by Serena Kent
They continued to climb. The road ahead twisted, and trees obscured the bends. For minutes on end, they lost sight of the Ferrari.
Frankie opened the window
“Don’t do that, we need the air-con on.”
Frankie ignored her and leaned out. “Right, I can hear that distinctive engine up ahead. It’s very easy to recognise, that thundery sound a Ferrari makes. Johnny has a friend who drives one and—”
“Hell’s bells!” cried Penelope.
“What’s wrong now?”
“The sound of a Ferrari engine. It is unmistakable . . . it’s what I heard that first night! My first night at Le Chant d’Eau!”
“Er, Pen. Correct me if I’m wrong, but all kinds of cars are allowed on the roads these days. What about it?”
“No . . . OK, you’re right. I’m clutching at straws now. It’s just that—good God!” Penelope sighed in frustration and overtook a Belgian car that had stopped abruptly in order to admire the view. She pressed on, beginning to wonder what kind of fool’s errand she had embarked on.
Frankie craned farther out of the window as they approached the village. “It’s turning left. About a hundred metres ahead.”
Penelope followed. The road led rapidly away from the village again and out into a landscape of scrubby hill and rocky escarpment. After a while, it narrowed and began to descend into a steep wooded valley.
“If you can stop, do so,” said Frankie. “There might be a viewing spot or a lay-by. We’ll be able to see where they go without being seen ourselves.”
“There’s nowhere to stop here.”
After another few bends there was still nowhere to stop. The view became more open as they went down the hill. In the crease of the ravine was a stunning ancient building surrounded by striped fields. Through the open window came the most gorgeous smell of lavender.
“I know where we are,” said Penelope. “I recognise it from all the postcards. The Abbaye de Sénanque.”
“A monastery? Of all the places—”
“There are lots of medieval monasteries and convents in this part of Provence. The Cistercians decided this was the place to worship in poverty and simplicity while working the land. As it worked out, their farms were very successful and they went from self-sufficiency to living the high life.”
She slowed down to keep their vantage point, and they watched as the red Ferrari turned in to the entrance to the monastery.
“What do we do now?” asked Frankie.
“Well, we can’t stop here. We’ll have to go down and park. It’s full enough down there that they won’t notice us.”
The Abbaye de Sénanque was indeed busy. It was a highlight of the Luberon tourist itinerary. But it was equally obvious why that should be. The grey stones of the medieval abbey exuded peacefulness. The lavender field that reached right up to its portals had been recently cut. The purple blooms were drying in the sun, and wafts of perfume infused the warm air.
Penelope slotted the Range Rover into a space. “Have you got your phone?” she asked.
“Yep.”
“Let’s just check we can both get a signal and then separate. Pretend to be a tourist and wander around, looking to see where they’ve gone. First one to see the Ferrari texts, OK?”
“Ten-four,” said Frankie.
“What does that mean?”
“No idea. It just sounded right.”
“If you’re not going to take this seriously—”
“Penny, calm down. Come on, let’s do this. I’ll take this side of the car park.”
They popped wide-brimmed sun hats on and set off.
Penelope walked to the far side of the car park and then along the rows, peering at every vehicle. No sign of the Ferrari.
People in shorts and sandals milled around, taking photographs and posing in front of the lavender garden, but the atmosphere was surprisingly serene. No one let their children shriek and run around, and Penelope felt warmly disposed to these sensible Continental parents. Perhaps she might bring her extended family here one day, to show them how it was done.
She wandered towards the abbey. The scent of lavender intensified. A bell tower rose from a round Romanesque chapel on the oldest section. All was still. No Cistercian monks toiled in the field, and no cars spoiled the scene.
Penelope decided to begin by walking behind the wing that extended the length of the lavender field. It was the only possible place the Ferrari might be. She quickened her pace, wondering what she would say if anyone asked her what she was doing.
The path was shaded by trees, and wide enough to drive a car down. Shaking off a voice in her head that told her this was madness—that she had read far too many detective novels—she squared her shoulders and pushed on.
She saw the nose of the Ferrari just before the movement of a bush and a British expletive alerted her to Frankie’s presence. She was hiding behind a Mexican orange blossom, trying and failing to send a text.
Penelope tapped her on the arm.
“Wah!” Frankie jumped.
Penelope put her finger to her lips and joined her round the back of the bush.
After a while she whispered, “Shall we wait here, or should one of us go back to my car?”
“Why don’t I stay here and see who comes out, and you go back to the car so we’re all ready to follow when they leave?” suggested Frankie.
“Will that work?”
“I’ll run to the car park once the Ferrari moves off. When you see it go, be waiting for me at the closest point to the footpath. They can’t go very fast back up that narrow road.”
“You’re getting into the spirit of this, aren’t you! OK, that’s what we’ll do,” agreed Penelope.
She extricated herself from the bush, looked around, and hurried back up the path. Her heart was beating fast by the time she reached the Range Rover. She got in, flung the hat off, and rootled in her bag for a tissue to wipe her forehead. Then she stared at the exit, not daring to look away.
Half an hour later, her eyes were smarting. It was a ridiculous mission, and she felt rather ashamed of herself. She should have known better, at her age, than to get carried away with a drama of her own making.
The Ferrari growled past.
Penelope waited until it reached the exit, backed out, and zoomed round to collect Frankie.
Gasping for breath after a jog up the path behind the abbey, Frankie flung herself in. She fanned herself with her hat as Penelope set off in pursuit of their prey.
“What did you see?” asked Penelope.
“Let me get my breath . . . hooo . . . hooo . . . not as fit as I thought . . .”
Penelope gunned the Range Rover up the twisty hill road back towards Gordes, trusting that the Ferrari was ahead.
“Right, hooo . . . Your neighbour Pierre Louchard came out of a back entrance, might have been a delivery door, with a silver-haired and -bearded man. Is that the silver fox? He was wearing a loose dark suit.”
“That’s him. No mayor?”
“Just the two of them. But think about it, there are only two seats in that Ferrari.”
“Did you notice anything else?”
“M. Louchard was carrying a large brown envelope and an old-fashioned medicine bottle.”
“He didn’t have those when he left Bonnieux.”
“Thing is, Pen, does any of this really mean anything?”
Penelope grimaced. “Don’t you think it’s odd that Clémence and the mayor and Louchard are meeting up away from St Merlot? That man in the red Ferrari stopped for a good long look at the track to my house—you were there, Frankie, you saw him. I can understand Louchard the farmer talking to the mayor, but what is he doing with a flash guy in a Ferrari? It just seems rather suspicious. Don’t you see, they all have some connection to my house, and they’ve all been there since the murder! And there’s something else.”
Even as she said it, she was wondering if she might be overreacting, though. Perhaps she needed to up her do
se of Menopace vitamins. And she hadn’t yet tried black cohosh, which was supposed to be good. “Look, I just want to see where they’re going. Indulge me.”
“Up ahead, turning right!” shrieked Frankie.
The Ferrari purred its way past the southern edge of Gordes and took the same road they came up on. It wasn’t going nearly as fast as before.
“When we chased them there, they might have been late for whoever they were meeting at the abbey,” suggested Frankie.
“Or they might have had a drop of the abbey’s honey liqueur, and the silver fox is taking it easy so he doesn’t get done for drink driving.”
They followed the red Ferrari all the way to St Merlot. It went through the village, then disappeared down a private tree-lined drive.
“Well,” said Penelope. “That’s that.”
“At least we’re not miles from home. Slow down a moment.”
As she crawled past the entrance, Penelope looked down the long avenue of trees towards the large grey stone building at the end. There was a name carved into the gatepost, but it was obscured by moss and lichen.
* * *
THEY HAD a snack supper at home that evening, with Penelope trying not to eat or drink quite as much as on previous nights, and Frankie going for the full Poirot on the facts of the case so far discovered.
“So now we have a xenophobic ex-army guy as a neighbour—who obviously hated Avore. Another suspect?”
“Well, everyone says it can’t possibly be M. Charpet—but isn’t that suspicious in itself?” said Penelope.
“And who keeps telling us that it can’t be Charpet? Your Mme V, who always seems to turn up round every corner. And is she quite on the level with you, Pen? I told you she needs watching.”
Penelope felt disinclined to argue. She sat back.
“And what about Mme Avore, then?”
“We need to find out more about her.” Frankie chugged rosé into her glass. “But let’s think. Mariette Avore is a religious woman, and this priest that the mayor was going off to see . . .”
“We’re going round and round in circles,” said Penelope. “And I have no idea why you think the mayor going to see the priest has any relevance whatsoever.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t. It might have been a woman priest that our old Alain Delon of the mairie was interested in.” Frankie tapped the side of her head. “We use ze leetle grey cells, non?”
Penelope rolled her eyes.
“And, I zzzort zat you would wan’ to know, zis becozz ah haff zeen ze way you look at ’eem, zis mayor!”
“Oh for goodness sake, Frankie! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It eezz not zo ridicooolous for anyone ’oo ’as ever seen Penelope Wilmot aged fifteen going crazy over Duran Duran and in particulaire zee very pretty-boy John Taylor . . . we can zee ze signs of lurve . . .”
“Give over. And can you stop doing that awful cod Poirot, too.”
“You still do that! You get all prim and proper when you don’t like being teased. Do you fancy him or something?”
“I think you’ve had quite enough rosé for one day.” Penelope grabbed the bottle and shot the last few inches into her own glass. “Besides, the priest isn’t a woman, is he?”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“Didier Picaud told me when we went upstairs that there’s no church in St Merlot, not any longer. So no call for a village priest. But he thought the mayor did have a good friend who was attached to a nearby monastery in the wild hills to the east near the village of Reillane.”
Penelope pictured him in robes and sandals, walking through a medieval cloister. “Perhaps this is more of a Cadfael case,” she mused.
“A what?”
“Cadfael. A series of mysteries solved by a twelfth-century monk. The Cadfael Chronicles by Ellis Peters.”
Frankie stared at her. “Now you really are being silly.”
15
THE NEXT MORNING, WITH A relatively clear head, Penelope drove her dearest, most infuriating friend back to the Marseille airport.
It took both of them to steady Frankie’s suitcase, which was even bulkier and heavier than when she arrived, stuffed as it was with lavender perfumes, soaps, candles, one doomed dog toy, and a large organic air-cured ham.
“You’ll never get that ham through customs,” said Penelope affectionately as they hauled the case towards check-in.
“Nonsense, Pen—I once made it through with the remains of a Greek lamb that had been spit-roasted for Easter. Perky’s treat.”
Penelope shook her head. “I find that very hard to believe.”
Frankie dealt smoothly with the excess baggage fine, and they embraced one last time outside departures.
“Frankie, thanks again. It’s been really good fun having you here, and I feel so much better about everything.”
“Same here, Pen. Next time I’ll bring Johnny—he can do some gardening while we chat. Don’t forget I’m at the end of the phone whenever you need me. And I need to know what happens next.”
With that, Frankie slung her enormous shiny pink Dolce & Gabbana bag over her shoulder and disappeared into the throng of waiting passengers for a final assault on the airside retail outlets.
Penelope walked back to the car with a smile.
She decided to drive back from Marseille via Aix-en-Provence and then over the Luberon Mountains, rather than going around them again by autoroute. The road proved to be a switchback in places, and she did not enjoy the moments on a number of blind bends when she rounded the corner only to see a large lorry or car thundering towards her. Then, all of a sudden, she was at the summit. The wide valley of the Luberon lay before her.
Between green fields and forest, intermittent purple and grey squares indicated lavender and olive farms. The air was so clear that she could see the peaks of the pre-Alps in the far distance, though they must have been a hundred kilometres away. The view was breathtaking. She realised that she was already starting to think of the place as home.
The afternoon was almost over as Penelope finally climbed the hill to St Merlot from the eastern side through the hamlet of Les Garrigues. On her right she passed the tree-lined drive where the Ferrari had turned in the day before. Something caught her eye. She slammed on the brakes and reversed quickly. Luckily there were no other cars in sight.
The mossy sign on the stone gatepost was just about legible, now she had stopped. “Le Prieuré des Gentilles Merlotiennes,” she read aloud.
She would have to look it up to make sure, but she thought that prieuré might mean “priory” in English.
The temptation was to head straight through—there was no actual gate—and down the drive. She hesitated. She really shouldn’t. She drove on round a corner, and then swung the Range Rover in to the side of the road. It was invisible from the entrance.
She returned on foot to the gates and peered down the avenue of plane trees towards the dark building at the far end. The trees had evidently not been looked after for some years, and the thick branches met overhead, cutting out most of the light to the road underneath. It gave the scene a sombre and rather sad air, even though the sun was shining brightly overhead. Penelope looked left and right, and then plunged into the gloomy tunnel. All was quiet. The land on either side seemed to be lying fallow, full of meadow wildflowers.
The drive opened out in front of an austere stone building that ended in a chapel, with a wooden door but no windows. If this was a religious foundation, it was on a much more domestic scale than the Abbaye de Sénanque. It did not seem to be open to the public. Were the Gentilles Merlotiennes an order of nuns?
She reached a gravelled turning circle in front of a flight of wide, low stairs leading up to the imposing front door. In fact, Penelope thought, it looked less like a front door and more like a medieval fortification, studded with black iron rivets and the odd fearsome-looking gargoyle.
Penelope hesitated. Set within the larger entrance was a small square door with a bell pull hangin
g from it.
She mounted the stone stairs and pulled upon the chain. There was no answer or sound from within. She gave it a harder tug and jumped back, hand on mouth, as it came away to hang limply in her hand. Silence. Her breath slowed back to normal.
Penelope examined the welcoming device, then instinctively she pushed at the door. It yielded easily. Aware this could well mean she was not alone, she prepared her excuses. Lost and looking for directions. Historical research. Fascination with ecclesiastical buildings. None of which would have been the least bit convincing.
It was dark and cool within. She tiptoed across a stone floor. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, the walls revealed large portraits of saintly looking old women glaring down at her. A thick layer of dust covered everything, save for a set of fairly new footprints that headed off down a long corridor to the left. Shuttered windows let in thin strands of sunshine where age had eaten away the wood, providing just enough light for Penelope to follow.
Carefully placing her own steps in the footprints, she made her way down the corridor to another large door, which opened on to a library or study of sorts. Bookshelves, mostly empty, covered the walls, and in the middle of the room stood a trestle table and three camping chairs. A stack of papers sat on the table.
Her ex-husband David had more than once told her that her curiosity would get her into trouble. (In fact, her persistent curiosity had been what got him into the divorce mire, but she put such thoughts away and concentrated on the here and now.) The trouble was, it was too dark to read by the table, and she didn’t want to pick up the papers. What, she wondered, would Camrose have done?
Too risky to open the shuttered windows, even if she were able to unlock them. No torch. Her mobile phone! And even better—the scanning app, downloaded by an irritated Justin some months before she left the UK when he wanted her to send him some documents he needed but had left in his old room at home.
She hovered over the first page with her phone on scan mode, hoping the light it produced would be enough, then cast around for something to use to move the pages. She found a stalk of dried lavender. It would be very hard to get fingerprints from that, and she could take it away with her.