‘Messieurs,’ said Hervé in a heavy tone. ‘Entrez.’
* **
The first thing that struck Lombard was just how English the inside of the large house was. There were carpets for a start, a rare thing outside of a bedroom in these parts. The many pictures on the walls were almost all of British sporting scenes, their locations written in regal lettering beneath them, Lords, Wimbledon, Ascot and so on, and all original prints too adding up to quite a valuable collection. There was one whole wall though dedicated solely to photographs of a successful acting career. Early, black and white studio head shots of a dashing young man, some costume drama portraits, all ruffs and velvet. Quite a few where the same actor, Emmanuel St John Allardyce, had semi-naked women draped around him, almost as though he were wearing them as accessories.
Pleasantries were exchanged briefly in the hall before they were ushered into the living room by Madame Hervé, who quite obviously to Jane and Lucy’s annoyance seemed to be assuming the role of mistress of the house.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Jane asked hurriedly in passable French, trying to steal a march on the housekeeper. Both men said no but Jane asked for a p
ot of tea anyway, trying to get rid of her ubiquitous nemesis.
‘We’ll try not to take up too much of your time,’ Lombard began as Madame Hervé pointedly slammed the door shut behind her. Her protest, she was disappointed to realise as she stood listening at the door, was completely lost on the Allardyce sisters as they both sat silently, taken aback by Lombard’s perfect, accent-less English. ‘It must have been a terrible shock. Let me introduce myself, I’m…’
‘You’re English!’ Lucy naturally couldn’t suppress the outburst, but she spoke for both sisters.
‘My father was English.’ Lombard tried not to sound bored as he went through the same routine he had done a thousand times before when people, English people, heard him speak. ‘I am French. Otherwise I couldn’t be a magistrat.’
‘But you have no accent at all!’ Lucy, as always unable to contain her inner thoughts, seemed to find the whole thing highly amusing. Jane looked a little relieved. ‘I’d have put you as home counties, Hampshire at a push. Except you do look French.’
Of course I do, thought Lombard wearily. The English think I look French, the French think I look English. And they are always so sure, as if they’re the first to certify his lineage and nationality. That until their pronouncement he’d been wandering around in the fog of an identity crisis. Lombard had had it most of his life, certainly since his return to France as a father-less teenager in ‘foreign’ clothes. There was a constant need to put a label on him, a need he himself had given up seeking, if not needing, long ago.
‘I guess I’m a bit of both,’ was all he said, shutting down the conversation on his background, though he could tell the brash Lucy was eager for details. ‘Now. I’m sorry to do this but I have to take you back to yesterday, and your arrival.’
Over the next fifteen minutes or so Lombard, and where necessary for clarification – or more accurately to make himself feel involved – Aubret, went through the Allardyce sisters’ arrival at Saint-Genèse and the eventual discovery of Graham Singleterry.
Lombard led the two sisters very carefully to the moment of discovery, beginning slowly and then quickly picking up the pace of his questions. The idea was to heighten the tension and the emotion, make the witnesses, Jane in particular, live the moment again and almost, as if under hypnosis, perhaps pick out details they may have missed before.