Death in Provence

by Serena Kent

  “There was . . . a possibility. A discrepancy before the papers could be prepared. Great care was taken to correct this, as you will remember.”

  “I certainly do.” Penelope recalled the stifling day in Avignon, going through the documents with the notary.

  “The difficulty was . . . resolved.”

  “Well, I do hope it was.”

  “Do not worry,” said Mme Valencourt, “and I am sure that over time you will come to find that your other neighbour, M. Louchard, is charming.”

  “Over time?”

  “Yes. To begin with, he is sometimes a little awkward with . . . with . . .”

  Penelope waited glumly for the ending.

  “With foreigners.”

  Drawing a line under discussions about the neighbours, dead or alive, Penelope walked them all back towards the house.

  “I could make a cup of tea,” she offered. That was just what she needed. “I’ve got my primus stove, and bottles of mineral water.”

  “Haven’t you got any wine in?”

  “I haven’t been here long enough to establish a cellar, Frankie.”

  They all passed on the tea.

  As before, M. Charpet said goodbye in the garden, and indicated his intent to walk home after he had tidied away the tools he had used.

  “You could really make a killing on this place, Pen—I’m talking gîte—gîte—gîte!” Frankie jingled a multi-braceleted wrist in the air as she pointed out each outbuilding in turn.

  “I have rarely heard you talk as much gîte in your life, Frankie. The last thing I want to do here is run a business!”

  “But think of the money you could make!”

  “I don’t need it. This is my time now. I want to play my cello, listen to music, ride horses once in a while perhaps, try my hand at painting—or even, if I feel like living dangerously, do nothing at all. I most certainly do not want to end up managing a B&B for whiny families from Surrey!”

  “Well, it’s your money, Pen. Just a thought.”

  Frankie sounded chastened for a moment but quickly recovered as they went through the door into the kitchen. “Anyway, forget that—here’s what we are going to do with the main house! The good news is that the building is fundamentally sound. All these cracks”—Frankie waved her hands in no particular direction—“they’re nothing, just a bit of movement in the clay underneath the house. No point worrying about them.”

  “Well, that’s some good news, at least.”

  “Yes, I’m sure if the walls were going to collapse, they would have done so by now. They’re old and they move with the seasons, the wet and the dry weather. It’s the modern houses they build on land like this that explode!”

  Mme Valencourt waggled one hand to indicate that Frankie knew what she was talking about, more or less.

  Hardly a ringing endorsement, thought Penelope, but comforting to a certain degree. “I feel a large ‘but’ hanging in the air, Frankie.”

  “But there is an awful lot of renovation to do. The roofs are pretty hopeless, and a lot of the outside walls need serious repointing. And you must get the wiring checked out.”

  “Le beurrage?” Mme Valencourt jumped in.

  “Oui. Repointing. Buttering,” said Frankie. “How apt. Yes, large amounts of buttering.”

  “And the garden?”

  “Not my forte, Pen. We always get someone else to do that. I would leave it up to your French retainer—he seems to know what he is doing.”

  Mme Valencourt nodded her head vigorously.

  “M. Charpet, he is one of the best. He knows all there is to know about the village and he used to look after this property. If you let him do what he thinks is right, your garden will be made beautiful again.”

  “And if I want something particular done?”

  “Alas, madame, there is little point in asking him. He will without doubt ignore you!”

  There was a lot one could learn about the Provençal psyche from that casual statement, thought Penelope.

  “Are we going to tell the police tomorrow about the axe I found?” Penelope reminded her.

  “Of course. We will go at ten o’clock. I will collect you from the Hôtel St Pierre.”

  The Frenchwoman left soon after. Penelope walked her to the front door and watched to see where she went. As she suspected, the red Mini Cooper had been parked all along out of sight in the same place where Penelope had left the Range Rover when she hadn’t wanted to be spotted. Interesting.

  She answered a toot on the horn with a wave as the Mini Cooper passed.

  * * *

  THE SUN set behind the mountains in a red ball of fire. The two friends sat out on the terrace, drinking the cup of strong tea that Penelope had been gasping for.

  “What do you make of our Mme Valencourt, then? You wouldn’t think she was the caring sharing type to look at her, but she’s been very good to me. And she really seemed to take to you.”

  Frankie sipped from a mug of brick-coloured PG Tips. She didn’t smile. “What was that about an axe and the police?”

  Penelope told her.

  “Where is it now?”

  “She took it for safekeeping.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Hmm’?”

  “It could mean anything, Pen. But she was talking about an axe on her mobile when we found her in the kitchen.”

  “What? What was she saying?”

  “Well, here’s the thing. She was saying that it needed to be managed carefully. I don’t know whether whoever it was she was talking to didn’t agree with her, because it sounded like they were having a right old ding-dong about it. She was quite worried.”

  “What about?”

  “About what this axe might reveal.”

  “Hell’s bells.”

  “And do we believe her about the water meter?” Frankie went on mercilessly. “How did she get inside your house, anyway? Is it normal for French estate agents to keep a copy of the keys to the houses they sell?”

  Penelope hadn’t even thought about that. There had been so many other things coming at her from all directions. “Bloody, bloody hell. Triple hell’s bells.”

  “She needs watching, that one,” said Frankie.

  “You two seemed to be getting on great guns, though.”

  “We were sizing each other up.”

  “What do you think it’s all about, then?” Penelope felt exhausted.

  “I don’t know, but I tell you one thing. I’m glad I’m here, Pen. I have a feeling you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  They fell silent and finished their tea as one by one the stars began to twinkle in the darkening sky.

  “Despite everything, Frankie, all the awfulness—I’m smitten.”

  “Give yourself another spray with that anti-mozzie stuff, then.”

  “Not bitten. Smitten. By this place.”

  They sat for a while longer in companionable silence as the staccato of cicada song began to fill the hot night air. When at last they rose from the table to go back to the hotel, the moon was high in the sky.

  10

  CLÉMENCE VALENCOURT TURNED UP AT the hotel the next morning an hour earlier than expected. She teetered into the restaurant in a figure-skimming navy linen dress. Stacked heels showed off her slim tanned legs. Penelope stepped away from the buffet table and the further temptations of the continental breakfast.

  “The mayor has asked to see us before we go to the police station with the axe,” Mme Valencourt said.

  “The mayor of Apt?”

  “No, of course not. The mayor of St Merlot. We will go there now.”

  Penelope ran up to her room, cleaned her teeth again, checked her makeup and brushed her hair, made sure all her personal documents were in her bag, texted Frankie—who hadn’t yet emerged for breakfast—and soap-scratched a splodge of blackberry jam off her loose white linen trousers.

  Mme Valencourt looked her up and down when they met in the foyer. “Is t
hat what you are wearing?” she asked snippily.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “No, nothing. It’s a little . . . oh, never mind. Let’s go.”

  It was another hot day, and by the time Penelope slid into the Mini Cooper she was already feeling at a sticky disadvantage.

  She thought she would have a chance to ask a few probing questions about keys and the axe on the drive up, but swiftly abandoned that idea. Clémence Valencourt was clearly preoccupied and tight-lipped. She took the switchback ascent to St Merlot at full throttle, overtaking dithery tourists and speeding to cut corners rather than easing off the accelerator. An innocuous inquiry about the handsome mayor did not help matters. Clémence only just avoided a nose-to-nose crash with a van being driven with equal insouciance in the opposite direction. She scowled at the driver and cursed.

  Penelope clutched the door handle with one hand and her seat belt with the other as the estate agent shot a junction and screeched past the village square, causing the old man with the newspaper to look up in alarm. Even Clémence looked a bit rattled when she got out of the car. They arrived in front of the mairie to find a blue police van parked outside.

  The mairie at St Merlot was a modern building set back from the road on the outskirts of the village. Villagers were chatting by a pretty display of lantana shrubs and olive trees in big galvanised metal planters. A La Poste sign announced the village post office, also housed inside the building.

  Mme Valencourt opened the boot of her car and extracted the axe, which was still in the plastic Penelope had put round it. She marched into the mairie, and Penelope followed. From behind the counter facing the entrance, a portly young woman with clumsily dyed blond hair looked up from her computer.

  “I am sorry, madame, but that item you possess will be too big to post in the normal fashion.”

  Mme Valencourt was in no mood for pleasantries. “I don’t want to post it! I want to show it to monsieur le maire!”

  “He is in a meeting with the police—and he has asked not to be disturbed.”

  The agent ignored her and headed to a door on the right. She rapped a peremptory knock on the door before pushing it open.

  The mayor looked up and deployed a devastating smile. Never could a man have been interrupted to more charming effect. Penelope felt her knees tremble, just a little bit, in the presence of Laurent Millais. The white shirt with two buttons opened brought out his tan and dark blue eyes. He was even more gorgeous than she remembered.

  “Bonjour, Clémence! Et Mme Keet, welcome to the mairie of St Merlot!”

  He knew how to wear a pair of jeans, too, thought Penelope. She slapped herself down and tried to concentrate. The resurgence of such thoughts, long dormant, was most disconcerting.

  Laurent Millais turned to the uniformed policeman with him and introduced him as Daniel Auxois. “He is one of the community police. You will see him often in the village.”

  Daniel was a pleasant-looking lad, with buzz-cut hair and broad shoulders. Rather excitingly—or not, depending on what you were doing—his black leather belt held a selection of serious weaponry, including a gun.

  “First of all, Mme Keet, how is the current situation with your electricity and water?”

  Penelope felt heat spread up from her knees. “Some progress but not much.” She gulped. “Shocking business. I mean the pool. Not the electricity. Sorry.” This was awful. Deep breath. “Mme Valencourt is doing her best to sort it out, thank you for asking.”

  “C’est normal. If I can be of any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask me. We have a good local electrician here. I can ask him to pass by.”

  “Here it is,” said Mme Valencourt curtly. She put the wrapped axe on the desk.

  There was a distinctly frosty edge to her voice. Penelope wondered whether it had been the mayor she was arguing with about the axe on the phone the previous afternoon.

  The mayor offered another delightful smile, which had not the slightest effect on the estate agent. He beckoned Penelope to come closer as he unwrapped the package. She pushed aside various entirely inappropriate thoughts. Was there a hint of mischief about his blue eyes?

  The axe—and potential murder weapon—lay on the plastic. The mayor and the young gendarme were careful not to touch it. Penelope gave Mme Valencourt a surreptitious glance. There was no reaction for a few seconds.

  “I found it in the small stone building by the mulberry tree,” said Penelope. “It was full of old tools and bits and pieces inside that didn’t look as if they had been used for years. Except this one with no rust on it. It looks newly cleaned.”

  They all took a closer look. The axe gleamed in the bright sunshine from the open window.

  “But it wasn’t cleaned very well. And not at all under the head. Look at that.” Penelope pointed, being careful not to touch. “I think that’s blood. Dried bloodstains.”

  Everyone leant in even closer.

  “Did you find it like this, or did you remove the axe head?” asked the mayor.

  “I dropped it, and the head came off. You see, about the bloodstains . . . I do have a certain professional knowl—”

  “You say that you found this in the gardener’s hut?”

  He was not looking at Penelope, even as he asked her the question. His eyes were locked with Clémence’s.

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “Dans la borie d’Henri Charpet?” This, too, was aimed at the Frenchwoman, who shrugged.

  “M. Charpet’s shed? Mon dieu!” said Penelope. Of course. The gardener would have used it when he worked for the previous owners.

  The mayor conferred with the young policeman and then addressed Penelope.

  “None of us can believe that M. Charpet could be responsible for this—he is an honourable man. Never! He was a Resistance fighter when he was a boy! Thank you for your help, Mme Keet, but you are mistaken if you suppose that Henri Charpet could have anything to do with the death of Manuel Avore.”

  “I don’t think I said that.” A new wave of heat broke. “It did not occur to me that you might think I was accusing M. Charpet. And I wasn’t.”

  “But the evidence is unfortunate. M. Charpet had a key to this store,” said Mme Valencourt. She looked crestfallen.

  “Hold on a minute,” said Penelope. “I couldn’t find a key to open it, but when one got stuck, I found the iron catch wasn’t attached to the wall properly. It just came away. That could be because someone had broken in, and put the catch back as best he could, so no one would notice.”

  A palpable wave of relief swept the room.

  “Impeccable!” said the mayor. “You may take it to the chief of police now. And be sure to tell him about that broken lock. Daniel, make a note of this information, please.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Penelope.

  “I have to make sure that I have all the facts. I know everyone who lives in this village, and there have been many questions about this tragic death. I need information to protect the innocent.”

  Penelope sincerely hoped that this included her. “Is that . . . what usually happens here?” she asked.

  “The police have kindly allowed me to see the evidence in controlled circumstances.” He nodded at the local gendarme.

  It seemed most irregular to Penelope. She was sure that this was not the way the Home Office would have done it. France seemed suddenly a lot more foreign.

  “I have some news,” the mayor went on. He ran a hand through his thick, floppy hair. His hands were lovely and brown. “The results of the postmortem examination have revealed that Manuel Avore did not drown. He was already dead when he was placed in the old swimming pool.”

  “Well, that’s what I said!” blurted out Penelope, looking again at Clémence Valencourt. “I knew it! I have worked on many murder cases.”

  The mayor looked taken aback. “You were a policewoman, madame?”

  “Of course not! I was a senior secretary in forensics at the Home Office, and then became
the personal assistant to one of their most eminent pathologists.”

  “You worked from home on murders?” The mayor was looking increasingly bemused.

  “No! The Home Office—you know—the Ministry of the Interior.” By this time Penelope was nearly shouting with exasperation.

  The mayor assumed an injured pose. “Why did you not say anything to Inspector Gamelin or the chief of police, madame?”

  “I tried,” she retorted.

  Daniel Auxois escorted them back down to Apt, leading the way in the police van. Forced to drive at a relatively normal speed behind him, Clémence tapped her red polished fingernails on the wheel, checked her phone for messages, and touched up her makeup in the rearview mirror.

  “Is that normal, having to show the mayor of the village any evidence before the police see it?” asked Penelope, deciding to ignore the strained atmosphere.

  “No. It is not normal.”

  “Oh?”

  “He thinks he is God, that Laurent Millais.”

  “Oh.”

  “Salaud!”

  “Is he not as nice as he looks, then?”

  “Please, Penny, I do not want to speak of him.”

  “But I thought you were friends.”

  “Pah!”

  “If he wanted to see the axe, why didn’t he just meet us at the police station?”

  “He hates the chief of police, that is why.”

  “But in that case—”

  “Please, Penny! We will go to the police station, we will give the axe, and we will leave. I will go to my work, and you can have some holidays with your friend. Drink too much wine, like all the English. Eat too much. Everybody will be happy again.”

  The cheek of it.

  Mind you, Mme Valencourt sounded anything but happy as both vehicles shot a red light and made a final terrifying turn at speed into the police station car park.

  Penelope had been expecting another interview with the chief of police, but the visit was mercifully short. The besuited Paul Gamelin came downstairs to meet them, but Mme Valencourt simply handed over the plastic-packed axe, Penelope signed for it, and that was that.

  * * *

  BACK ON the terrace at the Hôtel St Pierre, Frankie sparkled in a silver lamé tunic. When Penelope arrived, she was jotting down some figures in a notebook, but she straightened up, causing a man at the next table to spill his drink. “You know, Pen, you really could have stumbled on a gold mine here.”