Death in Provence

by Serena Kent

  The unrelenting drizzle had become a deluge on the day the telephone rang from France.

  “Allo? Mme Kite?”

  “Oui,” said Penelope.

  “Clémence Valencourt, calling from the Agence Hublot in Ménerbes. I thought you might like to know that Le Chant d’Eau is now available for purchase.”

  Caught on the hop, Penelope was lost for words. In Esher, the song of the water rattled the guttering as the wind hurled the cloudburst straight at Bolingbroke Drive.

  “Madame? Are you there?”

  “Yes, yes . . . I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you. The property at St Merlot? I thought it was for sale when you took me to see it.”

  “Yes . . . and no. Technically, it could not be sold as there was a problem because one small parcel of the land had the wrong title attached.”

  “So . . . what is the situation now, then?”

  “The title has been corrected and legally registered. The property can now be sold with no more problems. There are some other people interested in it, but I know that house is right for you. I am never wrong about these matters.”

  The Frenchwoman had some nerve.

  “Yes, tatty and old, just like me,” said Penelope sharply. “I understand what you are saying.” Even on the phone, this Frenchwoman made her feel huge, though five foot six wasn’t exactly Amazonian, and the 5:2 diet, though brutal, seemed at last to be having some small effect.

  “Not at all,” said Mme Valencourt. “The house has been sadly neglected, but it is very special, with a great beauty that only needs some love and attention to shine.”

  Penelope pulled her cardigan tighter around her. “I think I see what you mean.” In her mind, she could see the vista of the valley, that extraordinary view from above the rocky fortress of Saignon, the rippled mountains and their winding tracks. The blue skies and warm sun. A glass of rosé on a little wrought-iron table on the terrace, perhaps with a painted terra-cotta bowl of black olives flecked with herbes de Provence . . .

  “The price is very reasonable. The house, it is solid. And I will be able to assist you with finding builders to renovate it to your taste.” The Frenchwoman had lowered her voice to a seductive purr.

  Unbidden, more images from Penelope’s persuasive daydreams re-formed . . . long summer days spent finally learning to paint. Wonderful fresh fruit and vegetables to grow and cook. A chance to meet some new and interesting people. That little writing desk in the corner by the open window. And her music, of course. She could start playing her cello again. A new setting would give her the impetus she had lacked in Esher, where she had lost the heart for it. A fresh start . . .

  She pulled herself out of her reverie. “Absolutely not. I can’t take on a project like that. It’s a ridiculous idea!”

  2

  THE HOUSE, TITLE, AND LAND were duly purchased and transferred, all the knotty legal issues scrutinised by a notary in Avignon. Penelope flew down to the South of France for two days, and spent most of them in the notary’s office listening to him read a homeowner’s version of War and Peace out loud, reciting the history of every aspect of Le Chant d’Eau, including its current status regarding energy consumption, lead paint, and insect infestation. Her house in Esher, which suddenly seemed a model of hassle-free home ownership, was rented out, and most of her possessions sent into storage.

  “I am not doing this to spite you!” she said, yet again, to the children. “I am doing it for me, because I have a life too.”

  They stopped speaking to her, and then came round for more arguments. Justin gave her a lecture on family responsibilities and the name of a private doctor who specialised in HRT and midlife crisis counselling. Lena fumed. Zack and Xerxes wailed and howled and kicked Penelope on the shins when she told them off.

  Penelope loved her family very much, but she thought it would do them good to be without her for a while.

  * * *

  BY THE time she was all set to leave, it was August. The perfect time to move into an old house in Provence. No need to worry about heating it yet, and the days were still long. Penelope took three days driving down through France in a nearly new dark-blue Range Rover she had bought to feel secure on the roads. Nor did she want to worry about navigating the rutted track to the house or getting stuck up a hill in winter weather. It also had plenty of room for the essentials she brought with her. She gave herself treats along the way in the form of spa hotels, and stayed her first night in Provence in a boutique B&B in Avignon. She didn’t know when she was next going to be able to sleep in luxury.

  First thing the next morning she drove to Ménerbes, where she shook hands with Mme Valencourt at the Agence Hublot and collected the key to the front door of her property. The rest of the keys were in a wooden casket in a kitchen drawer, apparently.

  Excitement overcame Penelope’s residual fatigue after the long drive on her own. She had made it! She steered the Range Rover due east along the D900, the main valley road, with the imposing rippled backdrop of the Luberon Mountains on her right. Apple and plum orchards, now fruiting, lined the route. Ancient stone mills and farms dotted fields of cut lavender and vineyards. The lower hills were topped with white stone houses and castles and churches like drip icing on cakes. Olive trees waved their silvery welcome in a lazy breeze.

  St Merlot was a sleepy village at the unfashionable end of the Luberon Valley, but that was its charm. Hidden in the creases of the ridge, the road ascended through Saignon on its rocky outcrop, and then continued to wind into the high folds of the hills.

  Penelope noted the turning for the track to Le Chant d’Eau, marked by a small run-down house, and carried on up into the village. St Merlot was an authentic, unspoilt place, seemingly missing from the tourist itineraries, a sprinkle of sun-gilded stone on a mild hillock surrounded by dry-stone walls and wildflowers. It boasted no ruined castle or grand church.

  The road passed through a small wood and then a cherry orchard. The oldest part of the village, with its winding streets and hidden alleys, lay to the left. She drew up on the right, close to a large place surrounded by plane trees. Behind the trees on two sides of the open space stood pale ochre-plastered houses with brightly painted shutters. One side bordered the road, and the fourth was open to the breathtaking view down the valley.

  The square was empty apart from an old man reading La Provence on a bench in the shade. Parked up at the far edge was an equally elderly bus painted lavender-mauve, bearing the legend “Bibliobus” and the image of a shelf of books. On the far side was a small garage with a petrol pump, where a man in sunglasses and overalls was attending to a car. That was nice to see, she thought—some good old-fashioned service.

  The épicerie-fruiterie across the street was another welcome sight. On the display outside, peaches and nectarines gave off the evocative sweet scent of properly ripened fruit. Penelope went inside. She was getting a very good feeling about this.

  She bought some patties of fresh goats’ cheese, jambon cru, tomatoes, olives, peaches, an orange-fleshed Cavaillon melon, and a bottle of local rosé. That would do for lunch and supper.

  When she asked for bread, the woman at the counter pointed towards the corner of the square. Penelope thanked her and wandered over there, blinking against the brightness. The boulangerie was a narrow yellow building with a few chairs and tables outside under a vine canopy. She bought a golden-crusted baguette and then, on impulse, added a slice of apricot tart to her purchases. It looked so pretty, it was impossible to resist. Penelope could see she was going to have problems here.

  Her spirits sank at the end of the potholed track to Le Chant d’Eau.

  The old farm had changed out of all recognition.

  Since her last visit, the grass had grown to heights unimaginable in the early spring. As she opened the oak front door, a large lump of plaster detached itself from the ceiling and plunged to the tiled floor beneath, shattering and adding to the fine miasma of dust that hung in the air.

  She took
a deep breath. Keep calm. “This is my adventure,” she said to herself. She had to pull herself together and make a go of it.

  She went back out to the car to unload bottled water, a primus stove, a camp bed, candles, matches, and cleaning equipment, along with wine and other emergency rations. She flicked switches and turned on taps in hope rather than expectation. Nothing happened.

  For the first time in a very long while she found herself wishing she wasn’t on her own. That she had someone by her side to share responsibility—and, perhaps, equal blame—for this madness. She picked a piece of plaster out of her hair, now ever so slightly less well styled than when it was first cut but still good enough for Mme Valencourt to have nodded in what seemed like approval when she had gone to pick up the keys.

  Her mobile chirruped.

  “You have arrived?” It was Mme Valencourt.

  “I have.” Penelope was absurdly pleased to hear from her, though she hoped that wasn’t too obvious. I managed to drive here all the way from England, she thought—I should have been able to make it from Ménerbes to St Merlot.

  “Do you need a man, madame?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A man, to help with the garden. The grass is very tall, is it not?”

  Penelope had a sudden welcome vision of a strong man swinging a large scythe. She moved to the window and looked out. The large field of gently waving grass offered a tantalising glimpse of walled garden and pool beyond. “You are quite right, madame. I certainly do need some help. I had no idea the garden would be so out of control.”

  “I think I know of someone who would be able to help, madame. He also offers other services. Would you like me to introduce him?”

  “I think you’d better,” said Penelope, weakly. “And quite soon.”

  “I will bring him tomorrow.”

  “By the way, I’m going to need some electricity and water, too.”

  “Of course. I will see to it.”

  Penelope’s spirits rose. She hadn’t been expecting this level of after-sales care. She was impressed.

  * * *

  IT WAS past six o’clock when Penelope finally finished sweeping and dusting and making base camp in the house. She thought about rewarding herself with a cup of tea, but instead went out into the garden, feeling the twinges in her back as she straightened up. An eagle or some other bird of prey wheeled slowly overhead on the thermals. All was quiet, apart from the cicadas.

  Penelope took in a deep breath of pine and thyme and allowed herself to relax. The incredible view, as ever, stopped her in her tracks. Le Chant d’Eau was high enough that the hill spurs that sloped down into the great valley appeared one behind the other as if cut out and placed in a Victorian diorama.

  It was all going to be fine. One day soon, this hillside garden would be a gorgeous haven of scents and flowers. She and her friends would drift around in white linen clothes, picking sprigs of lavender and sipping glasses of ice-cold rosé. A bit of hard work—quite a lot of hard work—and she would have both a retreat and a social hub when it suited her to invite some guests.

  “S-ss-salaud!”

  The shout pulled her rudely back to earth.

  It was followed by a stream of French swear words that even she could recognise. They seemed to be coming from a large thicket of bamboo nearby. The canes waved about in an agitated fashion, and then released a small, wiry man. He was staggering a little, a soggy roll-up cigarette fixed to his lower lip.

  Penelope stared, uncertain what to do. Get off my land would surely not have been an appropriate response.

  The man stumbled over to her, dropping ash off the tip of his cigarette. She hoped he wouldn’t spark a fire in the long dry grass. He fixed Penelope with beady, ratlike eyes.

  “C’est à moi!”

  Penelope still did not know what to say.

  “Ce terrain—c’est à moi!”

  This land was his? She felt her face redden and began to prepare a suitable French rebuttal to this ludicrous claim.

  The man waved a hand over the garden where they were standing, and had to fight to keep his balance. “Mon terrain!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Penelope haughtily and in English, to signal that she did not intend to engage with him. She pointed at herself. “Ma maison maintenant.”

  The news that the house belonged to her now provoked an incomprehensible outburst. The man jabbed his own chest with a thumb and threw out both arms in a gesture that almost unbalanced him, such was its fervour.

  Penelope stood her ground.

  The impasse lasted for several minutes, during which Penelope took in his rough blue jacket and dirty trousers. His leather shoes were workers’ wear and badly scuffed. His eyes seemed to blur and then refocus with renewed anger. His hair stuck up in tufts, as if he had fallen asleep and hadn’t combed it afterwards.

  No further words were exchanged. They stared at each other. Then, bristling with Gallic indignation, the man took a threatening step towards her. She started back.

  Without another word, he gesticulated and then turned on his heel. He exited through the bamboo, and she caught glimpses of him as he made his way back down the track to the main road, weaving from one side of the path to the other.

  Feeling rather shaky, Penelope abandoned further garden explorations and made for the cool cellar, where she had left her bottle of rosé. Until she acquired a fridge—and electricity, for that matter—her evening glass of wine was not going to be ice-cold as she liked it. But needs must. She poured a large measure into a plastic glass.

  Mon terrain! Ma maison maintenant! The furious exchange echoed in her head.

  She placed a camping chair outside the kitchen door on the patio, sipping as she let the stunning hillside vista work its magic.

  Gradually her nerves calmed and her veins started to fizz with optimistic anticipation. It was just one odd man. Perhaps he was some kind of country tramp—did they still have them in Provence? Perhaps he had been squatting here, and was furious that she had forced him to move on. After a while, a phrase welled up from nowhere. Emotion recollected in tranquillity.

  At first, she couldn’t think where it came from. Then she smiled. It was one of Camrose’s quotes. From his beloved Wordsworth, of course.

  She could hear Camrose saying it, pathology report in front of him on the mahogany desk. Taking off his glasses and rubbing his right temple. Strain in the cornflower-blue eyes, the cost of revealing the painful truths told by a body after violent death. “‘Emotion recollected in tranquillity,’ Penny. That’s all I can offer to the dead. Let justice do the rest.”

  He was probably on a hillside himself right now, rambling down from a long afternoon above Grasmere: book of Wainwright walks in one pocket, poetry in the other; escapee from the new Home Office directives, bureaucracy, and political correctness that were anathema to the eminent and individualistic forensic pathologist Professor Camrose Fletcher. He had chosen retirement, the freedom to speak as he found, and the walking trails of his beloved Lake District.

  For ten years he had been a wonderful boss, a loyal friend, and, for the duration of one magical conference in Stockholm, a lover. Not that that had changed anything back in London, and Penelope had continued to work happily as his personal assistant. They were both of that old-fashioned school of thought that decreed that what happened abroad, stayed abroad.

  Penelope raised her glass to the north.

  He would probably never know how much his integrity and faith in human nature had helped her.

  * * *

  THE BREAD and olives and cheese made a delicious al fresco supper, and tiredness began to overwhelm Penelope. She noticed that the level in the bottle of wine had dropped surprisingly. A fruity little number, she thought, giggling to herself—I must get some more of this! She made a mental note of the producer and, in the spirit of recklessness that had brought her this far, sloshed the remains into her plastic glass.

  She was just thinking how wonderfully
quiet the location was when the throaty roar of a car engine ripped into the silence, revved up loudly, and took off at speed. A red blur appeared briefly on the bend of the road below and disappeared, trailing a roll of thunder. Penelope frowned. She hoped this was not one of those racetrack roads where daredevil drivers disturbed the peace at night.

  But as quickly as it had been disrupted, silence fell once again.

  She slept on her narrow camp bed that night less like a log than a felled spruce pine.

  3

  MME VALENCOURT STEPPED DAINTILY OVER the chunk of fallen plaster by the front door as she introduced a small old man straight from the pages of a Pagnol novel. He clutched a beret that may have once been blue between his nicotine-stained fingers.

  “Bonjour, Mme Kite.”

  Penelope was not at her best. And wailing at the kitchen walls and diving at wasps in the maddening heat all morning had not helped. Her headache was a reminder to stick to Perrier for a while and cross that particular rosé off the shopping list. She hoped this wasn’t the first ominous stage of becoming a cliché: the wine-soaked middle-aged expat.

  “Please, I think you can call me Penny now.”

  “Of course. Penny. And you can call me Mme Valencourt”—she paused and smiled—“a little joke, Penny!” Penelope was not so sure, as the Frenchwoman continued, “I would like you to meet M. Charpet. He is the gardener who worked for the previous owners.”

  Penelope gazed at the Provençal stereotype in front of her. Judging from his walnut complexion and his gnarled hands, he had clearly lived his life outdoors. His age was difficult to estimate, but he could not have been less than seventy-five, she thought. A large and droopy moustache gave him a look of comic melancholy that made him rather endearing. She stood up and stretched out a hand.