Season of Snows and Sins

by Patricia Moyes

Maître Dubois: Objection! The question is irrelevant.

  The Judge: Objection upheld. Any further questions, Maître Ronsard?

  Maître Ronsard: No, my Lord.

  The Judge: Then the witness may step down. There is no need to detain her any longer.

  The next extract comes from the cross-examination of Mario Agnelli.

  Maître Dubois: You are employed by Mlle. Giselle Arnay as chauffeur and houseman?

  Agnelli: And by M. Veron.

  Maître Dubois: Where were you at five-thirty-five P.M. on April 14?

  Agnelli: I was coming out of the building called Panoralpes.

  Maître Dubois: And what were you doing there, if one may ask?

  Agnelli: I’d just delivered a note from Mlle. Arnay to Mme. Claudet.

  Maître Dubois: But Mme. Claudet was not there?

  Agnelli: No. She wasn’t expected till Saturday.

  Maître Dubois: The apartment was empty, then?

  Agnelli: As far as I know.

  Maître Dubois: You did not ring the bell?

  Agnelli: There’s no sense in ringing the bell if the apartment is empty.

  (Laughter)

  The Judge: Silence in the court!

  Mario Agnelli then went on to describe his encounter with Anne-Marie as she came running out of her chalet, “hysterical and with blood everywhere, on her clothes, on her hands.” Maître Ronsard did not dispute this evidence, and made only a feeble attempt to jolt the witness—more, it seemed, from a sense of duty than anything else.

  Maître Ronsard: M. Agnelli, are you aware that April 14 was a Wednesday?

  Agnelli: Yes.

  Maître Ronsard: And Mme. Claudet was not expected until Saturday?

  Agnelli: That’s right.

  Maître Ronsard: Why, then, did you not simply post Mlle. Arnay’s letter? Why did you go to Panoralpes in person?

  Maître Dubois: Objection! The question is irrelevant.

  The Judge: Objection overruled. Please answer the question.

  Agnelli: First, it was a nice day, and I felt like going out. Second, if you know anything about the postal service in Montarraz—

  (Laughter)

  The Judge: Silence in the court! Does that answer your question, Maître?

  Maître Ronsard: Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord. No further questions.

  The examination of the widow Drivaz, Robert’s mother, was almost grotesque to read. The old lady’s hatred of Anne-Marie, combined with her utter lack of comprehension of any rules of evidence, produced a situation of near-uproar, continually punctuated by angry interjections from the judge. At one point the witness and the accused had flown at each other’s throats, figuratively speaking, and would undoubtedly have done so physically if they had not been separated by the stout woodwork of the dock and the witness box.

  The Judge: The witness will kindly comport herself in a proper manner, or I shall adjourn the court! Is that clear?

  Widow Drivaz: She murdered my son!

  The Judge: Mme. Drivaz, you have no right to make such accusations. It is for the court to decide how your son died.

  Widow Drivaz: Everybody knows she killed him! This trial is a farce!

  The Judge: I will not have the court insulted! One more unauthorized remark from the witness, and she will be arrested for contempt. Do you understand that, madame?

  Widow Drivaz: (An indistinguishable mutter)

  The Judge: What did you say?

  Widow Drivaz: Nothing.

  The Judge: I am delighted to hear it. Proceed, Maître Ronsard.

  Maître Ronsard: Thank you, my Lord. Mme. Drivaz, when did you last see your son alive?

  Widow Drivaz: That day. The day he was murdered by that—

  Maître Ronsard: What time of day?

  Widow Drivaz: Midday. Around two o’clock.

  Maître Ronsard: I see. He had been lunching with you?

  Widow Drivaz: No.

  Maître Ronsard: Then where did you see him?

  Widow Drivaz: (After a pause) At the Café de la Source.

  Maître Ronsard: I see. Are you in the habit of visiting the Café de la Source at midday, madame?

  Widow Drivaz: That’s none of your business!

  The Judge: Answer the question, madame.

  Widow Drivaz: Sometimes.

  Maître Ronsard: I put it to you, madame, that it was most unusual for you to visit the café. I put it to you that you went there in order to persuade your son to leave, because you had been told that he was drunk and becoming violent—

  Maître Dubois: My Lord! I object!

  Widow Drivaz: It’s lies! All lies!

  Maître Ronsard: Mme. Bertrand has testified—

  Maître Dubois: Objection! Objection!

  Widow Drivaz: And if he did get drunk, it’s no wonder, with a slut like that for a wife! Murdering harlot!

  The Judge: Silence! I will have no more of these disgraceful scenes. Usher, clear the court! We will reassemble in half an hour.

  Anne-Marie’s cross-examination consisted of hectoring questions from the prosecution, and stubborn monosyllables of denial from the girl. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she and Robert had been quarreling, that he had come home drunk from the café and that she had upbraided him about it. It was while they were arguing, she said, that the telephone had rung, and the lady from Paris had asked her to go over to Panoralpes as soon as possible, as Mme. Claudet was arriving that evening.

  Maître Dubois: How do you know the call came from Paris?

  Accused: The operator said so. “I have a call from Paris for you,” she said, and then the lady came on the line.

  Maître Dubois: Did you recognize the voice?

  Accused: No.

  Maître Dubois: You told the police the call was from Mme. Claudet. Do you now withdraw that statement?

  Accused: Yes. No. She said she was speaking for Mme. Claudet.

  Maître Dubois: I put it to you, Drivaz, that this is a tissue of lies. There was no telephone call— Accused: There was!

  Maître Dubois: I put it to you that you first claimed to have spoken to Mme. Claudet, and then changed your story when you realized she could prove she had not telephoned. You went over to her apartment in order to try to establish an alibi for yourself—

  Accused: No!

  Maître Dubois: You knew that Mme. Weston would see you going over, didn’t you?

  (No reply)

  Didn’t you?

  Accused: I—yes, I suppose so. I didn’t think about it. She was always in the studio in the afternoons.

  Maître Dubois: But you did not know that she would see you going back. You thought you had left it late enough, so that she would have left the studio and gone indoors.

  Accused: That’s not true!

  Maître Dubois: Drivaz, why did you go back to your own chalet before five o’clock?

  Accused: I didn’t! It was nearly half-past!

  Maître Dubois: Aha! Now we are getting to the point! You made a grave mistake, Drivaz. You misread the time. You deliberately planned to return when Mme. Weston would not see you—but your plan failed. Didn’t it, Drivaz?

  Accused: No! I mean, there was no plan! I went back and found Robert dead!

  It was painful to read. Dubois ran circles around Anne-Marie, and nothing that Maître Ronsard was able to do could erase the impression that she was unsure of herself, that she had changed her story, and that it was in any case a highly unlikely one. With witnesses like Jane and Sylvie against her, she never had a chance. Her account, by the time Maître Dubois had finished with it, sounded like a ragged fabrication thrown up by a child to cover a misdemeanor. The jury took only half an hour to reach their verdict, and—having read the transcripts—I could only wonder why they had taken so long.

  Henry read the trial reports first, and then handed each paper to me as he finished it. While I was busy on the account of the last day, Henry—for some reason of his own—looked at the copies of the Gazette for the day of
the murder, and the days preceding and following it. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that he was making notes, but I was too absorbed in my reading to make out what they were.

  Then he returned the papers to the filing cabinet, came back to the table, and said, “Finished?”

  I nodded, putting aside the last depressing page. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Sorry? What for?”

  “Because I’ve been a fool. I’m fond of Anne-Marie, and I’m sure she had every sort of provocation, but…well, you can’t get around it, can you? She killed Robert, and she tried to cover it up in just the clumsy sort of would-be-cunning way that one would expect from—”

  “From whom?” Henry’s voice was sharp and almost unfriendly, and I knew I had put my foot in it.

  “Well,” I said, “poor Anne-Marie never had a chance in the world, did she? No proper education, no family background, no—”

  “She was brought up by nuns,” said Henry, still in that cold voice. “Do you think she doesn’t know truth from lies?”

  “I never said—”

  “Oh, Emmy,” said Henry. Suddenly he sounded not angry, but tired. “Even you.”

  “I’ve told you—I’m fond of Anne-Marie, and I’ll do all I—”

  As if I had not spoken, Henry went on, “Even you, with all your warmth and kindness—you’re hopelessly prejudiced.”

  I felt cold. “What do you mean?”

  “Anne-Marie is an ignorant peasant girl. Peasant. That was what you really meant, wasn’t it? Peasants lose control of themselves and stab their husbands with carving knives. Peasants then try to do a clumsy cover-up which could never deceive an educated person. Peasants aren’t like us—they’re different. We don’t understand what makes them tick. That’s what you had in the back of your mind, isn’t it?”

  Every word burned me, because I knew that however much I might protest, Henry was right. Some prejudices lie so deep and so still that one isn’t aware of them oneself—until somebody else prods them unmercifully out into the light of day. I couldn’t say anything.

  Henry said, very gently, “Just try reading some of those reports again. The bits I’ve marked, in particular. Tell yourself that it’s Sylvie Claudet who is on trial, not Anne-Marie Drivaz. That it’s Pierre Claudet, the minister for whatever-it-is, who has been stabbed. Imagine that Anne-Marie is chief witness for the prosecution. Go on. Read them. Then tell me what you think.”

  I read the reports again, slowly. When I had finished, I looked up and met Henry’s steady gaze across the stained wooden library table.

  “Well?” he said.

  “The witnesses,” I said. “They were never properly examined at all.”

  “Which witnesses?”

  “Sylvie, in particular. Jane. Even Mario.”

  “And what about the others?”

  “There weren’t any others. Except the expert witnesses—the police and doctors.”

  “Exactly,” said Henry.

  “What do you mean—exactly?”

  “I mean the witnesses who weren’t even called—Giselle Arnay and Michel Veron. Sylvie’s maid. Chantal Villeneuve—”

  “But—”

  “I think,” said Henry, “that we should reopen the case, don’t you? From a different point of view. Do, by all means, visit Anne-Marie again, because she needs all the friends she can muster—but there’s no need to talk to her about the case. For the purposes of my inquiry, I am going to assume that every word she spoke in court was the simple truth.” He smiled, in a way I recognized. “It may be quite interesting.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  JANE, HENRY, AND I arrived at the Chalet Perce-neige at half-past six that evening for our predinner drink. Mario opened the door to us, grinned, and said, “In the garden.” He was wearing very tight jeans made of some snakeskin-printed material, and an orange silk shirt with full sleeves gathered at the wrist, like a Balkan gypsy. He certainly did not give the impression of being a domestic servant.

  “Go on out,” he said casually. “I’ll bring more drinks.” He strolled off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving us to make our way through the living room and out to the swimming pool.

  We were greeted by a very decorous party. Sylvie Claudet, brown as a nut after her Mediterranean cruise, was stretched out on a blue canvas swing seat, wearing a minuscule bikini and enormous sunglasses and reading France-Soir. Giselle and Michel were both in the pool, splashing each other and giggling like children. Giselle wore a curious sort of striped garment, like a Victorian bathing suit out of which moths had nibbled large round holes in strategic spots. Michel, tall and thin, looked like a pale spider in his black swimming trunks. On the grass beside the pool, Chantal—dressed in some sort of flowing chiffon creation—sat cross-legged; she wore spectacles, and, almost incredibly, she was knitting what looked like silver string on a pair of huge needles. Hidden loudspeakers thrummed a background of guitars.

  Sylvie jumped up as we approached, setting the canvas settee swinging, and ran to embrace Jane.

  “Dar-leeng! See, I am here! Am I not clever? That poor Pierre, he is in Paris making the most boring speeches, and so hot, and nobody in town!”

  “I thought you were on a yacht somewhere, Sylvie,” said Jane—a little coldly, I thought.

  “I was—and Pierre, too. But when he had to go back to Paris—phut! I go with him, and then come here as fast as the Alfa can drive. Oh, my Jane, that yacht! Boring, boring, boring. Sometimes I think I am always boring except in Montarraz.”

  “Always ‘bored,’ you mean,” said Jane.

  Sylvie laughed. “I hope I mean so,” she said. “What is it you say in English? Many true words get spoke in a blague —no? But here I am with my friends, and I may be boring if I want to.” She wheeled around toward Henry and me, still holding Jane’s hand. “And what luck I have! Henry and Emmy are here! Such nice people to bore!”

  I must admit, Sylvie had great charm. When I write down her words, they sound unremarkable, but close to her—say, within a radius of ten feet or so—one was in a charmed circle. I suppose the perfume helped, and the perfection of detail. I tried to imagine Sylvie with a broken nail or a spot on her face, but imagination promptly boggled. You have to admire it.

  Mario soon appeared with a tray of bottles and glasses, and served drinks—after which, rather surprisingly, he stripped off his silk shirt and snakeskin pants to reveal a few square inches of swimming trunks underneath, and dived expertly into the pool. Michel Veron immediately broke off his fooling with Giselle, and soon he and Mario were engaged in swimming races—both of them doing a smooth and professional crawl. Giselle, quite expressionless, climbed out of the water and shook herself, like a puppy. Then she walked into the house, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the cream-colored carpet. Technically, we were her guests, but she did not address a single word to any of us. After a moment Jane put down her glass and followed Giselle indoors.

  Chantal, totally absorbed, went on with her knitting. I sat down on the warm grass near Sylvie’s swing chair, and after a few moments lay back and closed my eyes. I had seen Henry making for Sylvie, and I wanted to listen to their conversation without appearing to do so.

  “May I join you, Mme. Claudet?” He sounded very English and correct.

  “Mme. Claudet! Mme. Claudet!” mimicked Sylvie. “Oh, you English! You are Henry and I am Sylvie, and you shall sit beside me and tell me all you have been doing in Montarraz.”

  Henry told her about the raclette picnic—not, of course, mentioning his bird’s-eye view of Perce-neige—and Sylvie made him promise to organize another and take her along. Then Henry said, “We’ve been down to Charonne, too.”

  “Have you? I think it is not a very interesting little town.” Sylvie sounded bored.

  “I agree with you. But we went for a special reason.”

  “A special reason. I cannot think what you could find in Charonne that you could not find in Montarraz, my Henry.” Sylvie was teasing.


  Henry said gravely, “Anne-Marie.”

  There was a short silence, broken only by the splashing of water from the pool as Michel and Mario started on another length. Then Sylvie said, in quite a different voice, “Oh, what a heartless woman I am. I had forgotten. Her baby must be due very soon. Did you see her?”

  “Emmy saw her.”

  “How is she? Is she well?”

  “She is—” Henry hesitated. “Emmy was worried about her. The nuns are kind but very strict, and the girl seems to be getting a guilt complex.”

  “Well—” said Sylvie, and then stopped.

  “Well?” Henry prompted.

  Reluctantly Sylvie said, “In the circumstances…of course, it was very human, very understandable, but…”

  “I believe,” said Henry, “that you paid for her defense.”

  “Who told you that?” Sylvie’s voice was suddenly sharp.

  “I did,” said Chantal, without raising her eyes from her work. “I told his wife.”

  Sylvie laughed, not quite easily. “That was naughty of you, Chantal.”

  “Why? Are you ashamed of doing a good deed?” They had both lapsed into French.

  “Of course not,” said Sylvie. “It’s just that—” She broke off, and then said, in English, “Forgive me, Henry. Of course, I do not mind that you should know, but I am not eager to—how do you say?—to make an advertisement of it.”

  “You paid for her defense, even though you considered she was guilty?” said Henry.

  “I was so sorry for her. I did not know whether she was guilty or not.”

  “But now you are sure.”

  “Well—I can’t challenge the court, can I? I did my best for the girl. That’s all.” Sylvie’s voice changed again, became warm and eager. “Tell me, when will be born the baby? Can I go and see it—and Anne-Marie?”

  “The baby is due next week,” said Henry, “and anybody can see Anne-Marie—if she will see them.”

  “She would not see me before.” Sylvie’s voice was sorrowful. “I could not tell lies in the court, could I? No more than Jane could. Oh, I understand how Anne-Marie felt, but it hurt me, just the same. At least,” she added, brightening, “I can send presents for her and the baby.”

  “I think you can do more than that, Sylvie,” said Henry.