“Only if you’re a dinosaur. With respect, sir.”
Graham shrugged off the remark. It was far from Harding’s first at the expense of her boss and his stubborn refusal to be “upgraded,” as she put it. “What works for me, works for me,” he assured her.
“No arguing with that, sir,” Harding allowed.“So, where should we start? Marie’s rented cottage on the hill just there,” she said, pointing over the next rise, “or George’s bachelor pad?”
Before Graham could answer, his own phone rang. Resolute in his disregard for technology, the phone was a bulky, ancient, steam-powered model, barely capable of having its own address book. Harding stifled a fit of giggles as Graham took the call.
“Ah, yes… Thank you so much for calling back.” He listened and took notes, the chunky phone trapped between ear and shoulder. “What’s that you say?” he asked, his face concerned. “Well… that’s something, isn’t it?” He listened on for three or four minutes, but all Harding could hear was heavily-accented English of some kind. “Right… Well, look, I can’t thank you enough. Would you do me a favor and keep me informed if anything else comes up?” he asked.
The call ended, and he completed another page of notes before turning to Harding. “That was my opposite number in St. Malo, erstwhile home of the Joubert clan. I put a call into them to do some delving into the family, see what they could tell us. And Poirot over there told me something rather interesting.”
“Poirot was Belgian, sir,”
Graham pushed on. “He claims that there is something of a murky background to this story.”
“Oh?”
“The Ross family owned a farmhouse outside of St. Malo.”
Graham laid out the narrative just as his French counterpart had related it. “It seems there was an incident involving both of George’s parents. A murder-suicide.”
This brought Harding to a standstill. “Christ,” she breathed.
Graham explained. “Although, it depends on whom you ask. Opinion is divided, even among the French police.”
“So what happened?” Harding wanted to know.
“According to the officially filed report with the French cops, George’s father shot his mother and then turned the gun on himself. George, who was thirteen at the time, and his sister Eleanor, eleven, were playing in a neighboring field and came back to find them.”
“Bloody hell,” Harding exclaimed. “Can you imagine the effect that must have had on him?”
“Only slightly,” Graham conceded. “But other relatives, young George’s paternal uncle and his maternal aunt, adamantly disputed that it was a murder-suicide. They claim that the family was entirely happy, loved being in France, and even planned on moving there permanently after George and his sister had grown and left for college.”
“Hmm,” Harding said, mulling this over. “Got to say, boss, it gives me a funny feeling.”
Graham started the car. “Let us follow that funny feeling, Sergeant Harding. I suspect it might lead us in some very profitable directions.”
CHAPTER 6
THEY CROUCHED TOGETHER amid the rubble. Surrounding them was that complete kind of darkness known only to those who explore the world’s caves. Even in the hour since the tunnel’s collapse, their eyes had not become adjusted because there was simply no light to see by. The air was thick with a cloying dust that had caused repeated coughing fits, but as it settled and the musicians resolved to stay still and wait for help, their breathing had become easier. There was, at the very least, fresh air coming from somewhere, though it was getting swelteringly hot.
“Okay,” Emily said after a gap in the discussion, which was dominated by their prospects for survival. “We didn’t bring any water, right?”
“I have this small bottle,” Harry said, “I’ve drunk a third of it.” It had been part of his anti-hangover plan.
“But basically, thank goodness, we’re unhurt,” Emily said next. “Basically.”
“‘Basically’ is right,” Marina moaned. She had taken some kind of sharp, rocky impact, which had left her shoulder and upper arm bruised and swollen. The others complained about the dust, but by some miracle, there were no serious injuries.
“Could have been a lot worse,” Harry reminded them.
“It is what it is,” Emily countered, quickly. “So, people, I want to get out of here immediately. Any thoughts?”
“Well,” Leo observed, “I think you’ll agree that yelling didn’t work.”
Within moments of discovering that they still could, the group had screamed themselves hoarse in a long, continuous canon of all four voices, but had heard absolutely nothing by way of a reply.
“Yeah. Walls are too thick. Or maybe there’s nobody in this part of the castle,” Harry assumed. “We might have to dig our way out.”
This, too was a notion they’d visited before. “With what?” Marina asked. “We’d need shovels, picks, maybe even heavy lifting gear. We’ve only got four pairs of hands, and I don’t know how much weight my shoulder will move.”
Leo moved close to her – or, at least, where her voice was coming from – and she made no move to stop him as he gently put a comforting arm around her. “I’ll be careful of your shoulder,” he promised in a whisper.
“Better had, or we’ll be dealing with the aftermath of a fatality, after all,” she replied, only half-joking.
Emily held her cellphone aloft, something she’d done only sparingly since the crisis began, the better to spare its battery. “We’ve got four of these, right?”
Harry made a strangled, apologetic noise. “I left mine in my cello case.”
“Three of these,” Emily said, resolved to be accepting of what they did and did not have at hand. “Anyone getting any kind of signal?”
In the dark, Leo shook his head. “Not a bloody thing. There’s no cell towers, no internet, no local wireless.”
Marina summed it up. “So, three really sophisticated mobile communications devices capable of speaking with outer space and almost every human on earth just became three really sophisticated flashlights?”
Emily sighed. “That’s about the size of it. But at least we have them. Let’s keep their batteries for as long as we can.” The flashlight functions of all three, supremely bright and useful as they were, drained the batteries at an alarming rate.
“Give me a quick bit of illumination over here,” Harry was saying. “I think I’ve found a gap in the rock fall. It’s not big, but if we can enlarge it, we might see where it leads…”
“Don’t touch anything,” Emily ordered. “If we disturb things, the ceiling might come crashing down.”
“Look,” he said, shining Marina’s phone in the corner of their apparently sealed-off chamber. “Check it out.” The tunnel’s collapse had obliterated the passage through which they had come. This end of their mini-chamber now culminated in a tall pile of jagged rock and masonry that seemed completely impassable. However, at the other end, where they’d seen, seconds before the collapse, that the tunnel opened up into a chamber of some kind, the pile of rocks was not quite as tall. “Looks more like a possibility,” Harry declared, and reached to begin moving the debris.
“No!” Emily repeated more forcefully. “Don’t touch the rocks.”
“Look,” Harry began. “I’ll be really careful. If anyone hears anything moving around like it’s going to fall, I’ll stop.”
Emily was frowning glumly in the darkness. “I still don’t like it.”
Leo weighed in. “You’re first violin, Emily,” he said, “not our Health and Safety officer. Let Harry have a try. It might be our only way out.”
There was a long pause as Emily considered this. Finally she acquiesced with audible reluctance. “Okay… Just go really, really slowly,” Emily advised. “We have no idea what else is in store.”
Harry moved very deliberately. “I’ll take the advice,” he said, taking a small rock from the pile, “of the first man ever to make a spacewalk.”
Marina heard this and couldn’t resist, “What, ‘always hit the bathroom before you go?’”
No one actually laughed, but they all appreciated her attempt. “He said, ‘Think five times,’” Harry related, taking a firm grip on a larger rock and sliding it out of the pile, “‘before moving a finger, and ten times before moving a hand.’”
Within moments, he had begun to demonstrate that the rocks could be moved, apparently without disturbing anything above.
Marina held the phone and provided illumination while the other three carefully carried away rocks from the top of the blockage. They placed them at the opposite end of the mini-chamber in which they were trapped. The temperature began to fall as cooler air made its way through. “Doing better,” Harry told them. He was closest to the jumble of rocks. “I can see how we might scramble over this stuff and into the next room.”
“But what’s in the next room?” Marina asked, half-rhetorically.
“It’ll be better than in here. Not as hot, more air, more space. And maybe even another door, leading back to the main passageway,” Emily speculated. “Wouldn’t that be cool?” She’d taken on the role of morale booster and coach from the very outset. It would have been easy to simply give up and wait for help, but she was determined to keep the group positive and proactive in their search for a solution, even if she had had a slight wobble a few moments earlier. Even if the slightest mistake, she remained convinced, could bring the whole tunnel down on top of them.
CHAPTER 7
INSPECTOR GRAHAM STOOD in front of a three-story, white building, which except for the local road and a small green on the edge of the cliff, looked directly onto the English Channel. Glancing over, Graham saw that the stretch of water was at its most spectacular, glittering blue in the midday sun.
He finished the rest of his soda in a long gulp and pushed the intercom button for the second-floor apartment. He was not, in all honesty, expecting any kind of reply. Unless George and his fiancée had invited guests to use their apartment for the weekend, there shouldn’t be anyone inside. This expectation was shocked from him when a woman’s voice called out.
“Yes, who is it?”
“Detective Inspector Graham of Gorey Police, ma’am. Could I ask you to open the door, please?” There was no camera that he could see, so he didn’t bother holding up his identification.
“Police?” came the woman’s voice, her tone obviously worried.
“Just a routine inquiry. Would you mind if we spoke inside?”
There was a long pause – far longer than Graham was comfortable with. One of his least favorite ways to waste time was being left to hang around “like a lemon,” as his mother used to say. When others dallied or did something they considered more important than keeping him waiting, he became intensely irritated. There wasn’t even a wisecrack from Harding to keep him occupied. She was shadowing the Joubert family and conducting more interviews with the staff at the castle. Finally, there was a buzz and the door opened.
Graham climbed the stairs and found his way to the second floor flat with a bright red door. He knocked.
“Just a second…”
“It’s rather urgent, ma’am. Part of a police inquiry,” he said, raising his voice to make sure he’d be heard over the noise of whatever the woman was doing. It sounded as though she were cleaning up the apartment.
“Hang on…”
Graham got that troubled, annoyed feeling that he was being played. “Would you open the door, please?” he said, rather more loudly than before. Ten seconds later, as he was about to knock very hard, the door popped open as far as the chain would allow.
“Yes?” It was a woman in her late twenties, Graham judged. In that first fraction of a second, when an investigative mind is at its most acute, he took in the details. There was a tiredness, a paleness, like that of someone whose last few hours had been difficult. Even harrowing.
“Good afternoon,” Graham began. “We’re investigating the…” Then, after another second, it struck him. It was definitely her. “Mrs. Ross?” he asked.
“Yes,” she admitted sheepishly.
The Inspector’s initial excitement was tempered by his training. “Is everything alright, ma’am?” he asked concernedly.
“Must you come in?” she asked. “Bad day. With everything.”
Graham blinked a few times. “Well, ma’am, with respect, it’s the ‘everything’ that I’m here to talk to you about. Would you mind?” he said, gesturing to the chain on the door.
“Come in, then,” she said with unconcealed reluctance. She unhooked the chain and let him into the light, airy apartment.
Marie Ross placed herself on the couch and then sighed so deeply that Graham thought she might simply vanish down into the cushions, never to be seen again. “I’m sad,” she said without preamble. “Confused.” There was a pause. “He was wonderful,” she said simply and turned to stare out the window.
“May I say how sorry we all are for the tragic events of this morning,” Graham said. “Everyone I’ve spoken to assures me that George was very loved and much respected.”
Marie was a beautiful woman, ephemeral almost. Her long, straight, dark hair hung loose and swished from side to side when she moved. Graham noticed her deep blue eyes were framed with long black lashes that gave her the look of an innocent child. He had to remind himself that she was possibly anything but.
He reached for his notebook, and though he hadn’t been invited to, sat on the smaller couch opposite Marie. Observing her, he noticed just how tired she looked. Perhaps not surprising, given the circumstances, but he’d seen junkies with more life in their eyes. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about what happened this morning?”
She peered back at him as though seeing him for the first time. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I don’t remember much.”
“Mrs. Ross, I was there within moments of your husband’s fall. It was I who tried to help you both, just after it happened. Do you remember seeing me there? Asking you questions?”
She seemed to search a very fragmented memory, her eyes staring around, and then said, “No. Not even a little bit. I hadn’t thought anyone else was there.”
Making notes on her demeanor, as well as everything she said, Graham felt that he had to ask, “Mrs. Ross… You left the scene in a considerable hurry. Before, in fact, it was certain that George was beyond help. May I ask why you did that?”
She screwed up her face in a strangely child-like way and thought hard. “You know,” she said in a dreamy voice, “the first thing I remember after all the screaming and blood… was being back here.” She glanced around. “Yes. I think I must have run all the way.”
Graham thought this through, imagining the journey in his mind. “That’s well over a mile, Mrs. Ross. You must have been exhausted.”
“I went… Yes, I think I went straight to sleep when I got back. Like a… a kind of self-protective coma or something,” she said a little haltingly. “I think I knew what had happened, but there was no way I could bring myself to think about it. I’m surprised,” she added, “that I’m able to think about it now. But I took some of the pills my doctor gave me, and I’m feeling a little better.”
Graham scribbled. “May I see the bottle of pills, Mrs. Ross?”
Marie stood, obviously aching all over, and fetched the bottle from her nightstand. “Anti-anxiety,” she explained, handing Graham the transparent, orange container. “I take others too. Anti-depressives. Anti-psychotics. I asked my doctor,” she related with a funny smile, “whether he had antiperspirants I could take, so I wouldn’t have to remember to use my roll-on each morning, but he said I was being silly.”
Graham looked at her for a long moment before taking down the prescription information, which helpfully included the doctor’s name and phone number. “What do you do for a living, ma’am?” he asked.
“Accounts firm,” Marie said. “In St. Helier. Just for the last few months.”
As he wrote the firm’s name down, Graham privately questioned why anyone would be willing to entrust their financial matters to someone on so many drugs.
“Mrs. Ross, I have to ask… Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your husband?”
She blinked again. “You know, I haven’t gotten used to calling him that yet. He was my fiancé and before that, my boyfriend. And before that,” she paused slightly, “my brother-in-law.” Again, she turned to look out the window.
Graham nodded. “I spoke with your parents a little while ago. Your father told me about the situation with Juliette, George, and yourself.”
Now her expression was deeply puzzled, like a staggeringly drunk person trying to figure out why the pub vending machine had failed to dispense the cigarettes they’d paid for. “Parents?” she said, almost experimentally. “My parents?”
It was Graham’s turn to blink. He referred back to his notes. “Mathilde and Antoine Joubert. Your mother and father.” Graham paused, concerned that some ludicrous mistake had been perpetrated and instantly wondering who was responsible. “No?”
“No,” Marie replied, puzzling over this information. “No, I don’t know who they are.”
Graham persisted. “Mrs. Ross, they assured me that Juliette and you are their daughters. They were very upset at the whole…”
“No, that’s wrong,” Marie said, more confidently. “I was raised in foster homes in France. From the age of five. I’ve never had a permanent home. Never knew who my parents were.”
“Your name is Marie Joubert? Recently married to George Ross over at Orgueil Castle?” Graham was bewildered.
“Oh yes,” she said, as if this information fit perfectly with what had come before.
Graham felt it best to stop there, and continue at the station. “Mrs. Ross, I’d like you to accompany me to our police headquarters,” he said, aware that the almost embarrassingly modest constabulary building hardly fit such a grand introduction. “You’re not under arrest, and you can refuse, but I think it’ll be better for everyone that way.”
The Case of the Fallen Hero (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 5