Death in Provence

by Serena Kent

  Had she? “Died? How?”

  “It was a road accident.”

  Penelope gulped. “Here in the Luberon?”

  “On their way back to Lyon.”

  “What? Was it caused by mechanical failure, I mean—”

  “It had nothing to do with it. Please do not concern yourself.”

  But Penelope would not be deflected. “So someone cut the brake lines on my Range Rover. And a neighbour had form for that kind of thing—Manuel Avore?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And all the time you were so keen on getting me to buy the property, you didn’t think to mention any of these drawbacks?”

  “No.”

  Penelope clenched her teeth. “And will you explain to me why not, please, Mme Valencourt?”

  “Because Manuel Avore was no longer a problem. He was not here. He was in prison for assault.”

  “But not forever, surely! In fact, with astonishingly unfortunate timing, his release must have coincided with my arrival in St Merlot. Brilliant!”

  “That is true, but it was not expected. He must have behaved himself there. Laurent—the mayor—assured me that M. Avore would be locked up for a long while, and that the village would try to help him to live a normal, sober life when he returned.”

  “But did you not think to—”

  “Penny, I know this is shocking for you. But do not forget that Manuel Avore is dead. He cannot harm anyone now.”

  That at least was indisputable.

  Penelope exhaled a long breath. “So, let’s just get this straight. My car has been checked over. Possibly as part of a forensic examination to see whether it had any connection to the death of Manuel Avore. But they found the brakes had been tampered with. Which might have been done by Avore himself—and which could have killed me!”

  “Penny—”

  “Don’t ‘Penny’ me, Mme Valencourt! I am so angry that I could—”

  “I am going to the police station to collect your car keys, and I will bring the vehicle to you at the Hôtel St Pierre as soon as I can. I agree. It has been a most unfortunate event.”

  Penelope looked balefully out of her hotel window. All her enthusiasm for the grand spectacle of the market had drained away. How could she just wander around in the jolly crowds as if nothing had happened? Anything she bought would be tainted with the memory of this shocking turn of events.

  She waited in her room, expecting a summons from reception to go down and meet Clémence Valencourt, but it did not come. Eventually she went down to the foyer to find that her car keys were at reception and the Range Rover, newly cleaned, was in the hotel car park.

  Because she couldn’t think what else to do, she climbed in and checked the interior, which was also in a better state than she had left it after the long drive from Esher.

  * * *

  PERCHED ON its high rocky outcrop, Saignon was the closest place to St Merlot.

  From below, the whole village was one vast impregnable castle, but the main street was like an illustration from an old French school textbook. Faded signs and shutters were smothered in displays of flowers in hanging baskets and pots. Penelope strolled past the old lavoir, the communal laundry pool. The sound of trickling water came from a fountain topped with a statue of Ceres in front of an old presbytery covered in creeper. It was now a hotel that appeared to have closed down.

  On a tourist information board outside the twelfth-century Romanesque church, she read that Saignon had once served as a lookout point for danger in the valley. It was a pity the church bells no longer sounded alarms, she thought. I could have done with a warning that everything was about to kick off.

  She wanted to go home. But she wasn’t supposed to. Though the police hadn’t told her directly about her car, and she had got that back. And Clémence Valencourt had spoken to the police on her behalf without passing on any message forbidding her return to Le Chant d’Eau. Perhaps she could just look in on her property, as she was so close. If the police were still there, she would be able to ask them if that was all right, wouldn’t she? And it would be safe there now, surely . . .

  7

  ON THE FIRST STRAIGHT BIT of the road towards St Merlot, a shiny red Ferrari overtook Penelope with a throaty growl. She watched it accelerate away into a sharp bend, changing gear flamboyantly. There was an interesting mix of people here in August, she thought: happy holidaymakers from northern Europe; artists and photographers; walkers and cyclists; the farming community; the butchers and bakers and candlestick makers who gave so much pleasure to everyday life; and some extremely rich people—Parisians and Swiss and Americans—staying at their second homes. Penelope wondered if people would assume she was rich. She didn’t feel rich. Comfortably off, perhaps. And, for the first time in her life, adventurous with a lump sum.

  Five minutes later, she turned off the main road. There were no police vehicles in sight. As far as she could make out as she took the rutted track at a sensible speed, there was no one there. Penelope parked at the side of the house, where the Range Rover couldn’t be seen. She looked around and listened carefully before getting out. There was no police tape, or anything else to denote that an investigation was still taking place.

  Inside her house, all seemed as she had left it two days previously. A rustling noise startled her, but it was only a few dry leaves rolling in the breeze on the kitchen patio.

  Penelope steadied herself and unlocked the kitchen door. If she wanted to live in this house, she was going to have to face the scene of the accident, or whatever it turned out to be. Best get it over with, and not make a song and dance.

  In the stifling heat, the garden seemed to rear up at her. The straw-like grass was more overgrown than ever. After two days away, Penelope was shocked all over again by the immensity of the task she had taken on.

  She dug deep into her reserves of British grit. Whoever heard of an Englishwoman scared of a bit of gardening? Everyone knew that what followed was the purchase of a wide-brimmed straw hat, possibly with a veil, and a trowel. Before you could say Sissinghurst, there’d be vistas of roses, boxed beds of white flowers by the olive trees, and an exquisitely placed aubergine for authenticity. In short order, photographers from the Sunday supplements would be fighting for the best shot.

  Penelope strode through the grass jungle.

  The door to the walled swimming pool garden was ajar. Trying not to think too hard, she gave it a push and stepped inside. Everything looked the same. The pool water was still brown and sludgy, but there was no lingering horror. Had she become heartless? she wondered. Was it the result of being in a foreign country, and what did that say about her?

  She stood there for a while, trying to work out what she really thought. Was this some kind of psychological self-preservation? Possibly. Or it might simply be that she was well used to the idea of death in the abstract, thanks to her old job. She decided to leave it at that.

  According to all the papers she had signed, the property extended to 1.2 hectares, which translated into a smidgen over two and a half acres. There were parts of it she hadn’t seen yet.

  The southern boundary was marked by an old orchard. On closer examination the trees were plums, though many were so old they had dried out and toppled over. Penelope walked up a slight slope to a weed-strewn patch of tomato plants that might once have been a vegetable garden. Beyond was overgrown grass and bushes. A large mulberry tree and more olive trees guarded the eastern edge.

  By the mulberry, almost hidden by some dog rose bushes, stood a small stone structure that had perhaps once been an animal pen. She made her way over. It would make a wonderful garden shed. Perhaps that was what it had been used for.

  The flaking wooden door was padlocked. She rattled it anyway, and pulled at the padlock. It was securely fastened. Undeterred, Penelope marched back to the house and pulled open the kitchen drawer that contained a selection of old keys. She scrabbled through them, scooped up a handful, and put them in the nearest vessel
to hand, which happened to be a tea tray bearing the patriotic legend “Keep Calm and Eat Cake.”

  Back at the locked door, she worked through the keys systematically. The first few she tried were useless, and there was a pile of discarded keys on the ground by the time she pushed a newish one into the padlock. It slid in easily enough, but then refused to turn. Then it wouldn’t come out again. Penelope shook it in frustration, and before she knew it, the door had squeaked open. The metal fixing in the doorframe had come away.

  After a minute adjusting her eyes to the gloom inside, Penelope could make out rows of pots on a large table, a number of sacks, various plastic jerry cans, and, hanging on the wall opposite, a long line of garden tools, which was a delightful surprise. It was always a bonus to find items left behind in a house, and these discarded implements would come in very handy. They were like a welcome present, and she found herself smiling at the thought.

  There seemed little out of the ordinary here. And yet, as she gazed at the tools, she knew that something was not quite right. Along the line of well-worn tools, all showed the dirt, wear, and tear of use, and the rust of being stored in a damp stone outbuilding. Except one, a large axe. This had either been cleaned thoroughly or was a newer addition.

  Penelope took it down from its hook. Maybe it had never been used. She went to put it back on the hook, but in the half darkness, she missed and then stared in horror as the tool fell noisily to the stone floor. The metal head flew off the shaft into a dark, spidery corner. She picked up the two parts and took them outside into the bright sunshine to try to reconnect them.

  She turned the implement around to find the right fit. On the neck of the shaft, freshly uncovered by the accident, was an area that had not been cleaned. An area where the wood was stained a deep brown. Exactly, thought Penelope, the colour of dried blood.

  “Holy guacamole!” she cried out.

  Then she remembered the cut brake cables and started to tremble.

  * * *

  IN THE absence of cake, Penelope lit her primus stove, found the PG Tips and some longlife milk, and made a cup of tea in an attempt to Keep Calm.

  There was always the possibility that her imagination was running away with her, she thought. Or this was middle-aged brain fog. Wouldn’t be the first time. What was required was logic, not mood swings.

  Unfortunately, logic unleashed screaming thoughts that centred on what Clémence Valencourt had said about the heavy wounds on the dead man’s head. It followed grimly that these could have been caused by a blow from an axe.

  Penelope stirred an emergency teaspoonful of sugar into her tea. No, that didn’t necessarily follow, she tried to tell herself. She didn’t even know for sure whether those were bloodstains on the axe shaft. She was just catastrophizing. This was what happened when a person was overwrought. She had to stop this now. The axe shaft—and the head—would have to be submitted for forensic tests before anything could be ascertained, and they probably had nothing whatsoever to do with the body in the pool. She should know better than to go leaping to conclusions.

  With the presence of mind that had often been praised by her former boss, she took several photos of the axe, from different angles, on her phone. Then she went upstairs and found some plastic wrapping from a new set of pillows and carefully placed both parts of the axe inside it. She would share her discovery with the police, though she doubted the chief would be thrilled to receive her bearing a strange (and possibly irrelevant) package at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Especially when she wasn’t sure she should have been at her property at all.

  She was just deciding where she should store it, or whether she should take it out to the car to take with her, when she heard the spitting of stones outside. A vehicle came down the track. Penelope froze. What if it was the police? Had someone seen her coming in and reported her?

  There was nothing for it but to face the music. She should open the front door with a big smile on her face, as if nothing was amiss. Then again, no, she shouldn’t: that would look calculated. She should sit tight and have a few sips of tea.

  No knock on the door came.

  After about ten minutes, Penelope went down to the front hall and peeped out of the window. A car had indeed arrived on her property and parked outside. It was a very familiar red Mini Cooper.

  For a moment, Penelope thought about staying where she was and pretending she wasn’t there. But then she wouldn’t know what the estate agent was doing on her property. It was all getting very silly. She popped on her sunglasses and picked up a book. Armed with that and her cup of tea, she crossed the courtyard and made for a shady spot. No sign of her visitor. She rounded the wall of the courtyard and stopped abruptly.

  Ahead of her, by the stone shed, stood the birdlike Mme Valencourt. Another figure emerged from the outbuilding, which Penelope had left open.

  “Holy guacamole!” For the second time in an hour the exclamation came unbidden.

  Clémence Valencourt was holding the Keep Calm and Eat Cake tray, scrutinising it with a perfectly plucked, raised eyebrow. Penelope couldn’t imagine that the Frenchwoman would ever find it necessary to follow its instructions. M. Charpet pointed at the shed, and the two exchanged a few words. Was it her imagination, or did they look worried? What was going on here?

  Penelope took a deep breath and called out in what she hoped was a casual tone, “Bonjour!”

  They both seemed to jump.

  “H-hello, Penny!” Could that be a slight hesitation in Mme Valencourt’s voice, a crack in her usual composure?

  “Why didn’t you let me know you were here?”

  “I did not know that you were here, Penny.”

  “Well, that makes two of us,” said Penelope pointedly.

  “You remember M. Charpet.” A tiny hand waved in his direction.

  The extravagantly moustachioed gardener quickly turned around. They all exchanged polite handshakes.

  “As M. Charpet’s first visit was abandoned due to . . . you know what . . . he has returned today at my suggestion,” said the estate agent. In a nod to weekend attire, she was wearing tight white jeans with a patterned silk batwing blouse, high wedge-heeled sandals, and enormous black sunglasses. Standing in the long grass, she looked like an exotic insect.

  “I know that your first days at this property have been very difficult and I wanted to make sure the work to clear the land was achieved as soon as possible. Like that, you will be more comfortable.”

  Penelope was caught unawares for the second time that afternoon, but this time it was with a strong sense of relief. “That is very kind. Very thoughtful. Thank you.”

  Mme Valencourt shrugged. “It is nothing. M. Charpet can begin this weekend. We came to decide what should be done first.”

  “So the police have finished what they needed to do here?”

  “Yes, it is done. As soon as I have heard this, I asked M. Charpet to meet me here.”

  But no one told me, thought Penelope.

  “Did you not receive a message from the office of the chief of police?” asked Clémence, as if she was reading Penelope’s mind, or possibly the expression on her face.

  “No. Well, I haven’t actually checked my phone lately. It’s running out of power, so . . .” She delved into her bag and switched on her mobile. Sure enough, there was a text from the police, telling her she was cleared to return. It was all so much simpler than she had made it out to be. Another surge of relief coursed through her veins. “So, M. Charpet works at weekends, does he? That’s marvellous.”

  That was another misconception about the French, that no worker would consider putting in more than their thirty-five hours a week, and absolutely never over lunchtime or at weekends.

  “Would you both like a cup of coffee?” she asked, in a rush of goodwill and flushed with embarrassment that she could have suspected anything else. “I have some fairly hot water—well, I could heat it up again, and only Nescafé, I’m afraid, but . . .” The look of disg
ust on the Frenchwoman’s face was mirrored on M. Charpet’s.

  “Non merci, madame,” they chorused, a little too quickly for politesse.

  They carried on the conversation as they walked around the garden, discussing the priorities as they went. The hip-high grass was top of Penelope’s list, and then the clearing and assessment of the swimming pool. There was no black humour in their remarks, as there surely would have been back in England. It was as though each had decided not to mention the last time they were by the pool.

  At last, M. Charpet said he was walking home. It turned out he lived on the other side of St Merlot, but there was a path through the woods that he liked to ramble along.

  As soon as he had retreated along the track, Penelope turned to Clémence without preamble. “I found something in that stone building.”

  “Oh?”

  “I want to show it to you.”

  On the kitchen table, Penelope carefully unwrapped the plastic from around the axe. It lay in two pieces, looking rather ordinary on the pillow bag.

  “It is an axe, Penny. It is used to chop wood.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” said Penelope before she could stop herself.

  “Pardon?”

  “I know that it is an axe. But think of the wound on M. Avore’s head. Perhaps it wasn’t just bruising. So look at this.” Penelope went to her sink and put on a pair of yellow Marigold rubber gloves. It was the best she could do. She picked up the shaft and pointed to the brown stains without touching them.

  “I think that’s blood.”

  8

  THE SUNDAY-MORNING TRAFFIC ON the autoroute down from Cavaillon was light. Penelope hardly raised her foot from the accelerator. She arrived at the Marseille airport midmorning, ludicrously early. Looking around for a place to wait, she noted with some irritation that the coffee and ice cream shop she remembered from a few years back had been replaced by a Burger King. A sad indictment on contemporary French life, she thought, as she made her way to another abomination, a newly established Starbucks.