Death at the Château Bremont

by ML Longworth

  “Right, have a nice evening with Hélène and . . .”

  “Léa,” Paulik answered.

  “I’m so sorry,” Verlaque said sincerely. “I should know your daughter’s name.”

  “No you shouldn’t, I totally understand.” Paulik smiled and then added, “She’s an angel.”

  “I’m sure she is. Have a nice night.”

  “Thanks,” Paulik said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Verlaque walked back through the passage Agard and into the police station, then down to the ground level where suspects were held in very welcoming cells, the thick stone walls washed with an natural-based ochre paint. Verlaque had overseen the more recent renovations, and with the architect had chosen transparent plastic chairs designed by Philippe Starck and glass-topped tables. The furniture had a floating, feminine quality that the two men had agreed was needed for contrast, given the medieval stone walls and the purpose of the rooms: to extract information and at the same time make the contained person feel comfortable. The lighting was Italian, discreet, and could be dimmed. One of the older policemen had joked at the inauguration—out of earshot of Verlaque—that it would be easy to clean blood and vomit from the furniture. Yves Roussel had heard the remark and laughed.

  Through the two-way glass, Verlaque saw Officer Flamant sitting at one of the glass tables, writing, and entered the room. “Do you like working in here?” Verlaque asked.

  Flamant jumped up and said, “Yes, I do. It’s super quiet—peaceful—if you get what I mean. And I like these tables and chairs.” He immediately felt silly.

  Verlaque smiled. “How was M. Auvieux doing yesterday?”

  “Not too well, Monsieur le Juge. He kept insisting that he didn’t hear or see anything, except the black Mercedes driving away. He knew he didn’t have time to read the licence plate so he just took in the two last numbers, the 06 of the Côte d’Azur.”

  Verlaque looked worried. “But you say that he isn’t doing well?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t know if it was the shock, but he was really nervous, with his face flushed and his eyes very red, as if he had been crying.”

  “Thank you, Officer Flamant. I’ll read the transcripts in the morning,” Verlaque answered. He decided in a matter of seconds that questioning Auvieux at the Palais de Justice, or even at the château, wasn’t going to get him the information he needed. In fact, he wasn’t sure what he might find out, but he had a hunch that Auvieux was somehow more indirectly than directly involved, and so an indirect approach was probably best. The two men had a love of food in common, and if Auvieux wasn’t well, Verlaque was sure that a good meal would help the caretaker. He then added, “Call the policeman who’s patrolling the château in Saint-Antonin and tell him to go home and get a good night’s sleep.” Verlaque was sure that Auvieux was innocent, and thus safe at the château. The murderer, or murderers, knew that he lived on-site and had left him alone.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Verlaque walked outside of the Palais de Justice, where the reception was better for cell phones, and dialed Auvieux’s cottage. The caretaker picked up the phone in one ring, as if he had been waiting at his polished kitchen table for someone to call. Verlaque suggested that they meet for dinner at restaurant les Sarments in the village of Puyloubier, where Auvieux bought his boxed wine. The drive from Saint-Antonin to Puyloubier was always an enjoyable one, and it was Auvieux’s favorite, although the judge was unaware of that. Auvieux knew every dip, every tree (there weren’t many), every rocky outcrop (those were abundant). It reminded Verlaque of a stretch of Highway One in California. There were, instead of sheep, cows in California, he thought he could remember. The trip was a long time ago, with a girlfriend who was now a married mother of five, living in Rome with the CEO of some multinational fashion house.

  Auvieux couldn’t hide his excitement. “Is that the small, fancy restaurant on the rue Qui Monte?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied Verlaque, “‘the street that climbs.’” He loved the names of certain roads in France. His brother, Sébastien, lived on the rue des Quatre-Vents in the prestigious sixth arrondissement of Paris. Emmeline had always said, “We’ll meet at Séb’s on the Four Winds.” Since Sébastien could be rather chatty, the Four Winds became a private joke between Emmeline and Antoine.

  Verlaque smiled, remembering his grandmother, and said, “I’ll see you in thirty minutes.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Marine hummed along to Chet Baker, who was singing “My Funny Valentine.” She was glad that she had decided to go and talk with Jean-Claude, glad to be away from the dominating presences of both Sylvie and Antoine, and glad to be driving—her mother never drove when she was a child, and she still couldn’t imagine her mother behind the wheel. Her parents walked a lot—they lived in a house they had built in the 1960s in a residential neighbourhood that was within walking distance of the university and downtown. They came from the generation that had grown up in the damp old stone houses and couldn’t imagine that those houses would ever be renovated, with central heating and air-conditioning, the way they are today. Maybe that wasn’t possible back then, Marine speculated, trying to give her parents the benefit of the doubt.

  She took the two hairpin turns that led to Saint-Antonin a bit too quickly and had to shift down into first gear, and at the top of the rise she turned right into the hamlet, saying “Merci, les garçons” aloud as she passed the war memorial. Marine saw that the gates to the château were closed, but she knew a spot in the fence where she could slip through. She considered beeping her car horn, but making that kind of horrible noise in the middle of the night, in this gorgeous countryside, bothered her conscience. She parked on the road opposite the château, under some tall pine trees. She got out of the car and locked it and crossed the road to the giant gates. On the right-hand side was a mailbox, built into the limestone columns that supported the rotting eighteenth-century wrought-iron gates. She followed the limestone wall to her right until it ended, after two meters, and a chain-link fence began. This was the section of the fence she and Étienne had frequently hopped over as kids. Étienne’s parents had been fastidious about locking the gates, even when they were in the château, and Étienne had routinely forgotten his keys. She threw her purse over the fence and heaved herself up, swearing as she did. At the same time she grabbed the chain-link fencing on her right, which bent toward her, giving her leverage to get up on the wall. She jumped down on the grass on the other side, which, being on a slope, was not as far a jump as it was on the road side.

  She walked up the small hill and made her way to the château. Auvieux’s cottage was surprisingly dark. She went up to the light blue wooden door and knocked with the brass knocker, which was sculpted in the shape of a hand. No one replied, and she peeked into a small window to the left of the door and couldn’t see anyone or anything. Marine resigned herself to the fact that she had picked one of the few nights when Auvieux wasn’t at home. Bad luck. But it was a lovely drive that she didn’t do often enough. She tried knocking one more time, waited a few seconds, and then turned around and headed toward her car. Just as she reached the fence, something made her turn around and look back at the château. A flash of a light caught her eye. It was in the attic—a light that had been lit, and that she hadn’t noticed, had just been turned off. She was sure of it. She marched over to the château’s steps, smiling, realizing that Jean-Claude was on the premises after all.

  The door to the château was unlocked, and she pushed the heavy door open using her right hand and left shoulder. The entrance was dark, and she felt the wall on her left until she found the light switch and turned on the hall lights. She waited a few seconds, expecting Auvieux to come down the stairs. She called out his name, but no one replied. If he was on the third floor, he probably wouldn’t hear her. She remembered that about the house—it was remarkably well built, and she and Étienne sometimes couldn�
�t hear each other even if they were in adjoining rooms. She sighed and started heading up the stairs, not excited to see the stuffed owl, who would be glowering down at her.

  “Hallo!” Marine said to no answer as she reached the first landing. She shrugged and turned and continued up another flight. “Jean-Claude! It’s me, Marine Bonnet!” she called again. The light switched on again, she could see it coming out from the bottom of the attic door. “Ah! I see you’re in the attic. I’ll come up.” She went up the last flight of stairs and pushed open the attic door.

  Verlaque and Jean-Claude Auvieux were on dessert now: a fluffy, light dessert that had a mousselike consistency but was like no other Verlaque had ever tasted. He normally passed on desserts, but he wanted to keep Auvieux company, for the caretaker had studied the dessert menu as if it were an exam. “What is this?” Verlaque finally asked, lifting some of the green fluff on his spoon. Both men had ordered the dessert of the day, described by the waitress only as “une super surprise!” “I’ve never had a green mousse. It isn’t tart enough to be lime.”

  Auvieux took some mousse in his spoon and looked at it, then tasted it. “It’s a familiar flavor, judge, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  Verlaque ate some of the mysterious mousse, and then thought it might be a good time to ask Auvieux about the suitcase. “You know, it’s funny that there isn’t a safe in the château,” he said.

  “No, there was the suitcase for that,” Auvieux replied, distracted by his dessert. Verlaque couldn’t believe his good luck. “The Louis Vuitton suitcase?” Verlaque said, trying to sound casual. “Do you have any idea what was in there? Was it old documents?”

  Auvieux, in awe of his five-course dinner, and warm with champagne and wine, continued eating without looking up. “They were the grandfather’s papers. Philippe de Bremont.”

  “Jean-Claude, Marine said that you were always very anxious about the contents of that suitcase. Why? You told me before that you had no idea what was in it, and now you say there were papers. You must have had some idea of what the papers were.”

  “I didn’t touch the important documents!”

  Verlaque sat still. “What documents? Please, you must tell me.”

  Auvieux paused. “I was in the attic last Friday night, looking for polo trophies for François,” he suddenly said, his eyes filling up with tears. “François was looking for the old polo trophies. He said he could sell them, that they are worth a lot of money, and he had a friend who needed money.” He put his spoon down and stared at his hands, which were resting on the table.

  Verlaque waited, but when Jean-Claude stayed silent he tried another prompt. “You liked François, didn’t you?”

  The caretaker smiled and took another spoonful of mousse. “Oh yes,” he replied. “We got on like a house on fire. He always had a present and a kind word for me when he came for a visit, and every Christmas I’d light a big fire in the château’s salon and we’d share a bottle of . . . Guess what kind of champagne he would buy?”

  Verlaque smiled. “Krug?”

  “How did you guess?” Auvieux said, banging the table with the back of his hand.

  “It was easy for me. It was the champagne we would drink at home too. But I don’t spend Christmas with my parents anymore,” Verlaque said, surprising himself at his honesty.

  “Ah bon? That’s not good, Monsieur le Juge.”

  “I know,” Verlaque answered. “So did you open the suitcase that night?”

  Verlaque didn’t move an inch or speak. The caretaker continued: “The suitcase was in the way, the trophies were behind it, and I was in a hurry, so I tugged too hard at it and it fell. The lock broke—it was so old—and everything fell out of it. What a mess! There were all kinds of papers in there!”

  “What were the important documents, Jean-Claude?” Verlaque could hardly sit still.

  “Papers that a lawyer had written up, with the count, Philippe.”

  “What did they say?” Verlaque asked again.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, not because you’re a judge but because I like you.” Auvieux leaned forward and whispered, “They say that the count was my papa.”

  Verlaque’s heart jumped. He remembered Marine telling him that Cosette and Jean-Claude’s father had left quickly, just after Jean-Claude’s birth. How beautiful and kind their mother had been. How Jean-Claude had followed the old man around everywhere. “Had you known this before?” Verlaque asked.

  “No.”

  “You must be so pleased, no? You really liked the old count, Philippe de Bremont, didn’t you?” Verlaque noticed that he used the word “like,” not “love.” Did he love his own parents?

  “Yes, I was so happy that I called François right away! And he was happy too. He said he’d come to Saint-Antonin and look at the documents with me, but when he did come, for Étienne’s funeral, I had to tell him that the papers were missing. He said not to worry. We’d get them back. He hugged me. And now he’s gone, and we can’t even talk about it,” Auvieux continued.

  Worried that things were getting too sentimental, Verlaque asked, “Why in the world didn’t you take the papers as soon as you found them, Jean-Claude?”

  Auvieux looked surprised at the judge’s question. “I told François on the phone that I would leave them there until we could look at them together with Étienne and Cosette.”

  “And François agreed to that?”

  “Yes,” the caretaker replied, a smile forming on his tanned face. “He said, ‘You’re the boss.’ François used to call me that—the boss—whenever he was in Saint-Antonin. He’d say, ‘You’re the boss at the château—you know every square meter of this place.’”

  “And Étienne? Was he kind to you?”

  The caretaker said nothing, looking down at his hands again, and then picked up his spoon and began playing with the remaining mousse.

  “Did Étienne know about those papers?”

  “Yes,” Auvieux answered, looking pale. “François told me that he would phone him the next day, on Saturday.”

  The chef, who had been watching the two diners through a small circular window in the kitchen door, thought he should present himself. It appeared that they were still trying to guess the identity of the green mousse, and the older, bigger guy looked quiet distraught about it. The chef swung open the door and walked over to their table. “Have you enjoyed your dinner, gentlemen?” he asked.

  Verlaque looked up at him, angry at first, but he quickly realized that the interruption might calm Auvieux down a bit. “Yes, it was fantastic. Congratulations,” Verlaque said, holding out his hand. The young chef shook his hand, and Verlaque introduced himself and Auvieux. The caretaker was now feeling less on the witness stand and proudly gestured to Verlaque and said, “M. Verlaque is the head juge d’instruction in Aix!”

  Verlaque smiled and looked at the chef, with one eyebrow raised. Although only in his early thirties, the chef had cooked for famous celebrities and politicians in both London and Paris, so a judge from a small city was no big deal, but he played along with the old guy, whom he had happily watched devour the five-course meal with a fervor normally associated with children and Nutella. “Un juge!” the chef replied. Not knowing what else to say, he repeated his opening gambit: “Welcome. I hope you were pleased with the meal this evening.”

  “I was, thank you.” Verlaque replied. “And now, can you please settle a mystery for us? What is in the mousse?”

  The chef beamed, realizing that he was right—they had been talking about the mousse. “Avocado.”

  “Seriously?” Verlaque asked. Auvieux slapped his head and laughed. He then said, “I recognized the taste! But to make a dessert out of an avocado!”

  They chatted for a few more minutes, until the creator of the avocado mousse moved on to speak with the diners at the next table. Verlaqu
e excused himself, to go to the toilets, and then discreetly paid the bill. On his way back to the table he looked at Auvieux, surprised, seeing him at a distance, at how big the man was. He settled once again at the table, and Auvieux asked if he could help pay the bill. “It’s been taken care of, Jean-Claude,” Verlaque said. “I enjoyed dining with you this evening,” he added, in total sincerity. He then proposed that the caretaker leave a small tip, knowing that honest men like Auvieux liked to participate in the settling of accounts. Auvieux happily got out a ten-euro bill and left it under his coffee cup. The waitress, obviously a young girl from the village, who had had trouble opening the wine bottle and then had spilt a little on the table, would be thrilled.

  The two men left the restaurant and walked down the slightly slippery rue Qui Monte. “There are no other papers that we could look at together, are there?” Verlaque asked.

  “No!” Auvieux instantly replied. “Everything was in the suitcase, and now it’s empty.”

  They chatted more about the dinner and Auvieux’s plants. It was clear to Verlaque that the caretaker didn’t want to speak anymore of the dead.

  When they arrived at their cars, which were parked in spaces opposite the wine cooperative, they shook hands and said good night. Auvieux drove uphill toward Saint-Antonin, and Verlaque downhill toward the route nationale that would take him to Aix.

  Halfway to Aix, Verlaque pulled into a closed gas station and called Yves Roussel. He recounted his dinner with Jean-Claude and the news that Jean-Claude was, if those papers really did exist, a Bremont.

  “It’s all starting to make sense finally,” Roussel said. “Commissaire Paulik told me that when you questioned Auvieux he seemed to be hiding something.”

  “Yes, I think he was hiding the fact that he was Philippe de Bremont’s bastard child.”