by Serena Kent
Professor Camrose Fletcher was mercurial, dedicated to discovering as much of the truth as humanly possible, scornful of political correctness yet kindness personified. He was a lateral thinker who often found answers where no one else could. The work proved fascinating, if occasionally gruesome. Penelope blossomed as Fletcher came to value her insights as well as her outstanding office skills. “You have good instincts,” he’d say, over a cup of Ceylon tea. “Tell me your thoughts.”
And so she would.
Her mind was still whirring at breakfast, and two cups of freshly ground coffee served by the silent housekeeper at a marble table in Clémence Valencourt’s vaulted kitchen with a touch of dungeon chic did not help her nerves.
An open floor-to-ceiling glass door ushered in a breeze from the hills. It was a glorious insight into what life in the Luberon could be like: peaceful and relaxing—if only one hadn’t found a dead body in one’s swimming pool.
Clémence appeared only briefly, to say good morning and drink a small black coffee. She headed out, explaining that she had a viewing nearby but would be back as soon as possible. Her heels ticked like a metronome across the stone floor. She had already started talking on her mobile before she reached the front door.
Penelope absent-mindedly ate three delicious flaky croissants with apricot jam as she tried to make sense of it all.
Through the open door, she could make out notes of music. The heart-stirring rich, sad sound of a cello rose and fell, repeating the same phrase. Someone was practising. Penelope recognised the Brahms sonata and closed her eyes, playing the piece in her mind, feeling the movement in her fingers. If she believed in signs, she thought, this would be one.
She walked to the doorway. The housekeeper was quietly sweeping the terrace.
“La musique?” Penelope asked her.
The housekeeper pointed down to the right. “La répétition pour le concert.”
Penelope looked over a jumble of terra-cotta roofs to a church with a tall square tower.
“Dans l’église?”
“Oui, madame.”
It was the most perfect venue for an intimate concert. Penelope had a sudden longing to be there, letting the music ease her cares away.
* * *
MME VALENCOURT returned around eleven with the news that Penelope had been invited to police headquarters in the nearby town of Apt.
“You make it sound as if a trip to the police station is a social call,” said Penelope. Too much coffee and uncertainty had made her feel cross and jumpy.
“It’s not the police station. It’s the Police Municipale attached to the Hôtel de Ville. The bureaucratic centre of the town. Don’t upset yourself. I will drive you there.”
“Well, that’s another thing,” said Penelope. “You driving me. Quite apart from the obvious danger to life and limb, I should be driving myself. I was so shocked yesterday that I just let you drive me away. But that was what the police wanted you to do, wasn’t it?”
The Frenchwoman shook her head. “What do you mean?”
“The police wanted to give my Range Rover a going-over.”
“A going-over to where?”
“They wanted to check it, run some tests. To see if I had anything to do with the crime.”
“But this is not a crime. It is an accident. M. Avore inundated himself.”
“Drowned.” Penelope supplied the word. “And I thought we’d agreed that was unlikely.”
Clémence gave her an odd look.
“We talked about it last night!” Penelope persisted.
“Is that what you are intending to tell to the police?”
“I was rather hoping they had worked out the elementary forensics for themselves.”
* * *
THE POLICE station was housed in a grand building in the place Gabriel Péri in the centre of Apt, the Hôtel de Ville. This was another name for the town’s mairie, explained the estate agent.
Mme Valencourt introduced Penelope to an officer on the front desk and waited until someone came down. It was the whippet-faced man in the suit who had attended the discovery of the body.
He greeted her in a distant manner, and they shook hands formally.
“Paul Gamelin. We met yesterday.”
“Yes, we did.”
“I will introduce you to the chief of police.”
He led her up a flight of stairs to a door, on which he gave a half-hearted knock before pushing it open. The office was comfortable, with framed certificates and honours on the walls, along with photographs of sports teams and groups of uniformed gendarmes. Behind a desk was a diminutive man of about fifty with a bulbous stomach. When he stood up and came round the desk, holding a hand to his chest, Penelope couldn’t help but think there was more than a touch of the Napoleonic about him. Perhaps it was the square face and the hair, which was obviously dyed.
“Mme Keet,” he said with gracious condescension. “Georges Reyssens, chef de police.” His hand slithered against hers, and then he flapped it towards a chair by the desk.
Penelope refused to be intimidated. “Enchanted to meet you, monsieur le chef de police,” she said in the best French she could muster.
The chief did not sit down. He strutted across a rug on the stark tiled floor, hands behind his back, reminding Penelope of a film she had once seen about the Battle of Waterloo. His red lips quivered in a fashion that she found both unfortunate and fascinating.
“Mme Keet, I am sorry that your introduction to our beautiful region has been spoiled by this terrible accident. Please accept my apologies that you had to leave your property yesterday evening. I am sure you understand why that was the case.”
Penelope nodded.
“I regret that I am having to ask you not to return to your house for a few more days.”
“Oh? Why? What have you discovered?”
“Discovered? We are making our investigation. All will become clear when the investigation is concluded.”
“So it is not yet concluded?” asked Penelope.
“No, it is not.”
“Do you not believe it was an accidental drowning, then?”
Out of the corner of her eye she caught Gamelin assessing her in a most disconcerting way. He hadn’t said a word since they entered the room.
“I cannot tell you that,” said Reyssens.
“Is there anything that you can tell me about your conclusions so far?”
The chief of police pulled his mouth down and gave an expressive shrug. “Let me see . . . non.”
“But you are sure that the dead man is Manuel Avore?”
Both men stared. Rather unpleasantly, in the case of the chief.
“Why do you say that, Mme Keet?”
“Because . . . because . . .” Penelope began to feel extremely uncomfortable. “That is the obvious question. I thought I saw him the previous evening, and if so—”
“The mayor has identified him. He knows Manuel Avore. He has known him for a long time. Avore was well known in the village of St Merlot. The body,” he concluded ponderously, as if he hadn’t considered before now that Penelope might be simple of mind, “is that of Manuel Avore.”
He paused ominously. “That is a very strange question from a foreigner who has only arrived in the village since twenty-four hours.”
“I must be in shock,” mumbled Penelope.
“The reason I ask to see you today is to inform you that you may not return to Le Chant d’Eau for a few days, and that a room at the Hôtel St Pierre here in the town has been arranged and is at your disposal. Please wait until we contact you again before you return to your house.”
And that was that. The chief wanted her out of the way, and any observations she could offer would clearly not be welcome. She was ushered out by a secretary and given directions to the hotel. Luckily, it was close enough to walk. Which was just as well, as there was no sign of Mme Valencourt.
* * *
THE SMALL Hôtel St Pierre overlooked a river emban
kment and seemed to shimmy a welcome like an old good-time gal dressed to please. The peach ochre façade and purple shutters were the essence of Provence, and a private reassurance to Penelope that the dream was still alive.
Across a wrought-iron bridge, the town’s stucco buildings curved into the shape of a Roman amphitheatre, and she spotted other Italianate details in the tiny plant-filled terraces high up under the roofs.
Mme Valencourt screeched up in the Mini Cooper.
“I wondered where you’d got to,” said Penelope.
“I went back to Viens to collect your suitcase. You know you are welcome to stay with me, but as the police have suggested you stay here . . .”
“It’s wise to do as they ask.”
“Yes.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
Privately, Penelope was quite pleased to be independent again, though she would miss the facilities chez Valencourt. She doubted that the bed at the Hôtel St Pierre would match up in terms of indulgence.
“If you need any help, please call me,” said Clémence. It was hard to know if she was just being polite, but Penelope thanked her and took the suitcase into the hotel foyer. White walls were hung with modern Provençal paintings. A friendly young man on the reception desk told her that he was expecting her.
She was shown to a pretty bedroom with carved wooden furniture and a large window on the first floor. A faint scent of lavender and almond blossom lingered. There were worse places to be billeted.
* * *
“FRANKIE? IT’S me. Just checking in to let you know where I am.”
Penelope sat on the window seat and watched the river trickle around clumps of weeds and dry stones. A sign warned that the nearby car park was “submersible,” but that was highly unlikely anytime soon.
Frankie was her usual fizzing cocktail of kindness and high spirits. She listened while Penelope brought her up to speed, and then asked, “So what are you supposed to do now?”
“Well, quite. There’s an unplanned police investigation in my moving-in schedule.”
“So you’re at a loose end, with nothing to do but have a holiday in the South of France.”
“When you put it like that . . . well, yes.” That was one of the qualities Penelope most loved about Frankie. She could always see the positive. Though even Frankie was hard-pressed to make good news out of a man’s death. Penelope was uncomfortably aware that that had rather been pushed aside in the annoyance and confusion.
“And what would make it even better?” asked Frankie, slyly.
“What?”
“You don’t have to go through all this on your own. I’m coming out.”
I walked right into that one, thought Penelope. And yet, was it such a terrible idea, to accept a friend’s offer of support? Even though Frankie could be a liability on occasion, she was a good friend.
“When are you thinking of getting here?” she asked, wavering between gladness and slight dread.
That evening Penelope sauntered out into the warm air, feeling that she shouldn’t lose sight of the excitement of arriving here and how much she wanted to make a success of it.
The narrow streets through the centre of the town led to a medieval cathedral. Its stone walls and exterior carvings were pitted with age. Blocked-up ghost entrances offered intriguing glimpses into the past, and the features on the face of a statue were expressionless after years of exposure to the elements. On impulse, she went in and lit a candle for poor Manuel Avore. She did not know how she was going to react upon returning to a swimming pool where a man had died, accidentally or otherwise. She quickly pushed those thoughts away. She would have to come to terms with it, somehow. But not now. One step at a time.
She enjoyed a delicious dinner of lamb and ratatouille on the terrace of the hotel, and long after she had finished the honey and thyme crème brûlée and a final cup of decaf coffee, she was still sitting in the candlelight, replete and lost in contemplation.
She had found a wonderful property. One day, hopefully not too far in the future, she would have a new life here and a lovely place where family and old friends could gather. Lena and Justin and their children would enjoy it, too. Coming to Provence was about turning fifty and wanting to be optimistic about it.
The children were old enough and bound up enough in their own lives not to be upset—or so she had thought. She had lost both parents, and though the sadness would never fade, she no longer had the responsibility for the older generation that pinned down many of her friends.
She had a reasonable pension and some inherited money, along with a handsome divorce settlement—for all his faults, David had at least made money as a City lawyer. Now that legal letters were no longer involved, they were on much friendlier terms. She could remember the good times again, forgive him, and move on.
“And here I am,” said Penelope to the candle flame.
By the time she went up to her room just before midnight, she felt sure it wouldn’t be long before she could start enjoying all that the South of France had to offer.
6
PENELOPE WAS WOKEN THE NEXT morning by the sound of vans, shouts, and doleful guitar music. In a semiconscious state, she staggered out of bed to the window and opened it.
Her senses were assailed from all quarters. In every available sliver of street space, stalls had been set up. Vegetables and fruit were stacked with artistic geometry. Rolls of jolly Provençal fabric jostled bottles of wine; rows of pastel soaps competed with earthy spices and wide bowls of olives. An all-pervasive aroma of cheese, fish, and lavender hung in the air. Crowds were gathering. It was Saturday, she realised, the day of the world-famous Apt market. Her hair was sticking up unbrushed, her nightie was gaping open, and the guitarist on the other side of the street was staring in a manner that could only be described as lewd. Penelope slammed the windows shut and jumped back into bed to gather her thoughts. They recalibrated around the twin poles of Frankie’s arrival and breakfast. Surely a pastry or two would be justified, given the stress of the situation.
Frances Turner-Blake was a force to be reckoned with. She never took no for an answer and could easily make everything worse. Though there was a silver lining to her imminent arrival—once they were allowed back into Le Chant d’Eau, her old school friend was just the person to cast an eye over the house in its raw state. She was Frankie now, and had been ever since marrying Johnny, a distinctly unreconstructed builder. Between them they owned and managed a large property development firm. What Frankie didn’t know about bricks and mortar wasn’t worth a bag of nails.
In an ideal world Penelope would have waited for a while, and got to know the house before she invited Frankie to see it. But there was no doubt she was the right person to ask for an informed opinion about a building project. And it was probably best to get an honest appraisal sooner rather than later.
Penelope got up and had a shower. Towelling herself down, she avoided looking too closely at her body in the mirror. She was loath to be reminded of all the restoration work required there, too.
She anticipated her friend’s reaction to the house. It would follow the tradition common to all builders. A look around, a glum expression, and a sharp intake of breath through pursed lips, followed by an estimate the size of a Greek bank bailout. But at least Frankie would give her a straight answer as to what needed doing and how much it would cost. She was nothing if not uncomfortably honest.
Before Penelope could take a wander out into the market, there was an urgent matter to resolve.
“Clémence, sorry to phone you at the weekend, but I wonder if you could ask the police something for me, please.” The request would carry more weight from the redoubtable estate agent, who seemed to know everyone.
“Of course. What is it?”
“My car. It’s still at Le Chant d’Eau, and I’m going to need it tomorrow.”
“The police haven’t brought it down for you?”
“No, they haven’t.”
Mme Va
lencourt made an exasperated sound. “OK, I will call them.”
She rang back within a few minutes, having obviously got straight through to the right person. Penelope could only marvel at the way she operated.
“Your car has been examined, and you are free to drive it.”
“Thank you very much,” said Penelope. “Though I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea of owning a suspect vehicle.”
“No one suspects your car, Penny.”
“I thought you said it had been examined.”
“The police took the chance to check that your car is in a good state to drive on the roads here in the Vaucluse. And all is good.”
“Well, I should think so.” Penelope considered the immense service bill she had paid not two weeks before, supposedly to make sure her trip was trouble-free.
“It was a good thing that they did,” said Mme Valencourt. “If you had tried to drive it down the hill yesterday, you would have had a terrible accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“The police investigators found that the brake lines were cut.”
Penelope’s legs weakened. “What? I don’t believe it. Why? How?”
“I should let the chief of police explain.”
A pause.
“Please tell me now. I would rather hear it from you,” pleaded Penelope, not at all sure she wanted to know. And just when she’d begun to feel a bit more optimistic.
The Frenchwoman hesitated. “It seems that Manuel Avore had a history of trying to sabotage whoever displeased him. The ancient owners found their water supply cut. The vegetable garden was sprayed with chemicals to kill weeds. The electric supply was disrupted, and a fire was started close to the house.”
“The ancient owners?” It was too much information to process.
“The Girards, who owned the property before you.”
Talk about buyer beware! She probably had a cast-iron case against Mme Valencourt and the Agence Hublot. With an effort, she tried to focus on the worst of it. “Was that why they sold it, because of this vexatious neighbour?”
“No,” said Mme Valencourt. “They died. It was sold by their children. I told you.”