Playing the Martyr

by Ian G Moore

  The Lion d’Or was buzzing with typical, high-spirited social interaction, and apéritifs flowed. The brutal death of Émile wasn’t going to change that. The shopkeepers of Saint-Genèse couldn’t afford it to and in truth, as word got round, things were even busier than usual. People who normally avoided the tourists, or worse the holidaying Parisiens, ventured into Saint-Genèse to see what was actually going on. And maybe, only out of civic duty of course, to see if they could be of assistance in any way. The police, on the lookout for leads and witnesses, had no shortage of people who, while lacking either, weren’t put off coming forward.

  Émile, and this wasn’t lost on his more regular clientele, would have made a huge song and dance about being ill-prepared for the day. The locals were there in numbers, people who even the locals didn’t know were local were there; conversations were even being struck up between people whose families hadn’t spoken in a generation. Two murders in four days can do that to a community. There was occasional subdued, guiltily stopped laughter; as well as raised voices when conversations became heated as various theories were thrown about.

  Lombard sat at the back with a small glass of rosé and tried to work the scene out. The Lion d’Or was no different to a thousand other small town brasseries. Inoffensive pastel shades dominated, spotless mirrors behind the central bar designed to make the place seem bigger and busier than it was, a trick that was entirely unnecessary today. There was artwork scattered about the walls without any real thought. Local hunting scenes punctuated by more abstract efforts that may once have looked like innocent, if slightly untalented, ‘spatter’ paintings, but with the current mood looked violent and angry, almost portentous.

  Lombard watched the people too. The Allardyce sisters sat under a parasol on the terrasse, pointedly not talking to each other and almost certainly regretting coming here at all. Not just the brasserie, but Saint-Genèse itself. They had little in common beyond lineage and the strain, with only each other for company, was beginning to show. He felt a little sorry for them. He could imagine exactly what type of person their father had been. A swaggering bore, using two daughters born at the same time from different mothers as trophies of his manhood. He was glad Allardyce wasn’t still alive; he fancied he’d have tried hard to manoeuvre him as a suspect. As it stood, he wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t involved in some fashion.

  By contrast, their limpet-like housekeeper, Brigitte Hervé, was inside, absurdly trying to look like she was at the same time discreetly hiding her lunchtime companion while simultaneously parading the serious young man for all to see. It was her son, Andrew, apparently, and he looked nothing like her. He suspected there were more problems in store for the Allardyce sisters, but was that any of his business? He couldn’t see how their problems fitted in with his case. The young man had only arrived the afternoon before from a bar job in Paris, an alibi that had quickly stacked up.

  He watched Aubret too, leaning against the bar a few yards away, looking for all the world like an innocent farmer but registering everything discreetly, every conversation and new arrival. Aubret was also watching the bar staff and Lombard could see that he was impressed. A team had got together to keep the brasserie open, Battiston, Marquand, and a couple of extra waiting staff. Everything seemed to be going smoothly too. Poor Émile, thought Lombard. Another victim who wouldn’t really be missed. Two violent murders and neither of them had left a gaping hole.

  He finished his glass of wine, and signalled to a young waiter. ‘Another glass of rosé please.’ The waiter picked up the empty glass and hurried off. He didn’t know who Lombard was, but he’d been told to look after him.

  It was Aubret who brought the refilled glass back to the table. ‘Are you going to eat something as well?’ he practically clucked.

  ‘When I’m hungry,’ was Lombard’s slightly amused reply. He smoothed his thumb and forefinger down the stem of the small glass.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ Aubret said, almost bursting, ‘I wanted an undercover cop to be a waiter and no-one in the squad has ever done anything like this. Nobody ever had a bar job or waited on tables. Not one of them. Kids are pampered these days!’

  ‘Well they wouldn’t have been needed anyway, it seems. Everything is running well. In fact, I get the impression it’s probably running better than usual.’ He nodded towards the bar. ‘They make a good team, the mayoress and the businessman.’

  ‘They worked here together as kids, I was told. It must be like old times for them.’ Aubret agreed and took the inevitable box of Gaviscon out of his pocket while leaning forward. He poured himself a glass of water from a bottle on the table.

  ‘That’s not a great advert for the menu du jour Commissaire,’ said Lombard dryly.

  Aubret ignored him and put the bottle down heavily. ‘I’ve learned something today though.’ He leaned in closely, as did Lombard.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You drink too much.’ Lombard leant back and waved this away as though it were an insect in his eye line, then began playing with a clear plastic bag in front of him. A forensics bag, the date clearly marked and a logging number attached. In it was the hat found next to Lagasse’s body, the one Madame Lagasse had denied was her husband’s. ‘You should have let that go to the lab, I think,’ Aubret said flatly. ‘Your history with evidence isn’t a strong one.’ The remark was pointed but, sensed Lombard, more pointed than Aubret had actually intended. ‘You’ll have Jollet complaining about procedure,’ the Commissaire added quickly.

  ‘I know.’ Lombard leaned back languidly, ‘But what use is it in the lab today? I want it here now. Maybe someone will recognise it.’

  ‘It’s just a straw hat. They’re everywhere this time of year. He may have just found it at the river, it may mean nothing.’

  ‘Again. I know.’ He looked out of the window. ‘There’s an expression in English, “clutching at straws”. Maybe I’m clutching at a straw hat.’ He smiled at Aubret unconvincingly.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. But there’s probably even a stall in the market that sells them. Cheap, tourist stuff.’ He tapped his Gaviscon box on the table. ‘I may go and check. I could do with some fresh air.’ He rose and moved off through the tables.

  ‘A drowning man will clutch at a straw. Are you drowning, Monsieur le juge?’ The voice came from behind Lombard. A deep yet at the same time quiet voice, like distant rolling thunder. A voice that commanded respect in all who heard it, respect it was probably used to getting. Lombard turned around to see who had spoken to him.

  The man did not immediately smile at Lombard, just held the gaze, and then a smile broke out with difficulty. But the large brown eyes didn’t smile with the mouth, as if they disowned the actions going on beneath them. He was a big man with a mop of unruly brownish hair, almost certainly dyed, as was always obvious under harsh interior lighting. He was dressed in a creased linen suit, a black shirt undone at the collar, glasses hanging from a chain around a thick, bullish neck and a small, gold Fleur de Lys lapel badge just catching the ceiling light and glinting like a flashlight in the distance.

  ‘I am Charles Galopin. Pleased to meet you.’ He nodded a greeting rather than stand and shake hands.

  ‘Your knowledge of English idioms is very good Monsieur.’ Lombard wasn’t sure what to make of the man.

  Galopin dismissed the compliment. ‘Are you drowning or waving?’

  ‘Just sitting at the moment.’ Lombard immediately took against his patronising tone. ‘Galopin? The notaire?’ He wasn’t sure he’d hidden the snarl.

  ‘That’s my brother, Monsieur le juge. One of the few local dignitaries not suddenly finding themselves in the catering business.’ He put his small espresso cup, which looked like a child’s toy in his massive hands, back on its saucer. He did this with surprising delicacy for such a big man. He then rubbed his temple hard with his enormous fingers. They were as big as andouillette sausages, and they pressed hard, whitening the manicured fingertips.


  ‘Are you a notaire too, Monsieur Galopin?’ Lombard asked, suspecting that he wasn’t.

  ‘Lord no! Professor of History at François Rabelais.’ He paused, and then suddenly, almost violently, asked, ‘Did you study law at our university?’

  ‘No.’ Lombard was a little taken aback by the way the question had been asked, almost through clenched teeth, like it was a distraction for someone, though he couldn’t say who. ‘I went to Paris then Lyon. Why?’ Lombard watched the man intently; his eyes seemed incredibly sad, empty, almost resigned.

  ‘No reason really.’ Galopin said more calmly. ‘Just always keen to find renowned alumni. I was interested by your English idiom. We have a lot of English students at Rabelais. They tend to work harder than the French ones, I find.’ Lombard, who was always wary of statements like this, as though they were meant to trap him, inevitably couldn’t resist the counter argument. ‘Maybe. We get more trouble from the English students, though.’ It had been like this his whole life. If you slighted the French, he’d leap to their defence, if you insulted the English, it was the same. He couldn’t help himself. They fell silent.

  ‘This is a bad business. Poor Émile and especially poor Monsieur Singleterry…’ Galopin was playing with his tiny spoon.

  ‘Especially?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure what I meant either.’ It felt like he was on the receiving end of a stream of consciousness rather than a conversation. ‘It just seems somehow sadder that he moves here for retirement and… well. That it ends like that.’

  ‘I see.’ Lombard had had the same thought. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Not really. I met him only in the last few weeks. I was at the fête here on Saturday. Actually,’ he half-smiled and chuckled to himself, ‘I was guest of honour.’

  ‘As a Professor of History you were here to lend the “Joan of Arc” theme some validity, I suppose?’ He couldn’t hide his sarcasm this time. He must be tired, but something about the man…

  ‘Well, they’re not entirely fanciful claims that she stayed here you know, on her way to Orléans.’ If he’d picked up on the sarcasm or felt offended by it, he hid it well.

  ‘Every town between here and Orléans could get away with claiming that,’ Lombard snorted. He’d learned long ago that to rattle an academic, to get anything out of them at all, you had to question their integrity. Integrity being the Queen ant hidden inside their labyrinthine ego.

  ‘And some have more right than others.’ Galopin said, now slightly petulant. ‘There are contemporary accounts, descriptions of geographical points and so on.’ He took a deep breath, visibly trying to control himself. Then he threw that disconnected smile again. ‘Like I say, not entirely fanciful.’

  ‘A claim like that would be good for a small town, particularly with tourism.’ Lombard wasn’t letting this go. He already regarded Galopin as an academic gun-for-hire.

  ‘I suppose it would.’ Galopin wasn’t exactly dismissive, but suggested all the same, that petty commerce was beneath him. ‘It was something that apparently poor Monsieur Singleterry was very keen on. Good for him. I’d like to see the old place do well.’

  ‘Somebody didn’t think so.’

  Galopin looked almost wounded by the thought and shut his eyes hard for a second. ‘Really? You think that that is what’s behind this?’ He whispered. ‘Joan of Arc? Surely not! Whatever for?’

  ‘I don’t know if it is yet. But he was burnt three times, and his hair was chopped. He was found on a Cross of Lorraine. There was even a couleuvrine found at the scene, though I haven’t verified the date of that yet. Perhaps you could help with that at some point?’ Galopin looked like he was having trouble taking it all in, offended even at the thought of it. Lombard had taken a calculated risk letting the Joan of Arc suspicions out. But the death of Lagasse, more mundane and less to do with saints and history, had given him scope to do so. ‘Either way,’ he added, ‘Monsieur Singleterry clearly annoyed someone and that’s a possibility, though possibly unlikely.’ He decided to take a gamble. ‘The death of Monsieur Lagasse also suggests something to do with the fête. We’ve lost a principal organiser and the caterer; it’s not a coincidence.’

  Galopin was quiet for a second, ‘So anyone else connected with the fête is a suspect, I presume?’ A slight look of mock hurt sitting on his face more easily than one of genuine contentment might.

  ‘Yes.’ Lombard said directly. ‘Or a potential victim,’ he added coolly, thinking how oddly the question had been asked, like from a nervous debutante asking for compliments.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I was just a guest, a part-time member of the committee, that’s all. I wrote a book on Joan years ago, before it was fashionable, and my brother asked me to come and say a few words.’

  ‘And did you? Say a few words.’

  ‘I did. I can’t remember what though I’m afraid. It was very late by then.’

  Lombard looked directly at Galopin, who seemed slightly embarrassed. ‘I see.’

  Aubret came back to the table with a heavily filled baguette. ‘This is Commissaire Aubret, Monsieur.’ Aubret nodded and this time Galopin stood and shook hands.

  ‘Will you join us, Monsieur?’ Aubret eventually got the question out after swallowing a large bite.

  ‘No. No thank you.’ Galopin pointed towards his equally large brother, though he was overweight rather than the solid oak in front of him. He was standing in front of the brasserie on the terrasse, waiting impatiently and tapping his watch.

  ‘Is everybody in law obsessed with time?’ he asked Lombard, in a poor attempt at joviality.

  ‘Not all of us, no.’

  ‘Well Messieurs, the notaire of Saint-Genèse certainly is. He’ll probably charge me a fee! Bon courage et bonne continuation. Or, perhaps under the circumstances, Keep Calm and Carry On!’ He weaved with difficulty through the busy tables, never stopping despite numerous acknowledgements. Lombard and Aubret watched as the brothers greeted each other coolly and walked off across the square.

  ‘What did he say at the end?’ Aubret asked.

  ‘Some old English saying. From the war, actually. His English is very good.’ Lombard was still watching the brothers.

  ‘He looked a bit rattled too.’

  Lombard looked up innocently. ‘He has every right to be. We have a killer, possibly out there now, maybe even in here.’ He waved his hand towards the market square where in place of the Galopin brothers a party of tourists, all behind cameras and tablets, stood surrounding their tour leader. The guide was animated and his party was clearly enjoying his energetic performance. Lombard began to enjoy it too, though for different reasons, most notably because of the headwear of the guide: a straw hat with a black band above the rim.

  Chapter 17

  ‘This very fountain, ladies and gentlemen, is where Joan of Arc herself stopped to drink on her way to Blois to join the army…’ The American pronunciation of the city of Blois grated slightly, but was in keeping with the irreverent style of the guide.

  Lombard stood discreetly at the back of the group. The straw hat, still in the evidence bag, was tucked under his arm. It was definitely the same, he noted, with some satisfaction, and even maybe part of the guide’s ‘costume’. He was leaning on a rainbow-coloured umbrella and dressed more informally than ‘normal’ tour guides. He wore battered old deck shoes, long cargo shorts and a black t-shirt with ‘BLANCHARD’S TOURS – THE UNWRITTEN LOIRE’ printed on it, along with a mobile phone number and a website address. He was enjoying the guide’s performance almost as much as the guide himself was. Monsieur Blanchard, Lombard assumed it was him, clearly a natural show-off anyway, was feeding off a crowd of a dozen or so people, with plenty of stragglers, like Lombard himself, hanging around the fringes. Not everybody in the crowd, though, seemed to understand that they were part of, at the very least, an unofficial ‘tour’.

  ‘Excuse me, Monsieur?’ A tall man in a gleaming white shirt, possibly German judging by the accent, was o
bviously confused by something in the presentation. His wife was fussily trying to get him to lower his raised arm, but he was determined to make his point. ‘I do not wish to interrupt, but how can this brunnen, sorry how can this fountain be original? It says 1746. Joan of Arc was martyred in 1431.’

  A few heads turned to look at the German, then quickly back to Blanchard who without missing a beat said in reply.

  ‘Well done sir.’ His congratulations seemed genuine, but then Americans do sincerity very well. ‘I was wondering when someone would notice that…’ There were a few giggles in the crowd at that. ‘In those days, as ownership of territory changed so often, they didn’t put the year on buildings or monuments, they put the time.’ A few people laughed at this obviously well-used nonsense, Lombard himself couldn’t help a small chuckle. But it was designed for the English speakers in the crowd primarily, who made up the majority. ‘So 17.46 you see? They finished just in time for an apéritif!’

  A few cameras were now pointed absurdly at the German, whose face had gone bright red even as his wife distanced herself from him. Then more cameras were directed at the date plate on the fountain itself.

  Lombard explained the joke to Aubret, who hadn’t asked for an explanation but got one anyway. Lombard could see that it only confirmed Aubret’s suspicions. He didn’t like Blanchard.

  ‘It’s bollocks.’

  ‘I know it is, but that’s the point.’ Lombard, having spent his early years in England, knew when a country was far too proud of its ability to laugh at itself. A self-harming trait. France, on the other hand he felt, took itself far too seriously, with much the same effect.

  ‘Maybe. But I think it’s only for foreigners.’ Proving Lombard’s theory.

  Blanchard allowed a brief respite for the photographs to be taken then raised his voice expertly to re-focus the attention. ‘One of the questions I get asked most about Joan of Arc is why she stopped so often between the Dauphin’s court at Chinon, where I’ll be going later in the week if you’d like to come, and eventually joining the army at Blois…’