Season of Snows and Sins
Page 22
I sat there as though mesmerized, listening to Sylvie’s quiet, measured voice. It was like a nightmare, because everything she said was true. Against the immense weight of Claudet’s position and influence, against the documentary proof against Chantal, against the fact that I had telephoned the police, babbling about a fight—against all this, whoever was going to quash the case against Anne-Marie and open proceedings against Sylvie Claudet? I heard the screech of brakes as the police car drew up melodramatically outside the chalet, and my heart sank, in anticipation of the humiliation to come.
Through the window, I saw the two local gendarmes plodding noisily up the path to the chalet in their solid black boots. And then there were quiet voices in the hall—and I sat there goggling, because not two but three men came into the room. The pair of police officers from Montarraz—and a third man. Inspector Colliet of the Geneva police. He nodded briefly at Henry.
“Afternoon, Tibbett. Nice to see you again.”
“You got it all?”
“Every word.” He laughed. “You may be too much of a gentleman to use a tape recorder, as Veron remarked, but he never thought of anything so simple as a live policeman taking notes through the open door of the spare bedroom.” He grinned at Henry, and then turned to Claudet. “M. Claudet, I shall have to ask your wife and yourself to accompany me to the police station. There are certain matters which require further investigation…”
The Claudets went to the police station, protesting loudly about calling their own lawyers and the French consul in Geneva. Chantal, dry-eyed after a bout of hysterical weeping, was collected by Giselle—who was strangely gentle with her—and driven back to the unhappy splendors of the Chalet Perce-neige. The September evening grew chilly, and Henry fetched wood and coal, and lit Herbert. Then he came back to the sitting room and opened a bottle of Jane’s wine.
“I don’t think Jane would mind,” he said. “I think we deserve a drink.”
“So it was Colliet you telephoned from the airport,” I said.
“That’s right. I had to have an independent witness. Luckily I caught him at home, and he agreed to drive up right away. He got the key from Lucia and installed himself in the spare bedroom while we were still at the Chalet Perce-neige.”
“You might have told me,” I said.
“I didn’t dare.” Henry grinned at me. “You’re too honest, you might have given the game away. I told him on the telephone to make himself known to Jane, and to explain that you didn’t know he was there and mustn’t be told.”
“Hence your mysterious remarks to Jane about unexpected visitors.”
“That’s right.”
“So he was here all the time we were having our lunch—and when I tried to telephone Jane from Perce-neige.”
“Of course. But he obviously couldn’t answer the phone.”
“And what will happen now?” I asked.
Henry sighed. “The wretched part,” he said. “Colliet certainly has enough against Sylvie Claudet to get a conviction—but…well, influence is influence. We can but see. The important thing is that the case against Anne-Marie can’t possibly stand, in view of what has happened today. What’s more, Pierre Claudet has settled a handsome sum of money on her.”
“And Chantal—what will happen to her?”
“Don’t ask me—I’ve no idea.”
“How much of what she said was true?”
“I suppose we’ll never know,” Henry said. “My personal view is that it was all true—with the exception of the bit about Sylvie having blackmailed Claudet into marrying her. I think she did…all that she did…in order to protect him. And herself, of course. Let’s not get sentimental. But I think she really did want to shield him. I’m afraid his career’s finished now.”
“I’m not sorry,” I said.
“He’s an able man,” said Henry. “There aren’t so many about, you know.”
I felt a great weight of depression on my shoulders. I said, “Henry…why is it that we always seem to be destroying people’s lives? Everybody here was perfectly happy until we came along, and now look what we’ve done! Sylvie and Pierre and Chantal and—”
I was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. I glanced at Henry.
“You take it,” he said.
“Emmy? This is Jane. I’m speaking from the hospital. The baby’s arrived. It’s a boy—the most beautiful baby you ever saw. Yes, Anne-Marie’s fine…well, as far as her health is concerned. But when I think that they’re going to take the baby away from her…that she has to go back to that ghastly convent…” Jane’s voice trailed away.
I said, “It’s all right, Jane. Jane, are you listening to me? Go and tell Anne-Marie that it’s all right. Henry’s done it. He’s cleared her name, and she’ll have enough money and be able to keep the baby and leave the convent… Oh, Jane, go quickly and tell her that it’s all right…”
I admit I was near tears when I put down the telephone. Then I was aware of Henry beside me, and his arm around my shoulders. He said, “You see? We don’t always make people miserable, do we? What did Jane say?”
“Nothing.” I could hear the wonder in my own voice. “She didn’t ask any questions at all. She couldn’t wait to get back to Anne-Marie and the baby…”
“Jane,” said Henry, “has her priorities right, don’t you think?”
Jane
EPILOGUE
WELL, IT’S ALL OVER. The last packing case has been nailed down and roped, the last suitcase packed. Anne-Marie has scrubbed out the kitchen of Les Sapins for the last time, and she and I are waiting in the empty sitting room for the removal van to come for the furniture, and the taxi for us. Little Henri is sleeping in his carry-cot, as good as gold and as plump and pink as a rosebud.
I shall miss Montarraz. I shall miss the Bertrands, and M. Bienne, and Mlle. Simonet, and my other good friends in the village. To be honest, I shall also miss the occasional slap-up evening at the Chalet Perce-neige. But obviously Anne-Marie could not stay here, and she begged me to go with her. I couldn’t have refused, even if I had wanted to.
The Claudets’ apartment has new tenants now—a fat, jolly banker from Brussels and his small, vivacious wife. Pierre Claudet resigned his government post, of course—you must have read about it—but Sylvie will never stand trial. I don’t pretend to understand exactly how it was managed, but money and influence are extraordinarily powerful.
As far as I could make out from Giselle, Sylvie made a full confession but claimed that her mind was unhinged at the time. She even produced a private diary which she kept during the Tibbetts’ last visit, which her lawyers claimed proved that she was hysterical, out of touch with reality, and crazily trying to pin the murder on Chantal. Crazily? I wonder. Anyhow, she was backed up by a battery of high-powered psychiatrists, who pronounced her mentally unfit to stand trial, and she has entered an extremely expensive private nursing home for psychiatric treatment. As long as she stays there, the law will take no further action. On the other hand, if she leaves the clinic… Well, it sounds like a life sentence to me.
I finished Giselle’s head a few weeks ago, and she seems pleased with it. I’m not. I know it could have been much better, if I had tackled it in a more tranquil frame of mind. I refused to take any money for it, so Giselle insisted on sending a big check to Anne-Marie instead.
Anne-Marie. She and little Henri are the really important people in this story. As soon as Sylvie had made her formal confession, Anne-Marie was granted a free pardon, and told that she could keep her baby and leave the convent whenever she wanted to. Of course, the poor girl had no place to go—so, equally of course, I brought her to Les Sapins.
The baby was baptized Henri, after Henry Tibbett, and I am his godmother. Michel Veron and Henry Tibbett are the godfathers—but Henry could not get over here for the ceremony, so M. Bertrand stood proxy for him. The widow Drivaz not only refused to come to the church service, but wouldn’t as much as set eyes on her grandson. Confession or no c
onfession, she will never forgive Anne-Marie, or believe in her innocence.
After the christening, Anne-Marie and I sat down to talk about the future. Our roles were curiously reversed from those at our first meeting. Pierre Claudet had settled a handsome sum of money on Anne-Marie, and she also had Giselle’s check. She was now the person with the money, and I could only promise to contribute my small pension and whatever I could make from my work.
Fortunately, Anne-Marie was never in any doubt about what she wanted to do. Apparently, ever since her spell of work at the Café de la Source, she had dreamed of owning a small restaurant of her own one day. Now, she had enough money for the initial capital investment—but she also had the baby, she was young and inexperienced and no businesswoman. She needed somebody older to help her.
So that’s how it is that Anne-Marie and I are leaving Montarraz today to open up our establishment in the village of Mallières on the other side of the valley. Mallières is still a tiny place—we were able to buy a pretty little café with good living accommodation at quite a reasonable price—but big things are in the air. Next year, the new télécabine will be open, and there are plans for two new hotels and a development of private chalets. We think we are very lucky to be getting in on the ground floor of what promises to become a fashionable new ski resort.
We’ve had the café completely redecorated and modernized, of course, but we’ve tried to keep its cozy alpine atmosphere. Anne-Marie will be the patronne, naturally, but she will wait on the clients herself—at least until we get onto our feet. I will have a studio alongside the restaurant, but of course I’ll help in the bar as well as looking after the business side of things and being a more or less permanent baby-sitter. We’ve engaged a professional chef, and we are looking for a girl to help in the kitchen. Perhaps the good Sisters from the convent will be able to send us somebody.
So, if you plan to spend a winter holiday in Mallières, do come to us for a meal. Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you the name of the restaurant. Chez Henry. I protested at first that it should have been Chez Henri, but Anne-Marie smiled and said very firmly that it was to be Henry with a y. And I think she is right.
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All the characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious.
SEASON OF SNOWS AND SINS
A Felony & Mayhem “Vintage” mystery
PUBLISHING HISTORY
First UK print edition (Collins): 1971
First US print edition (Holt, Rinehart & Winston): 1971
Felony & Mayhem print and digital edition: 2018
Copyright © The Estate of Patricia Moyes 1971
All rights reserved
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63194-175-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Moyes, Patricia. author.
Title: Season of snow and sins / Patricia Moyes.
Description: Felony & Mayhem edition. | New York : Felony & Mayhem Press, 2018. | Series: A Felony & Mayhem mystery
Identifiers: LCCN 2018025060| ISBN 9781631941528 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781631941740 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Tibbett, Henry (Fictitious character)--Fiction. | Tibbett, Emmy (Fictitious character)--Fiction. | Police--Great Britain--Fiction. | Police spouses--Fiction. | Murder--Investigation--Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6063.O9 S35 2018 | DDC 823/.914--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018025060