Lake Isle

by Nicolas Freeling

  ‘Well, now that I’m here, or you’re here, whichever it is, is there anything I can do for you? I may say that all this furniture, and papers and stuff, has been rummaged through already. There wasn’t anything missing. Only a little money. Surely you don’t intend to begin all that photographing over again.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed politely. ‘I was just looking around. My colleague is interviewing a few people in the village.’

  A small child appeared, saw him, stood clutching its mother’s skirt and sucking its thumb: she paid no attention.

  ‘Why didn’t he come to see me? I live next door. My husband isn’t back yet. The children play here in the garden. I came to see what they were up to. The door was open.’

  ‘I was hoping for the pleasure of meeting you in due course. Now it’s done. So you came by. As I understood it, wasn’t it much the same way in which you found Madame Lipschitz had been attacked?’

  ‘Much the same,’ fairly curt. ‘It was earlier in the day. I was getting some kindling wood. The shutter was open. I thought nothing of it, since she was always flitting aimlessly about, till I saw it had been forced… I’ve told this story at least three times.’

  ‘Just getting the background,’ said Castang politely.

  The child plucked at her skirt: she decided to take the excuse.

  ‘I’ve no time at present, I’m afraid. My dinner’s on the stove. If you’ve still anything you want to ask…’ and in a rush, ‘my husband will be back in a while.’

  ‘I don’t want to keep you.’ It was not received too graciously: she did want him to keep her. Castang thought her a stupid young woman, and he hadn’t liked the faintly contemptuous way in which she spoke of the dead woman: insensitive, he thought.

  ‘You didn’t care very much for your mother-in-law. Am I mistaken? It’s just an impression.’

  ‘I make no pretence at hypocrisy – no I didn’t. I had good reason not to. Of course I’m shocked about this – this crime, I mean. And I’m sorry about her death, because in point of fact I had considerable affection for her, though I may say I didn’t get much encouragement. The truth is she detested me. She lost no opportunity of abusing me, and she spread all sorts of tales around. I daresay you’ll hear some in the village, and all I can say is I hope you keep some sense of proportion. In the village they thought her a sort of ill-used martyr. I’ve no intention of bothering to contradict malicious slanders, especially now she’s dead: I hope she may rest in peace. At least now we may get some peace too, from petty backbiting and insane jealousies.’

  ‘You needn’t be afraid I’ll listen to gossip.’

  ‘Who said I was afraid?’ tartly. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. It was and is obvious to anyone of intelligence that she thought I had supplanted her in her son’s – who wasn’t even her son – affections, and that she couldn’t endure that. One doesn’t have to be especially clever to grasp what went on – just unprejudiced.’

  ‘She adopted him, as I understand – quite late, wasn’t it?’

  ‘And didn’t she just rub it in! I took you out of the gutter and this is my reward; morning noon and night it went on.’ The young woman had forgotten the dinner-on-the-stove and aired her own grievance with some heat.

  Yes, he thought, Sabine was a tiresome old bitch. One could see the two women, each clutching her grievance, cherishing it. But of the two, which would have had the generosity to say ‘I’m in the wrong. Forgive me. Let’s both understand that it isn’t easy for the other’? He had known Sabine scarcely at all, and this young woman he had barely met, but there was one conclusion he could reach: the one had been a giver, and the other a taker.

  He had to listen politely: the girl was in full flood. He was there to see about justice: she was by God going to see that justice was done her. It came largely from a feeling of guilt. She had been consistently horrible to Sabine, who was now dead. She had to justify herself. ‘She led him a dog’s life, and he’s had the patience of Job. He was always treated as a sort of slave: the smallest sign of needing a bit of normal independence, of wanting just one day without the continual interfering, was the pretext for a big emotional drama. After we married her behaviour became even more insufferable: creeping about in slippers and keyholing, to know whether a remark would ever be made in sheer exasperation which she could seize on, to proclaim from the housetops that she was being abused again. And he just went on putting up with it.’

  The sad thing was that it all might well be true.

  ‘Seems to me that you had a remedy,’ said Castang mildly. ‘To go away, quite simply. Withdraw from the source of conflict.’ If you could bring yourself to kick the free house in the teeth – but he left that unsaid.

  ‘As though I hadn’t urged that continually,’ with contempt for the stupidity of his remark. Had there been a trace of sarcasm in his voice or his face? Why did she have to explain it all to him? Why so tumble over herself to justify, when there had been no criticism?

  ‘My husband is a very sensitive and impressionable person. And ridiculously easily led. She brought him up to be very clinging and dependent, with orgies of maternal self-indulgence. He just couldn’t resign himself to stop believing in all the simulated weeping about poor old her left all alone. I suppose you find me hardhearted and unjust, but I simply don’t care. You hear the truth nowhere else; you’ll hear it from me. I’ve had to fight for bare existence. I married a boy with no confidence in himself. He was talented and they kept telling him he was a lazy bum. Well, I determined I’d do something to build him up instead of sucking his blood, and that’s what I’ve done and I’m not ashamed of it, even if people do go telling you how I set him against his ma.’

  Castang held his tongue.

  ‘And as for going away… I don’t know what you think a junior functionary in the municipal administration gets paid.’ Squelch: he did, too well. He lived himself in a flat too expensive for him, but didn’t feel particularly won over. Too much self-pity, and too noisy with it. And all the time he saw Sabine, fidgeting with her glasses and apologising for being a pest.

  ‘I’d go out to work, despite the children, but if you’re capable of grasping a simple fact you’d know a man who’s had a rough childhood doesn’t want his wife to work. He feels too insecure, and he wants a proper home to come to, and at least he got that from me. Oh, I suppose you go wondering why I tell you all this.’

  No, he didn’t. People in homicide cases did go blurting out the most personal things to policemen. It is a kind of catharsis. He didn’t need to say he was interested: she just swept on.

  ‘He had a wife that was there, and ready to fight for him, even when he didn’t want her to, even if he wouldn’t let her because of his previously formed – misformed I ought to say – attachments. She would not let him go, but went on clinging like an octopus while telling all and sundry – even the baker – that he was heartless and faithless and cruel to his poor old mum. The innocent artist with no worldly wisdom…in reality she was as crafty as bedamned.’

  ‘All right,’ he said mildly, ‘I take the point. Maybe now she’s dead there isn’t quite the need to be so vehement about it.’

  ‘There’s that,’ recovering herself. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you my personal affairs, either.’

  ‘You’d finish by telling me anyway.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Look, suppose we leave this.’ The child had come back, and was hanging again on her skirt.

  ‘Thierry, go and get your horse and cart.’

  ‘Don’t want to.’

  ‘Do as I say and at once.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’ asked Castang as the child trailed off, thumb in mouth. She stood there tight and restless, arms crossed over her breast, hands pressed against her ribcage as though she felt the cold despite the midday sunshine coming in now warm and bright behind her.

  ‘That she was in hospital.’

  He nodded. It did not make much sense – didn’t the woman realise
that she’d been shouting her head off, and that a child, even when playing, has sharp ears?

  She was frowning at him.

  ‘What did you mean, saying I’d tell you anyway?’

  ‘I’d have come to you. I’d have asked questions, some personal. It’s my job. I’m conducting an enquiry, into a homicide. It’s a crime against the person, and that’s by its nature a personal affair for the family. It’s not like a robbery, say, which is only an offence against property.’

  ‘I don’t get you,’ she said, puzzled. ‘It was accidental, surely, in reality.’

  ‘Was it?’ bleakly.

  ‘You don’t have to sentimentalise: I’m not a perfect fool. Somebody broke in, which is violent, I suppose, but you aren’t telling me they intended killing anyone. She just happened to be in the way. Rather like a road accident.’

  ‘Irrelevant,’ he said indifferently.

  ‘What kind of knuckle-headed remark is that?’ Didn’t like to be contradicted, this young woman.

  ‘A person is killed. It’s accident or design, his fault or hers, you’re glad or you’re sorry; that’s all irrelevant. My concern is with what took place. With a road accident one knows and here one doesn’t. My function is to establish and to verify. The rest concerns the judge.’

  ‘Well, you’re wasting your time here. I told the commissaire all I know about this, and I’ve nothing to add.’

  ‘I have, though.’

  ‘That’s a pity because I’ve no time.’

  ‘Nobody’s hurrying you, Madame. This afternoon will do.’

  ‘Will do for what?’ exasperated.

  ‘To know for example how Madame Lipschitz’s death will affect you.’

  ‘Whether I’m glad or sorry – that’s relevant now, is it, all of a sudden?’

  ‘Whether for example you’re planning a move.’

  It stopped her dead.

  ‘Would you care to explain the relevance of that?’

  ‘This house, apart from whatever value it has, is larger and more comfortable. You’ll be moving in, I dare say.’

  ‘That is no business of yours.’

  ‘I’d only say don’t make any plans yet awhile,’ politely. ‘Until the enquiry is over.’

  ‘We will do as we see fit with our own property.’

  ‘Incorrect. Not yet your property. Ask the notary – or the judge.’

  She stood looking at him, head held down, pressing the heavy jaw into a double-chinned look; angry, obstinate, prudent. Alert little mind there racing along, thought Castang. Small maybe, but quick. Sees further than her nose is long.

  ‘If you’ve anything further to say or ask, Mister Whatsit, I’d advise you to go about it in a different way. I don’t know what the so-called powers of the police may be, but they don’t include slander, nor intimidation. I know how to protect myself.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ drawled Castang. ‘You mean consulting lawyers and so on? By all means. You could even ask the judge to inculpate you formally. I’d have no further right to ask you any questions at all then. I hope your dinner isn’t burning.’

  She was staring at him flabbergasted.

  ‘Inculpate for what?’

  ‘How should I know? I’ve only just come into possession of one basic fact. That a person was killed.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ slightly quelled. ‘I dare say I was over-hasty. I realise you’ve your job to do. The fact is that this has upset me more than I care to admit. My husband too. He was devoted to her, whatever you may think. Blazes, it’s gone the hour; I must rush.’

  ‘Janet?’ came a voice. ‘Janet!’

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ shrilly.

  A man came round the corner and stopped short. Castang had seen him before.

  ‘What the hell goes on here? Those children are running wild and eating biscuits. What about the dinner, for God’s sake?’

  ‘This is a policeman.’

  ‘Another one,’ said Castang helpfully.

  The large pale eyes did not flicker at all. The man walked up as though to take a good look, to feel quite sure, not in the least fazed. He stopped, put his fists on his hips.

  ‘Well, blow me down! Wouldn’t you just know it – isn’t that just absolutely typical!’

  ‘What is?’ asked the girl, puzzled.

  ‘I’ll tell you later. But buzz now, and get that mob sorted out. Leave me to handle this.’

  Castang patted his pockets for a cigarette, enjoying the midday sun coming dappled through the trees. The man stood tense and bristling. The girl looked from one to the other, not understanding the sudden tension. She made up her mind and ran with a supple youthful movement towards the corner.

  ‘Nice out now,’ said Castang.

  ‘You’d care to explain?’ tightly.

  ‘How about a jar at the “Bons Amis” before dinner?’

  ‘I don’t drink. You trying to evade the question?’

  ‘What question? As you heard your wife say, I’m a cop. Castang, Criminal Brigade – here’s my card. No concealment.’

  The man stopped looking as though about to hit him, took the card, read it with his eyes flickering continually back to the face. He put the card in his pocket carefully as though it were evidence of something, put on a sarcastic smile, and said, ‘Well now, isn’t that interesting!’ in a meaningful voice.

  ‘Lot of adjectives,’ said Castang. ‘Interesting and typical, but why not fill me in?’

  ‘As though you needed telling – but I’ll spell it out so that you can’t pretend to misunderstand. I thought then that some conspiracy was being cooked up; she looked so guilty with her tales about the furniture dealer – one of those sly little back-passage tricks she was so expert in. I oughtn’t to be surprised, I suppose. It’s a bit audacious though, even for her, trying to get the police to believe in the horror stories.’

  ‘She’ll be pretending to get herself attacked next.’

  ‘Meaning? –’ stung.

  ‘For such an expert weaver of fantasies something went wrong with her scenario.’

  ‘That! Don’t be silly, man, anybody can see at a glance that it’s a pure coincidence. A tragedy of course, and deplorable. But a coincidence. Inevitable, if you like. She was perpetually dramatising and then this happens. Like the people who are always talking about road accidents, and then are hit by a car.’

  Odd that they should choose the same illustration. Or more likely no, not odd. There was something shrewd though, about the remark. And a certain truth.

  ‘You don’t feel like a tonic-water or something?’

  ‘No, and don’t try to dodge. I don’t know what my mother told you or what you think as a result, but I’ll take this early opportunity of getting any cobwebs out of your skull you might have stuck there.’

  ‘I’m an officer of police,’ said Castang woodenly, ‘appointed by the judge to conduct an enquiry.’

  ‘Now look, you were here several weeks ago, and I’ve the right to know exactly what you were doing here and by what authority.’

  ‘Yes, you have the right. Don’t shout and I’ll tell you. I just don’t want to dramatise the occasion or give it undue weight. You might be well advised not to do so either.’

  ‘More accusations,’ contemptuously.

  ‘And there you go, straight off. You’re like a girl at the street corner, convinced all the boys who pass are talking about her.’

  The boy took a step ready to throw a punch, looking wild and sweaty, took hold of himself and his voice.

  ‘Cut it out.’

  Castang looked at him with some curiosity.

  ‘Madame Lipschitz came to see me some time back. In a state of fatigue and tension.’

  ‘With a dotty tale!’

  ‘No. Discouraged. Over-anxious, maybe over-excited, to go to all that trouble. Why be so quick to say dotty?’

  ‘I know what’s coming, that’s why. She went to the police here. I know because the commissaire told me. He knew it was all moonshine. A s
et of hysterical claims that I was pestering her, complaints about my ingratitude, all the usual. All unprovable and all malicious. That’s dotty! It’s persecution mania.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Swallow that guff and you’ll believe anything. If you’re really that credulous you’ll be suspecting me next of knocking her on the head. She’d have been capable of claiming I tried. I wouldn’t have put it past her.’

  Castang had been wanting a drink for some time. Now he was beginning to need one.

  ‘You throw yourself about as recklessly as these bits of terminology you make free with,’ he said. ‘Talk about what you know. A person who is showing a capacity for restraint and balance, who is making efforts to be objective, is not suffering from persecution mania. An open and generous person is not systematically malicious. Anybody can be embittered, and can have good reason for it. You for instance. But you’re quick to throw abuse at a dead person. By your standard I’d be accusing you of persecution mania.’

  ‘When you come here trying to browbeat me and questioning my wife behind my back it strikes me I’ve grounds.’

  It is a truism to any cop. The public, even when treated with quite exaggerated politeness, always feels guilty of something or other, and takes refuge in feeling browbeaten. Since there are plenty of cops, as well as all the other sorts of petty functionaries, who do have a bullying manner this is just too bad for the good ones.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ he said. ‘When people come to us with tales of fears and anxieties we don’t jump to a conclusion. We try to look for a base in fact. And that was the purpose of my last visit.’

  ‘And did you find any?’

  ‘I found no ground for interfering with anyone’s private life, including yours. This time though, I’m on a different footing. This is an enquiry ordered by a magistrate. Enquiry into a death. That’s a fact, if you like, and a grave one. I ask any question I see fit, of anybody I like, and they’re bound to answer. This is a judicial enquiry, not a cop asking to see your fishing licence. And now you want your dinner, and I want mine. I’ve nothing to ask you at present, and no idea what I might ask you in the future. So don’t get worked up: nobody’s persecuting you.’