Pel and the Promised Land

by Mark Hebden

  ‘Which car?’

  ‘It was black. Tucked away among the trees.’

  ‘What sort was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see.’

  ‘Big?’

  ‘No. Little.’

  ‘When exactly was this?’

  ‘Just about the time the Baroness disappeared. A few days before, I think.’

  ‘Did you see anyone with this car?’

  ‘One was a woman. I supposed it was the Baroness because it was on their land. I decided she was with one of her boyfriends. She had one or two.’

  ‘Did you hear them saying anything?’

  ‘I just heard the Baroness say something about “I prefer it with water.” I thought they’d got a bottle in there. Then I sloped off and bumped into Morelot.’

  ‘Where was this cement you found out about?’

  ‘In what used to be the pump house. It was once used to lift water from the river up to the house. It’s used as a store now. There were around two hundred bags. I didn’t think they’d miss a couple.’

  ‘Is it still there?’

  ‘Nobody’s moved it.’

  The cement was there all right but enquiries showed that nobody knew anything about it.

  ‘It’s not mine,’ the Baron insisted. ‘Though, since it’s there I’ll probably use some of it. I ordered ten bags. Somebody must have got it wrong, and it must have been my wife who had it put in the pump house. I thought it hadn’t come and was going to reorder.’

  Since the Baroness was no longer around to ask, Darcy took his question to the Baron’s sons and daughter. They also knew nothing.

  ‘I expect the old fool was going to waste our money doing up that old pile of rubbish,’ Philomène said.

  The only way to find out, it seemed, was to ask the manufacturers whose name was on the bags.

  ‘Two hundred bags of cement,’ Darcy said. ‘Supplied to the Château of Faux-Villecerf.’

  ‘We don’t supply to individual buyers,’ the manufacturers told him. ‘Only to builders’ merchants.’

  That involved another set of questions until Darcy found the builders’ merchant who had supplied the cement.

  ‘Ten bags were ordered,’ they said. ‘We advertised it cheap. It was from a building project near Arles that fell through. Then the Baron increased the order.’

  ‘He says he didn’t.’

  ‘Well, it was somebody who said he was the Baron. I took the order myself. On the telephone.’

  ‘Who paid?’

  ‘So far, no one. And, considering we’ve billed them several times and received no reply, it seems nobody’s going to.’

  Nine

  It seemed a good idea to see Emile Journay, the Maire. Since he was a builder, he might just know who had ordered the cement. It was obviously intended for some sizeable project somewhere in the area.

  As soon as he mentioned the subject, Darcy knew he had struck gold. Jaunay looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I was the one who increased the order.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Baroness asked me to.’

  ‘Was she going to pay for it?’

  ‘She said so.’

  ‘Where was the money coming from?’

  ‘Some type was going to advance it.’

  ‘Why didn’t she pay?’

  Jaunay’s face twisted. ‘I don’t know. She changed her mind about the project, I think.’

  ‘What project was it?’

  ‘It had something to do with the stables. She was talking of building a gymnasium.’

  ‘We’ve heard of that. But at Faux-Villecerf? Why? And what about this type who was going to advance the money? What was his interest?’

  ‘I don’t know. Bronwen said it was all right to go ahead.’

  ‘You called her “Bronwen”. Did you know her well?’

  ‘Well, we all knew each other, didn’t we? Those of us who had a bit of – well,’ Jaunay gestured, ‘you know, a bit more money than the rest.’

  ‘The Baroness hadn’t any money. Did you buy anything else for her?’

  ‘Bricks. Breeze blocks. The price’s rising. It seemed a good idea. They’ve been stacked at Dole for some time.’

  ‘Timber? Window frames? Doors? Tiles? Plaster? That sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cheap stuff?’

  ‘Some of it was old.’

  ‘How much was there altogether?’

  ‘A lot.’

  ‘Did she pay for that?’

  ‘Yes, she did for that.’

  ‘What with?’

  Journay shrugged. His answers seemed to come reluctantly from him. ‘I admit I was worried at the amount being spent. But I was told to get on with it. I was used because I was a builder and knew how to order. I also got discount.’

  ‘Were you going to do the building?’

  ‘I hoped so.’

  ‘Wasn’t whoever was pushing this thing over-ordering a bit – for a gymnasium? It wouldn’t involve all that much rebuilding, would it? Wouldn’t it mostly be just tidying up? Reflooring. Plastering. A new roof. Some heating.’

  ‘I suppose so. But there seemed to be a lot of money in it and I wasn’t paying. I was just expecting to get the contract for the building.’

  ‘Would it have been all that profitable? For the conversion of a stable?’

  Jaunay looked uncomfortable. ‘I thought there must be something bigger in the background. All those bricks and so on. But I didn’t know what.’

  ‘And you didn’t enquire too deeply because, if there were something bigger – you’d have done well out of it. Was it a promise?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Not a contract?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you were prepared to go into it – even if it was on the cheap and a bit dubious – for what you’d get out of it.’

  Jaunay frowned. ‘I’m in business. I employ a lot of men. A builder can’t afford to have his men idle. He’s always got to be looking for new openings. And big projects mean work over a long period.’

  ‘The Baroness – did you know her perhaps a little better than you’ve so far suggested?’

  Jaunay flushed. ‘Keep your voice down. My wife’s around.’

  ‘These boyfriends the Baroness is said to have had. Were you one?’

  ‘I was once.’

  ‘What colour’s your car?’

  ‘Yellow. It’s a Peugeot. I bought a yellow one because you get mists around here in winter and yellow’s the best colour there is for being seen when visibility’s bad.’

  ‘Have you a black car?’

  ‘My wife has.’

  ‘Were you using it one night in the grounds of the château?’

  ‘I’ve never been in the grounds of the château in my wife’s car. I always use the Peugeot.’

  ‘Were you still the Baroness’ boyfriend?’

  ‘No. I found out she’d got someone else.’

  ‘Anyone you knew?’

  Jaunay frowned. ‘No. I thought it would be–’ he stopped dead.

  ‘Well, come on,’ Darcy urged. ‘Who? Someone from round here?’

  Jaunay looked like a small boy robbed of a toy. ‘I thought it would be that English con, Gilliam.’

  ‘Why do you call him that?’

  Jaunay looked shifty. ‘You need to look pretty carefully at Gilliam,’ he said. ‘He’s a – what do they call them? – a remittance man. He had to come and live in France. Don’t be taken in by all that stuff about wanting to paint. He was mixed up in something shady. Money was involved, I heard.’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘The Baroness.’

  ‘How did she learn the story?’

  ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

  Major Gilliam was sitting in his garden in front of an easel when Pel and Darcy appeared. His wife was just leaving. She gave them an icy stare and climbed into her car to drive off with spinning wheels and a sa
vage swerve at the corner.

  ‘Somebody’s in a bad temper,’ Pel murmured.

  ‘Somebody else’s probably in a bad temper, too,’ Darcy commented. ‘She’s got what looks like a bruise on her face.’

  Gilliam welcomed them cheerfully enough and brought out a bottle of wine.

  ‘We passed your wife on the way out,’ Pel said. ‘She didn’t seem very pleased to see us.’

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ Gilliam said. ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘She did a bit of looking.’

  ‘I expect you saw the black eye I gave her.’

  ‘Is that what it was?’

  ‘Unintended. She went on and on at me. About her not having any friends. And about moving back to the Dordogne where they all speak English and you go for drinks and get dressed up and generally behave as if you lived in Cheltenham.’

  ‘There is something special about this Cheltenham?’

  ‘It’s where they behave like that. My wife’s sort, anyway. Because I’m an “Hon.” and a major, they expect me to behave like that too. My wife loved it. When we were living in the Dordogne she thought she was living the life of Riley. All her friends were Brits. But she was really bored out of her mind. When she started on again about it I lost my temper.’

  ‘You’ve got a temper?’

  ‘Haven’t you? It was intended to be a push but she ducked and got it in her eye. I shouldn’t have done it. But I did. It’s not the happiest of marriages, I suppose.’

  There seemed to be a lot of them about, Pel decided. He took a look at what Gilliam was working on. It was an oil showing the valley in front of the château at Faux-Villecerf. It was surprisingly good and even Pel, who was far from being an expert, recognised the fact. It had an extraordinary quality of light and showed the glow of the sun in the way only Burgundians knew.

  ‘Pas mal,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Gilliam agreed. ‘Not bad. It’ll sell in London. We have something here that people long for in London. Sunshine. They don’t get a lot of it and they’re prepared to pay good money for it. That’s why I splash on the white and the primrose yellow and paint the skies a deeper blue than they are. Colour’s priceless to people in Britain.’

  Pel let him go on a little before he stopped him dead in his tracks. ‘How well did you know the Baroness?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Hardly at all.’

  ‘For a man who knew her hardly at all, you supplied us with a surprising amount of information about her. Do you still say you hardly knew her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you know so much about her then? Did she tell you?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Were you a friend of the Baroness?’

  Gilliam laughed. ‘Of course. She loved her title and always used it. And because my father had one she thought we belonged to the same set. I never belonged to my set, of course, and with two older brothers I’m never likely to. But it pleased her to think we both belonged to some sort of élitist club.’

  Pel paused, then he tossed his next question abruptly at Gilliam. ‘Why did you come to France, Major Gilliam?’ he asked. ‘I understand it wasn’t just because you wanted to paint French sunlight.’

  Gilliam’s face darkened and his eyes glittered with anger. ‘So you’ve heard that story, have you?’ he said. ‘Who told you that? That thick-headed bastard, Jaunay?’

  ‘Is what I heard correct? I heard you were mixed up in something shady, that money was involved.’

  Gilliam’s smile returned. ‘It sounds like Jaunay. Still, it doesn’t matter. It was too long ago. No, Chief, it wasn’t money. It was a woman. Another officer’s wife. That’s why I retired from the army. Like a fool, I told the story to Bronwen.’

  ‘Why did you tell her? Were you ever more than just friends?’

  Gilliam paused with his glass in his hand, then he hoisted it to his lips and emptied it. ‘You are persistent, aren’t you?’

  ‘This is a murder enquiry.’

  ‘Well, you know what she was like. And my wife’s become a bloody bore. Yes, we were like that.’

  ‘Lovers?’

  ‘I slipped once or twice. But I decided, as I did the other time, that I was getting into deep waters and I’d better get ashore damn quick.’

  ‘Did your wife find out about you?’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps that’s why she goes to the Dordogne so much. That’s where she’s gone now.’

  ‘You speak good French.’

  ‘German, too. In my family, it was considered a good investment in case one of the sons decided for diplomacy. I lived in France for a year as a youth. With a titled family, of course. Nothing else would do. They were like the Baron. They had a fine house and no money and, rather than work, they took in paying guests.’

  Pel decided that Gilliam was clever and more than just a man with a desire to paint pictures. ‘What was the Baroness up to?’ he asked.

  ‘God knows. She talked of making the château into a motel or something.’

  ‘That place?’

  ‘With money spent on it, it could be.’

  ‘She hadn’t got any money.’

  Gilliam gestured with his brush. A spot of yellow paint landed on Pel’s shoe. Pel stared at it. Gilliam didn’t apologise but he wiped it off with his handkerchief. ‘That’s what banks are for, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘If she’d put up a good case, she’d have got a loan.’

  ‘Could she have handled it?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You interested in any of her projects?’

  ‘I once lent her two or three thousand francs to start a bar in Halève. It was redecorated but then she found she’d have to do the serving herself and it never came to anything.’

  ‘What about the hotel idea?’

  ‘She asked if I’d go in with her. I said no thank you. My wife’s family made their money from hotels. They had a string of them. And my father has a big house in Hampshire. He has to have daily visitors at five pounds a time to raise money to stop the roof leaking. Lots of his friends are at it. But the roofs never get better and the furniture and the fittings always get worse.’

  There was still one other person they hadn’t yet seen – Josephe Sully, the retired farmer who lived in the cottage by the main road on the edge of the Baron’s land, in the house the Baroness had considered making into a holiday home.

  He was in his late seventies, a dim old man living alone. His cottage – the one with the cow byre over the road – was a ramshackle affair shored up at the back with timber.

  He wore thick glasses with a twisted frame and a cracked lens. His face was covered with scraps of sticking plaster of various shades and cleanliness, as though some had been there a long time while others were of more recent attachment.

  ‘Cut myself shaving,’ he explained. ‘Often do. Often. Often. Don’t see so well.’

  He repeated everything he said. He was deaf as well as short-sighted and wanted to make sure they heard him properly.

  He gestured round his cottage. ‘Falling down,’ he pointed out. ‘Down. They never gave me a pension, you see. Never. Never. They couldn’t afford to. But the Baron said I could live in the cottage. He said I could. I liked that. It suited my plans.’

  He bent to stroke an old dog sleeping by his feet. It looked as if it had been knitted from dirty white wool and smelled as if it had been simmering for a while in a saucepan with bones. Pel kept his head averted as he spoke.

  ‘These plans of yours,’ he said. ‘Were you wanting to do the place up?’

  ‘Couldn’t afford to,’ Sully said. ‘Hadn’t got the money.’

  ‘What were the plans then?’

  ‘Dying. Dying. That’s all. Just dying.’

  ‘You were planning to die?’ The thought of death was anathema to Pel. He always considered he was already too near to it for comfort and preferred not to talk about it.

  The old man was nodding. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Here. I want to die here. In
this cottage. She said I had to get out. But I had nowhere to go and the Baron said I didn’t have to. He said so.’

  ‘But the Baroness said you should?’

  ‘She said so. She did. She did. I’d just got used to the idea when she disappeared.’

  ‘Why did she want you to leave?’

  ‘I heard she wanted to use the cottage to earn money. But I don’t know. I don’t. It’s no good as a cottage. Nobody will want it. No one. Never.’

  ‘Had she plans for it?’

  ‘She wanted to do it up and let it. To holiday-makers. She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t. It only remained standing because I was always putting things right.’

  ‘What rent did you pay?’

  ‘I didn’t pay any rent. Never.’

  ‘Which meant that she could chuck you out at any time.’

  ‘She couldn’t have done it. My relations would never have let her. I’ve got a few around somewhere. And the Baron wouldn’t have let her. He wouldn’t. I’ve known him since he was a boy. He said I wouldn’t have to go. He always said so.’

  Ten

  The newspapers continued to dwell on the death of the Baroness Raby-Labassat for a time but then she disappeared in one fell swoop from the front pages. A Welshwoman married to an impoverished baron didn’t stand a chance against the Queen of England who was on a visit to the President of the Republic. Having got rid of their own royal family, the French had always shown a remarkable enthusiasm for their British counterparts and Bronwen disappeared abruptly from the public consciousness.

  Pel studied the local paper with some relief. It was always easier to work without comments from the press. Laying the paper down, he set about the files on his desk. It seemed he could tick off Brochard’s sheep poisoning. Brochard had reported it well and truly wrapped up.

  ‘It wasn’t hard,’ he said. ‘Not for a type like me who was raised on a farm. I opened up one of the dead sheep. Its stomach contained yew leaves. Sheep don’t go for yew leaves.’

  ‘They don’t? So how did they get there?’

  ‘Sloppy husbandry, patron. Barthelot had been allowing his sheep to eat them. And yews are poisonous. Both the bark and the leaves. Cattle and sheep graze round yew trees without ill effect but it’s far from unknown for farm stock to be poisoned by eating yew clippings. I think they know instinctively that the tree’s poisonous but they eat the clippings if they come across them mixed in with other feed.’