Murder on Brittany Shores

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Until we can set out from here without any danger – probably late at night. Or early in the morning.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning?’

  Dupin had difficulty speaking.

  He was only gradually grasping the situation. It was far worse than he had supposed in his initial shock.

  They were stranded. Here on the archipelago. Trapped. Cut off from the world. No matter what happened, come what may. Even in a medical emergency, even if there were another murder. They would not make it to the mainland. And nobody from the mainland would make it here. Only now did Dupin realise what the words that he’d heard so often in the last two days really meant: ‘The Glénan are not a real place at all, they are a nothingness in the middle of the sea.’ As though to underscore these thoughts, the annexe’s wooden structure had begun to creak and groan alarmingly at the last strong gust of wind.

  Dupin started to say something but then left it. They were losing crucial hours.

  Riwal and Le Coz were clearly worried about the Commissaire’s state. Dupin lowered his head and strode towards the door. He opened it very slowly and stood still in the doorway. In the last minutes, the number of customers had clearly grown, everyone was absolutely soaked through. He saw faces he didn’t recognise, but also Madame Menez, Muriel Lefort and Marc Leussot. Everyone was looking for shelter. And was hungry. Leussot had probably come from his boat and Madame Menez would have just made it back from Penfret. None of the three had noticed him yet.

  Solenn Nuz cast him a look from the bar that was not easy to interpret, but probably meant something like ‘don’t worry about it’. Then she smiled. That calm smile, friendly at the same time. Dupin went over to her.

  ‘We’re stranded,’ he said.

  ‘I know. And there’s nothing you can do. It may last a while.’

  ‘What do you think? How long will it last?’

  ‘Definitely a night. I don’t think it will be longer than that.’

  Dupin was too depressed to respond.

  ‘Madame Lefort will find a place for you and your colleagues to stay the night. She has a second house, right next to her own. There are two smaller apartments inside it. Madame Menez lives in one of them and she sometimes puts up guests in the other.’

  Dupin wanted to decline. This was just too awful. He hadn’t even thought of it. But, they would need to sleep somewhere, for a couple of hours at least.

  Riwal and Le Coz had sat down at one of the last free tables.

  ‘Lo and behold, Monsieur le Commissaire is one of the stranded too.’

  Marc Leussot had positioned himself next to him, without Dupin seeing him approach. He was still wearing the faded shorts from lunchtime today, the same T-shirt. The conversation on the boat seemed to Dupin as though it had been days ago.

  Dupin was not in the mood to talk. But he had a few urgent questions just for the marine biologist. Leussot kept talking before Dupin could get himself ready.

  ‘Has Le Menn turned up again?’

  Dupin started.

  ‘You know about his disappearance?’

  ‘You’ve had a large-scale manhunt for him running for a few hours, across all media. I listen to a lot of radio on the boat.’

  Of course. Most of them would know. Even if Madame Lefort seemed not to have known anything about it just now. The same went for Tanguy.

  ‘Yes. We’re searching for Docteur Le Menn.’

  ‘A bloody difficult case.’

  ‘You have no idea what might have happened to Le Menn?’

  ‘I would already have told you, believe me. This is serious.’

  ‘Speaking of seriousness. You never mentioned that you beat up Lefort not so long ago.’

  ‘That’s not a secret. And I think I made it very clear what I think of him.’

  ‘What else did you not share because you didn’t deem it necessary?’

  Leussot laughed, a deep, confident laugh.

  ‘True. And that’s me – as a suspect many times over.’

  Suddenly there was the sound of a muffled bang. Someone had opened the door from outside and as they did so a sharp wind had caught the door and swung it open violently. Anjela Barrault burst into the room. It looked funny and dramatic at the same time. With some force, she shut the door behind her, stood still for a moment and smiled at everyone. Instead of the diving suit, she was now wearing jeans and a windcheater. And she was dripping wet.

  ‘That was close.’

  It didn’t sound at all tongue-in-cheek and so, based on what Dupin had just got to know about her, it meant without exaggeration: I only escaped certain death at sea by the skin of my teeth.

  All of this was getting to be like a genuine scene from a novel. Dupin would have found it funny if it hadn’t been so serious. An alarmingly small island, cut off from the outside world, in the midst of a raging storm, in a creaky old house that had become a prison, where they were keeping vigil by the light of the fire. During the course of which, more mysterious things might happen. Crime, even a murder, might happen. In fact, the majority of the suspects were now gathered here.

  Leussot seemed less taken by Barrault’s entrance, he seemed to be waiting for the continuation of his little rhetorical battle with Dupin instead. However, Dupin had lost his appetite for that conversation.

  ‘I need to consult my colleagues, excuse me, Monsieur Leussot.’

  He left the counter without waiting for a response and wove his way between the tables. His gaze swept over Madame Lefort and Madame Menez who were sitting in the furthest corner and who nodded at him slightly bashfully. Solenn Nuz was standing at their table. Dupin supposed they were talking about how they could put him and his colleagues up. It made him uncomfortable. And Anjela Barrault, who had plumped for the next table, had now seen the Commissaire too and threw him a bold look.

  He sat down with his colleagues.

  ‘We’ve been – considering – eating something,’ Riwal said cautiously. As if he wanted to sound it out first.

  It still seemed inappropriate to Dupin somehow – although even he was ravenous, if truth be told, and besides, what were they meant to do? It was clear they would be spending the evening and night here in any case. And this was the only place there would be something to eat. No Amiral, nothing.

  ‘Fine.’

  It was a grumpy but acceptable ‘fine’. Riwal looked visibly relieved. Le Coz positively jumped to his feet. Riwal likewise, a moment later.

  They spoke almost in unison. ‘We’re getting ourselves a cotriade. Shall we get you one, Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  Dupin gave in (only grumbling a little bit now). To his own stomach, more than anything.

  ‘Riwal? And a bottle of red wine. The cooled pinot noir.’

  That was the best with fish.

  Riwal’s eyes gleamed, even though he made an effort to hide it.

  The two of them took up a position in the little queue that had now formed in front of the counter.

  Something wonderful had just occurred to Dupin – if he wouldn’t be contactable all evening and night, then he wouldn’t be able to contact anyone either, not even the Prefect! Suddenly he couldn’t suppress a grin.

  Le Coz and Riwal had apparently agreed that only one of them would queue up. Riwal came back and sat up straight.

  ‘What are we going to do now, chief?’

  ‘We have a large proportion of the suspects here. This is going to be an interesting night, Riwal,’ Dupin paused, ‘we’re best off watching and listening. Perhaps the murderer is sitting just a few metres away from us. Just like he or she was sitting here the night before last…’

  Riwal looked around furtively.

  ‘Do you have a hunch now?’

  Dupin laughed.

  ‘I suggest that after we eat, we sit down at a table with everyone who is stranded here.’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Dupin was in a strange
mood, which was also due, at least in part, to his worryingly low blood sugar levels.

  Le Coz came back holding a large tray with a bottle of water and the wine on it. Three glasses.

  ‘The drinks. Madame Nuz is bringing the cotriade.’

  ‘Great.’

  Dupin finally gave in to being extremely hungry. He took the bottle of wine, poured some for Riwal and Le Coz, then for himself, and toasted with ‘Yec’hed mat’ (he was always very proud of that) – then drank the whole glassful in one go. The others concentrated on the wine too. It had been a long day for everyone. Nobody said a word.

  It didn’t take long for Solenn and Louann Nuz to bring two trays with three ceramic bowls of cotriade on them, several little bowls of baguette toasted – in salted butter! – and the ‘secret sauce’. In fact this was essentially a vinaigrette which varied depending on the family, village and region. Dupin had drunk his second glass of wine just as quickly as the first before he’d even taken his first bite. It was this very moment that Goulch’s joke crossed his mind: that bottles were unfortunately smaller than usual on the Glénan.

  Dupin felt decidedly better. The fish stew – you could never say fish soup – smelt indescribable. Dupin recognised all of his favourite fish: angler fish, sea bass, red mullet, gilt head, pollack, cod, hake and sole, his favourite mussels: praires, scallops, blue mussels, palourdes grises and even better – palourdes roses – along with langoustines of various sizes and crab. It was in fact a huge, deep soup bowl with an impressive mountain towering upwards. More hurriedly than he’d intended, he poured the sauce over the fish and the potatoes. And ate. He tasted the whole sea. Incredible – the fish, but especially the broth, a concentrate that had been reduced for hours and hours.

  Rudely, he hadn’t even noticed that Madame Nuz was still standing next to them. Silently. She could see that they liked it.

  ‘Sorry, Madame. This is incredibly delicious. The best cotriade I’ve ever eaten. And I’ve eaten many.’

  At times like these, when he had drunk some wine, it sometimes happened that Commissaire Dupin got a bit dramatic in his phrasing, without noticing it. He realised he should be careful about more wine.

  ‘I spoke to Madame Lefort. You can have the apartment tonight. You’re to arrange everything directly with her.’

  ‘Thanks very much, that is terribly kind.’

  Madame Nuz turned around.

  ‘Excuse me, Madame Nuz – I have a question.’

  She turned back around to him immediately.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This may sound unusual – but do you think we could all sit together soon? All of the residents of the island and the regulars. Once everyone has eaten.’

  Madame Nuz smiled her typical smile. In agreement.

  ‘We’d best come to your table then, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘Let’s do it that way.’

  Madame Nuz went back to the counter. Dupin turned his attention back to the fish stew once more. And to the third glass of wine, which he swore would be his last of the evening.

  They ate the cotriade right down to the last morsel – they really were large portions – without exchanging a single word with each other. Rapt. And despite the tense situation, a little bit blissful.

  * * *

  Every two or three minutes there came a hefty bang. Unpredictably, but never at long intervals. It sounded as if something big and powerful was smacking into the rear side of the building. The bangs were muffled, but were accompanied by high-pitched, metallic sounds that were impossible to identify.

  The storm had picked up even more in the last half hour. It must have reached crazy speeds by now. The noise in the stone building had increased too, it was now almost as loud here as it had been in the wooden annexe. Dupin had stood up once and gone to the door, wanting, without thinking too much about it, to see how it looked outside. ‘Don’t do that!’ Solenn Nuz had called across the room at the last moment. She had called out in a friendly way, but it was still an embarrassing scene. Dupin then remembered how Anjela Barrault had come into the bar – and realised what would happen if an even stronger squall blew through the open door. He walked to a little window on the right and looked out. He couldn’t see a thing. No world. Nothing. Just a jet-black hole. Visibility disappeared after the first centimetres. If you focussed your gaze directly on the windowpane, the rain running down the glass made it look as if someone were spraying the window with a garden hose on full power. Dupin had never experienced a storm like it. They were completely at its mercy, there was nothing but these few old walls around them. The atmosphere had changed, the storm was playing on their nerves. Just a few voices and conversations were still to be heard at the tables. Even the underwater archaeologists had become noticeably quieter, having been by far the most boisterous at first. Only the people who lived in this world were not showing any sign of emotion in particular, least of all Solenn Nuz.

  It was very cramped at the square tables they had put together to make space for everyone to sit. Solenn Nuz was on Dupin’s right, Leussot next to her; to his left Anjela Barrault, Riwal next to her, Madame Menez and Louann Nuz diagonally opposite and directly opposite Muriel Lefort, with Tanguy and Le Coz next to her.

  ‘What is that? Those bangs?’

  Riwal’s edginess was visible.

  ‘Odd things sometimes happen during big storms,’ Leussot grinned.

  ‘Groac’h’s greedy hand, it’s knocking.’

  Kilian Tanguy, suddenly taking on an unprecedented cheeky tone, had his fun too. ‘Or it’s the knocking that comes before the ancient disembodied voice. If she calls your name, you have no choice. She leads you to the Baie des Trépassés, the Bay of the Deceased. A boat is waiting for you. It’s low in the water and seems to be heavily laden and yet it’s totally empty. The Skiff of the Dead is waiting for your crossing. A sail hoists, as though by a ghostly hand, and you are tasked with steering it safely to the Île de Sein. As soon as the skiff reaches the island, the souls leave it. Then you may come back, to your family. Everything is just a shadow, but you are never the same.’

  Tanguy opened his eyes wide, his face contorting into a grimace.

  ‘And that’s a lucky fate. If you’re unlucky, it’s shadowy Ankou himself who knocks, messenger of death and graveyard watchman, a skeleton veiled in a black cloak holding a scythe. On nights like this you can hear his ancient cart creaking.’

  Leussot and Tanguy were acting out a grim duet.

  ‘Or there’s the dead themselves, the lost souls who trick you malevolently. On stormy nights they pretend to be sailors who have run into difficulties to lure the living out to sea.’

  Dupin knew these stories by now, not all of them – that was impossible – but a great number. For hundreds, for thousands of years, people had been telling them to each other here at the storm-tossed End of the World and to this day they were ‘real’. No Roman civilisation, no Christianisation, no Modern Age, no Enlightenment or any other fleeting innovation had been able to change anything about that. The large ‘Festivals Paroles’ where story-tellers gave dramatic recitations of the old epics, sagas, myths and legends had been in fashion again in the last few years. If these legends were typically Breton like little else, Dupin thought, what was even more typical was the wonderful way Bretons then suppressed the terror of these stories in their lives. The way they found very practical, very distinctive (and not infrequently: delicious) rites to minimise the terror and to incorporate it into life – for instance on All Hallows’, crêpes were baked for the lost souls, huge numbers of crêpes.

  It was clear Riwal did not find any of this funny. Le Coz’s face betrayed noticeable anxiety too – and Dupin had to admit, that in places like this, in atmospheres like this, these stories had much more of an effect than usual.

  But Leussot was already relenting.

  ‘In daylight we’ll see what was causing that noise. Believe us, we’re not in danger. It’s is completely normal.’

&
nbsp; He had said this seriously and soothingly, and Riwal’s facial expression really did relax a little, even though it wasn’t clear what ‘completely normal’ meant.

  Dupin had been expecting a lot from the idea of bringing everyone together at one table. However, the conversation was faltering – more specifically, apart from the gothic duet, no conversation of any kind had got anywheresince they had been sitting here. Now and again, somebody uttered a sentence that nobody really responded to. Most of them said nothing at all, not even those who usually talked a lot. And Dupin no longer felt – physically or mentally – capable of conducting a ‘group interview’ or continuing to stimulate the conversation. It had probably been a ridiculous idea anyway. The silence was surely only because none of those present knew where the Commissaire was going with this. It was an artificial situation.

  ‘And Lucas wanted to establish a tourist’s paradise here!’

  Leussot burst out laughing. None of the others laughed with him. It seemed macabre.

  ‘My brother went out into a storm like this,’ Muriel Lefort stated suddenly, emotionlessly.

  At first, this sentence also died away without any response.

  ‘Quite a few people have gone out into a storm from here, wanting to make it to the mainland. Thought they could handle anything.’

  This was the very first time Anjela Barrault had spoken up.

  ‘But they hadn’t had sedatives administered to them.’

  Leussot sounded aggressive. His gaze had darkened for a moment. Dupin’s hopes were raised, he had been counting on something like this. He waited. But nothing happened. Leussot regained his composure and it didn’t seem as though anyone wanted to respond.

  ‘How often has it happened that someone set out too late from here?’

  Dupin knew that it was an awkward sentence. He didn’t care. Maybe something was going to be revealed after all.

  ‘It was mainly sailors stopping off here and underestimating the situation. Five years ago a baker from Trégunc, who was very experienced at sea,’ Tanguy seemed embarrassed, ‘that was particularly bad, he made the best baguette for miles around.’