The Case of the Fallen Hero (An Inspector David Graham Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by Alison Golden

  Hands to her mouth, Marie shrieked in mental agony.

  “You cannot speak to my patient in this way,” Bélanger protested. “She is too ill for this kind of questioning.”

  “Maybe,” Graham said, “but I’m finally getting to the real point of all this. Perhaps what we’ve actually got here,” he explained to Harding, “is a neat, coordinated, sisterly conspiracy. First one, then the other.”

  For her part, Sergeant Harding was far from convinced. Not only did she not believe that a pair of human beings could be quite so devious as to plot for nearly twenty years to usurp a family’s money, but she thought the two sisters too fragile to murder George to seal the deal. On the other hand, it did somehow make sense. It explained the twin marriages. It provided motive, if indeed George’s death was murder, a fact they were still trying to determine, and the sisters’ perceived mental frailty would help to deflect suspicion.

  Could that really be it?

  “I suggest that the two of you conspired to inherit George Ross’ estate and then killed him when you felt you had waited long enough.” Graham was warming to his theory.

  Eleanor was breathing heavily in the background and started to snarl quietly. Marie whimpered. Juliette rolled her eyes. Antoine was boiling red with unexpressed rage.

  “A conspiracy?” Juliette mocked. “We hardly even speak to each other anymore.”

  “The perfect cover!” Graham said, pushing forward with a zeal that for the first time gave Harding a flicker of concern. Was this a flash of brilliance or a detective so carried away by his own performance that he was in danger of appearing insane himself?

  Janice was of two minds when Mathilde stepped forward. “You’re wrong, Monsieur L’Inspecteur. Absolutely wrong.”

  Graham backed up and took a long look at her. “It seems you have something to say, Madame Joubert.”

  Mathilde shrugged off Antoine’s restraining hand on her shoulder. “You will destroy us all unless I tell you.”

  “Tell me?” Graham prompted.

  Mathilde drew herself up straight and stared ahead. “It was an accident, Monsieur L’Inspecteur. At the farmhouse. It wasn’t Monsieur Ross who fired the gun. It was…,” she said, looking at her daughter, “Marie.”

  All were stunned into silence except Marie, who was now wailing inconsolably.

  “That day, she was over at the Ross’ farm and found the gun. She did not know it was loaded. She was just a child, ten years old. She thought it was a game or a toy. Mon Dieu, it was an accident. “

  “Really? But there were two shots, Madame. Why, if it was an accident, would she have fired the gun a second time? With one adult already lying dead in front of her?”

  “I cannot tell you,” Mathilde said. “I do not know. Perhaps the shock or perhaps her finger slipped.”

  Juliette moved closer to her father. Eleanor stood stock-still, transfixed.

  Harding was speechless but managed to keep writing. Graham rubbed his face for a moment and then said, “And you got creative with the crime scene, making sure it appeared to be a murder-suicide. To protect her?”

  Mathilde nodded. “I swore Marie to secrecy. I could see what this would do to her, her life, our family. It was essentiel that no one know what really happened, and for years, Marie and I have kept the secret. Everyone believed that Monsieur Ross shot his wife and then killed himself. I thought, the… episode was behind us.”

  “But?” Graham asked.

  Mathilde took another step away from her husband now, perhaps to disassociate him from the horrors of the past or to ensure he could not move to quiet her. “Marie, my poor girl… Since that terrible day, she has not spoken of it. I think she forgot her memories, blocked them from her mind. To cope, you know,” Mathilde looked over at Marie, sadly. “In time, she fell in love with George, after Juliette rejected him.” She spat out these last words, casting a vicious glance at her elder daughter. “But she was becoming more and more anxious as the wedding approached.” Mathilde added.

  Marie was on her knees now, with Bélanger’s arm around her. The physician was desperate to move her away from this chaos, but he knew that she had to witness its sad conclusion, whatever it might be.

  “She began to have nightmares,” Mathilde reported. “Very bad. Terrifying.”

  “And three nights before the wedding, with all the arrangements made and everyone arriving on the island, something happened.” She continued over the sound of Marie sobbing into Bélanger’s shoulder. “She was… how do you say… talking in her sleep. About the accident.”

  Graham put it together. “With George awake beside her.”

  “Until then George believed, as did everyone, that his father had become depressed and decided to end it all, killing his wife, then himself.”

  “George woke Marie and asked about what she had been saying, demanding to know if she’d been dreaming or was remembering a long-hidden truth.” They all tried to picture such a uniquely horrible moment. “She called me, crying, saying that she thought she was losing her mind. That she’d said something that she could not take back.”

  Harding imagined George, struggling to deal with the unbearable knowledge that his bride-to-be had killed both of his parents. “Did you go to their apartment?” she asked.

  “I did, and I heard them arguing from outside the door. George was screaming at her… It was very strange of him. But he was so angry, so confused. He kept asking, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I heard Marie explain how it was my idea to cover everything up, to avoid the scandal and punishment.”

  “And it worked,” Harding noted. “Until now.”

  “Oui,” Mathilde agreed. “George was a good man. Eventually he calmed down. They talked and talked, and he forgave her. They decided to work together, to trust one another. To go ahead with the wedding. But I worried that, like all men, he was imperfect and fragile. That he might, one day, expose Marie’s accident to the police.”

  “In a way, I felt that they were finished, after her confession. He could destroy her life at any moment. I couldn’t let him do that.”

  “And so, to protect your daughter and yourself,” Graham added pointedly, “You killed him.”

  Mathilde sighed sadly. “I had to do it.”

  “Maman?” Marie wailed. “No… Don’t…”

  “How could you do it?” Juliette demanded. “How?”

  “After the wedding, George was overcome. Anxiety, regret, I do not know. He left the wedding and went back to his own apartment. Marie followed him. On their wedding night, they did not sleep,” she said, calmly. “Marie texted me early in the morning and told me that he was upset. Sometimes forgiving, other times angry. She didn’t know what he was going to say next.”

  “They had gone for a walk and were here, arguing,” Mathilde related. At this moment, Marie stared almost blindly at her mother, seeming to have no recollection of this part of the evening. Mathilde continued, “I left our room, Antoine was sleeping, and came to the castle. Oh, I don’t know what I thought I would do, but I just had to be here, to make sure Marie was alright, that we would all be alright. I heard him again pleading with her for the full truth, to explain why she killed his parents. Marie just repeated that it was an accident, and that the gun went off without her doing anything.”

  “Except pulling the trigger,” Eleanor added, her emotions only barely in check, her fists balled, seemingly ready for violence. “Twice.”

  “George said something, I didn’t hear what,” Mathilde continued, “and Marie ran off. He was leaning through a gap in the castle wall.”

  “The crenellations.” Graham said.

  “Oui. He was all alone, his back to me, looking out to sea. I saw my chance. It was so easy. He simply,” she turned to look at Graham, “…disappeared.”

  There was silence for a moment as the stunning revelation sunk in. No one said a word. The only sound was the seagulls circling overhead, their cries providing a seemingly raucous commentary on what they though
t of Mathilde’s actions.

  Suddenly, an angry flurry of arms and a burst of shouting broke the moment. Antoine was blocking a furious nails-first assault on his wife by Eleanor, whose velocity was threatening to push Mathilde herself over the edge of the battlements. Antoine grabbed her and held Eleanor in a bear-hug. He forced her to the ground.

  “Sergeant Harding, if you would, please,” Graham said.

  Harding found her handcuffs and brought them out. Graham nodded to her. “Madame Joubert, are you prepared to sign a statement confessing to the murder of George Ross?” he said.

  “I am,” she said simply and held out her hands even as Juliette tried to stop her, to pull her back away from the officers. “And I am prepared,” she announced more loudly, so that the whole group could hear, “to be punished for what I have done.”

  CHAPTER 17

  ROACH AND BARNWELL found themselves, yet again, in the half-completed torture exhibit with the dusty tapestries on the walls. Over the course of the day, Roach had rebuked him so often for saying it that Barnwell had learned to stop protesting, “We’ve already been in there.”

  “The point is,” Roach explained patiently, yet again, “the musicians remain unfound, and that means we keep looking everywhere.”

  “Even in dusty rooms marked with ‘no entry’ signs?” Barnwell shot back.

  “Especially there.” Roach had checked in with the harassed and exhausted Jeffries, whose spate of calls to local hotels, restaurants, and pubs had produced a couple of false alarms, but no string quartet. “I can’t help the feeling,” Roach shared, “that they’re down here somewhere.”

  There was a tiny movement, and Barnwell’s eyes were drawn immediately to it. “Hello, what’s this?” he asked himself. A breeze was just slightly lifting the edge of a tapestry that depicted a battle scene. Barnwell pulled it back, curious. “There’s a door here, mate. Still open.”

  Flashlights at the ready, the pair eased through the doorframe and illuminated the narrow tunnel beyond.

  It was filled, from floor to ceiling, with fallen masonry and shattered rock.

  The two officers looked at each other for a moment. “You’re thinking,” Barnwell said, “what I’m thinking, aren’t you?”

  Roach gulped slightly as his mind wrestled with this new information. “They’re under that lot, aren’t they?” he surmised glumly.

  “We’ll know soon enough,” Barnwell said, taking off his uniform jacket and stepping forward to the edge of the rock pile. He began moving stones to the side with his hands. The pile seemed, at first glance, stable enough to begin the process of moving it, and with the musicians perhaps buried underneath, time was of the essence. Or of no import at all.

  Roach called DI Graham, but it went to voicemail. He turned back to help Barnwell lift rocks out of the way, each encouraging the other to move slowly and carefully. Roach was almost sick at the thought of what their efforts might reveal.

  “Can anyone hear me?” Barnwell shouted at the pile of rocks. “This is the Gorey police. If there’s anyone there, make a sound.” They both listened for ten seconds, hoping for a plaintive yell from beneath the rubble, but they heard nothing. “We’re coming to help you,” Barnwell shouted next.

  Roach managed to get a call through to the local emergency dispatcher, who promptly sent a couple of fire service crews and a medical team. But there was still no reply from DI Graham or from Harding. “Honestly, he bothers us all day about this, and when we get a real lead …”

  “Shut up, Roachie.”

  The rocks shifted from above, and new chunks of debris fell into the gap they were creating, missing their feet by inches. “This is bloody dangerous,” Roach complained. “We’re not trained for this, Bazza. We need to wait for the experts.”

  “There’s no time,” Barnwell told him urgently, and tried a new approach, removing rocks from one side of the tunnel and using them to shore up the weakening center of the pile.

  “It doesn’t look like they’re under here. Look, there’s a passage on the other side.”

  Roach reluctantly joined him and they worked together, carefully and steadily. Before long, they had created a slender passageway around much of the rock pile, but they were uncertain how long it would hold.

  “Hello?!” Barnwell hollered down this new passage. “Gorey police!”

  There was a pause, and then they heard it. “Hello! We’re here!” It was a woman’s voice, and seemingly some way off.

  Finally! “Are you alright?” Barnwell yelled.

  “Leo needs help,” the voice came back. “He’s in a bad way. He’s breathing again now, but we need to get him out.” Her tone was urgent but without panic.

  Jesus. “Help is on its way,” Barnwell promised. “Hang on. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  The two constables stood silently for a moment, then Barnwell suddenly started into life. He began the process of levering himself around the jumbled, dusty rock fall and into the chamber beyond.

  “What’re you doing?” Roach cried out.

  “I’m going in,” Barnwell replied. “I can’t just stand here. They need help.”

  “But…but….” Roach stuttered, horrified that his fellow plod was willing to take such a risk and even more horrified that he might be expected to follow.

  “You stay here. Tell the emergency crews where we are, okay?”

  As he went through the gap in the rocks, Barnwell’s shirt instantly changed color from its usual white to a desert yellow. He coughed and sneezed. There was a grating sound. Dust floated down. Roach jumped back. Barnwell froze.

  “Careful, mate. I told you this whole lot could come down.” Roach whispered, “Do you want to come back out? You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  Barnwell looked at Roach, sucked in his stomach, and gently eased himself past the pile of rocks and into the chamber beyond.

  Once through, he scrabbled over the jumble of rocks to the rudimentary steps the quartet had built, and scaled them until he could peer precariously over the ledge and into the next room. He shone the flashlight around, illuminating the exhausted, dusty trio who were kneeling in the center of the room, surrounding a figure who was lying down.

  Putting his flashlight between his teeth, Barnwell, like the others had before him, levered his way carefully over the wall into the chamber on the other side.

  “Gorey Police,” he said, very nearly tumbling but finding a handhold on one of the crates beneath. “This is quite a find, isn’t it?” He jumped down to the floor. “Okay, chaps,” he said, quickly dusting himself down. “Everything’s going to be alright. How’s the lad doing?”

  Barnwell bent to give first aid to Leo, strapping his arm and putting him in the recovery position.

  “Should we make our way out?” Emily asked.

  “I wouldn’t, love. It isn’t safe. Castle’s been here for over eight centuries, but it chose today as the day to show its age. Best wait for the fire service to shore up that opening before we make a move. Settle down and tell me what’s been going on here. We might be a while.”

  Outside, Roach continued to try his boss on the radio. After a frustrating five minutes, DI Graham finally picked up. “Sir? We’re in the basement of the castle.”

  “Have you found the musicians?” Graham cut in.

  “Yes, sir. They were caught on the other side of a collapsed tunnel. Constable Barnwell is with them now, and the emergency services are on their way.”

  “Good job!” Graham said. “We’re all done here.”

  Harding took the receiver and explained on for a moment. “You’ve got to hand it to him,” she said once the story was told.

  “He’s done it again,” Roach breathed.

  He pictured the scene. “So he gets everyone together and hits them really hard with the truth until someone confesses?”

  “A sworn and signed statement is being prepared as we speak,” Harding assured him. “Are you two okay?”

  Roach flicked
a glance through the rock opening into the distance where the illumination from Barnwell’s flashlight lit up the tunnel. He grinned. “You know,” he said, drawing himself up tall, despite his long, arduous day, “I think we are.”

  EPILOGUE

  MATHILDE JOUBERT WAS summarily arrested and charged by Sergeant Janice Harding for the premeditated murder of George Ross. The case became something of a cause célèbre, fascinating audiences on both sides of the English Channel, and giving Jersey, and Orgueil Castle in particular, a certain notoriety. At the trial, her defense made much of Mathilde’s desire to protect her daughter, who was portrayed as extremely fragile and in need of constant mental health supervision. The jury was not entirely without sympathy, but it was unanimous in its decision after a ninety-minute discussion. Mathilde Joubert was sentenced to twelve years in prison, a punishment that she received stoically. Upon release, if thought fit to stand trial, she will be immediately re-arrested and handed over to the French police, who have prepared a case against her for tampering with the Ross family crime scene and lying to investigators.

  Antoine Joubert avoided prosecution, persuading the police that he had always believed his wife’s explanation regarding the death of George’s parents and was entirely unaware of her conspiracy to protect Marie. Exhausted and subject to intense media scrutiny, Antoine liquidated his retirement fund and bought a small plot of land on Tahiti, where he now lives.

  Marie Joubert-Ross was committed to an institution on the south coast of Jersey known for its compassionate, modern methods of treating mental illness. She made good progress, and her conservators are currently negotiating the conditions of her release. The question as to whether Marie’s shooting of her husband’s parents was accidental or deliberate has not been resolved. Public opinion is divided on the matter. French police are still reviewing the case and have not yet determined whether she will face charges.