by Serena Kent
M. Louchard rattled off a few phrases that Penelope did her best to interpret. His accent was rough, and she could make out only a part of what he was saying.
“Est-ce qu’il y a un problème, monsieur?”
From what she could understand, the care with which he stalked rock partridge and bartavelle was not shared by all other hunters. According to him, many would blunder around the woods shooting anything that moved, animal, vegetable, mineral . . . or human.
“Alors, je vous dis, madame, faites attention! Be care-fool!”
“I will, thank you.”
Penelope found it hard to believe that any hunter, unless certifiably blind, could mistake an English woman out on a walk for a wild boar. Or if they did, she would definitely write to L’Oréal and ask for her money back. She walked on, kicking herself for not finding a way to ask Louchard about Le Prieuré des Gentilles Merlotiennes. Another time, when she had had time to think it through. She couldn’t just go blundering in.
The track entered the woods. Every so often the holm oaks and pines would clear to reveal rows of cut lavender, a vineyard groaning under the weight of grapes, or a field lying fallow. In one clearing was a long line of beehives. She neither saw nor heard any evidence of hunters.
After a short while she came across the remains of a stone wall, which on further examination revealed evidence of a more complex structure. She pulled out her large-scale walking map. A little cross indicated a ruined chapel. She stepped off the track and started to nose round the undergrowth. She could just make out the remains of the building, though the walls were probably only half of what had once existed. Was this once the village church? Outlines of old windows punctuated the moss-encrusted stones.
She was gazing up at what was left of the chapel walls when a sudden whoosh of air zipped past her ear, accompanied by a loud crack.
“Holy mackerel!” There could be no doubt about it. That was gunshot.
Instinctively she ducked and pressed herself against a cool, moist exterior wall.
There was another dangerously loud volley of shots.
For a moment Penelope gave in to blind panic. Should she jump up and wave her arms around to show that she wasn’t a potential haunch of venison or wild boar saucisson? Luckily, just as quickly, her logical forensic mind reasserted itself. She hurled herself into the ruin.
A large holm oak was growing in the middle of what had once been the nave. Penelope crept carefully over the rampant ivy that snaked throughout, trying not to make a sound. She hunkered down inside the chapel walls.
Another loud shot sent her farther in, crouching lower, back against the wall. A fusillade went off, far too close for comfort.
This must be what the First World War was like, thought Penelope, teeth chattering. She closed her eyes. It seemed like an age before the intermittent gunfire gradually died out. Was that the sound of retreating voices, or was she imagining it?
Penelope gazed up at what was left of the chapel walls, trying to gauge the safest place to look out. In the far corner was a large mound of earth and stones underneath a window opening. She picked her way across, as quietly as she could.
She climbed the stones slowly, looking around for something to hold on to. More shaken than she cared to admit, she grabbed an ivy root on the mound. Inside her rib cage, her heart was pounding uncontrollably. Her legs and arms had been scratched by thorns. She made the first of several cautious attempts to stand up, her eyes on the ledge. The aim was to see out, but not to be seen.
The ivy root pulled away from its anchor.
Penelope started to topple forward, and in a reflex action snatched at another hold. This failed too. She looked more closely.
And froze.
She was clutching a large bone, pale and speckled with black mold.
“Holy mackerel!”
Penelope had seen enough photographs of bones to know that this was an example of the radius, the more lateral and slightly shorter of the two forearm bones. The ivy root she had grabbed first to steady herself was no ivy root. It was a finger bone. And she had been holding hands with it.
“Holy fucking mackerel!”
She knew not to touch the bones—though she must have disturbed the scene enough already—but she peeled away ivy and weeds until she could see enough to be sure she was not making a terrible mistake.
She was not. From the earthen mound in the corner of the abandoned chapel, close to the wall and the sill of the window space, protruded parts of a large skeletal arm. Woven through the remaining finger bones was a filthy playing card. The ace of spades.
Her head buzzed, as if she might faint. She closed her eyes. All she could see in her head was the card. A lone ace of spades—where else had she seen one recently? A few deep breaths seemed to be in order.
Then she remembered. Its twin had been floating in her swimming pool, as if cast on the murky water by the hand of Manuel Avore.
Despite the shock, her years of professional experience kicked in. From the state of the radius, her first impression was that it had been in the ground for a number of years. None of these bones were dried out and brittle, though. They were well preserved. Years but not decades since burial, then.
All thought of hunters banished, Penelope stood up. She patted the pockets of her loose trousers and could have cried with relief that her phone was still in the pocket. She took some photographs of what she had found, exactly how she had found it. Using a dry twig, she painstakingly bent the playing card back so she could see the reverse side and took a photo of that. Old habits died hard. Or the habit, at least, of knowing how to make the work of a forensic pathologist easier.
She stepped away and tried to be rational. Surely she was mistaken. This was nothing more frightening than a long-buried body that had worked its way to the surface, helped by decades—centuries, even—of winter weather and insect and animal activity. The mound of earth in the far corner could well have been formed by torrential rain and the force of the wind howling the length of the valley. Clay soil cracked in summer, and opened up. Maybe she was letting her imagination run away with her. Penelope exhaled deeply through her mouth, as she had been taught in yoga. Calm . . . calm . . . calm, still centre, she repeated the mantra.
By the time she stepped back on the path, the rapidly cooling sun was partially obscured by incoming rain clouds. Then two gunshots cracked the air again. She stopped. Listened. The shots seemed to have come from a bit farther away. She was distinctly shaky as she staggered back the way she had come.
M. Louchard was still outside his house as she ran towards the farm. She must have looked a fright because as soon as he saw her, he rushed to his gate, concern etched on his face, and shepherded her to a chair at the garden table.
He went inside and came out with a bottle of plum brandy. A small glass was placed in front of her and filled. One for himself, too. Penelope downed it in one, almost gagging on the fiery passage of the liquid down her throat. It did the job.
“Mais qu’est-ce qui s’est passé, madame?”
“What happened to me? Les chasseurs! I was shot at, monsieur! Bang bang!” She was all over the place, incapable of speaking French. “It was like they were hunting me! Je suis gibier—I was the prey!”
Louchard looked shocked. “Non!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. Penelope described the situation she had found herself in, and after further gestures of surprise, the farmer seemed to believe her.
“Incroyable! Horrifiant! Les maudits!” he murmured.
“Mais une autre chose . . .” She could hardly bring herself to speak of it.
“Quoi?”
“Un corps—a body. Or rather, the bones!”
Louchard began to look even more worried. “Un corps? Where is zizzz?”
“In the chapel, the ruined chapel. Where I hid after hearing the gunshots. I was trying to get out, and then . . .”
“You are sure?”
“Of course I am sure! I know what bones look like!” Pen
elope crumpled into the chair, head in hands. Had she made a terrible mistake? She might have disturbed a legal grave. Bodies were buried in chapels, long ago.
But Louchard had already brought out his mobile and was gesticulating and shouting into it. Penelope realised he was calling the police. Her heart sank.
The sky had now clouded over. She felt the first spots of rain. The farmer looked at the sky and smiled, as the shower became more insistent. Raindrops bounced off the iron café table and fizzed on the barrel of the rifle that was propped against his chair.
The farmer eventually finished his phone conversation and turned back towards her, looking up at the clouds and shrugging as if to say I told you so.
“Madame, we return to the chapel now. The chief of police, he is coming.”
18
AS M. LOUCHARD AND PENELOPE walked back to the scene of the latest unfortunate events, he lectured her about the hunting fraternity. The bands of local hunters, he explained, were composed of two types—the responsible ones (amongst whom he clearly counted himself) who obeyed the rules, knew their quarry and its whereabouts, and stalked it with a cunning born of experience; and those who drank too much and staggered about in the undergrowth shooting at anything that moved. Penelope had clearly and unluckily blundered into a group of this second type.
“Les Cro-Magnons avec fusils! You were lucky, madame. Every year there are one or two accidental deaths in the woods.” He glanced disdainfully at her dirt-smeared gardening trousers and black top. “Next time you go for a little walk, I advise you to wear something bright. Pink! Turquoise! Yellow!”
As they arrived at the chapel, a car drew up quietly behind them. The vehicle bumped up on the uneven, stony track, and out stepped the chief of police. He glared up at the sky, then at her, as if it was all her fault it was raining as well.
A moment later, the mayor appeared on foot with a large golf umbrella, looking more than usually concerned. How on earth does he always find out about these things so quickly? thought Penelope, brushing the mud from her hair.
“Now, Mme Keet,” he said, in a quiet, businesslike tone. “Please will you show us what you have found?”
Penelope nodded, and led him through the overgrown nave. Two young gendarmes, one of whom she recognised as Daniel Auxois, stumbled noisily on loose stones behind them.
“There!” she said, pointing.
They all looked, including the chief of police, who arrived abruptly headfirst, having tripped on what actually was a rope of ivy root. Daniel helped him up. Everyone else pretended not to notice.
The rain intensified.
Penelope stood well back. She was waiting for Chief Reyssens and the mayor to shake their heads pityingly and tell her that buried bodies were quite often to be found in the vicinity of old churches. But no one said anything of the sort. Perhaps they were being kind because they suspected that she might have mental health problems.
The mayor, M. Louchard, and Reyssens talked amongst themselves. The gendarmes went about their business methodically. Penelope sat miserably on a low lump of wall, away from the action.
Within twenty minutes the area had been cordoned off with tape, and a tent was erected in the midst of the ruined chapel walls. Another unmarked van appeared, this time bearing men in white coveralls with masks and various digging implements. Gradually, the rain eased off. Penelope could not help but notice how low-key and quiet this police operation appeared to be, in stark contrast to their previous attendance.
“Are you OK?”
Penelope looked up. It was Laurent Millais.
She nodded, not trusting herself to say anything sensible.
“It is incredible,” he said. “What were the chances?”
“Sorry?”
“We should be saying sorry to you. What a start you have had to your new life in France! It is unbelievable!”
There was no chance for him to say any more, as the chief was approaching, pawing at streaks of mud on his uniform. He gave her a look that clearly implied this was her fault, too.
“It seems, madame, you have a talent for finding dead bodies.” He sniffed. Clearly, he had been disturbed doing something far preferable to this, and was not in the best of moods.
Penelope bridled at the inferred accusation. “It seems to me, monsieur le chef de police, that the people of St Merlot have a talent for getting themselves killed in suspicious circumstances!”
They all paused to look as the second body bag of the summer was carried past them and towards the tent.
“You have no idea who, I suppose,” she said flatly.
“We will make the investigation,” said Reyssens, “and I must ask you most seriously not to mention this to anyone in the village for the time being. You may have noticed that we are trying not to draw attention to this find.”
Penelope nodded as he continued.
“There is often a local element to cases like these, and we would not want anyone else in the area to find out about it.”
She wondered how much progress they were making with the Avore case, but decided against mentioning it. Feeling drained, she answered his questions about what time she had left her house; when exactly she had heard the shots and found the bones; and who could corroborate her version of events.
The chief of police closed his notepad and dismissed her curtly.
“Don’t you even want to discuss the dangers posed by out-of-control hunters?” she cried, infuriated. “You seem to have forgotten that I was shot at here! What if this body turns out to be a hunting victim?”
He turned on his heel like a little spinning top. Rather disconcertingly, he gave her a twitching grin. “Ah yes, madame. The hunters.” He sounded positively cheerful and friendly.
“I think you will like to know that we have the results from your murder weapon, the axe you have brought to me!” He spoke in English, very clearly, so that there should be no mistake. “The mystery of the axe is now solved.”
Gosh, thought Penelope, he seems pleased about this at least. Was the Avore investigation over? For a few heady seconds, she allowed herself to imagine the headlines in La Provence: MURDER CASE SOLVED BY SHARP-EYED BRITISH NEWCOMER. MISS MARPLE DE-NOS-JOURS PROVIDES VITAL CLUE.
“Tell us, then,” said the mayor.
“Madame,” began the chief of police, looking more like Napoleon than ever. “We have had the results from our laboratories.”
“So, there is blood on the axe?”
“Yes, it is blood. You made an excellent observation, madame. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Penelope felt a swell of pride.
“And as you also told us, it is clear that someone has used this axe recently and cleaned it. The blood was also not very old.”
“I knew it!”
Penelope glanced at the mayor. He looked her straight in the eye in a most disconcerting manner. She looked away, feeling like an embarrassed teenager.
“Ah, the blood, madame!” The chief was finding it hard to contain a bubbling undercurrent of mirth, which Penelope thought in rather bad taste, given the circumstances. The mayor said nothing.
“The blood, madame, it solves this riddle for us. We have analysed it with all the modern techniques available, and now know the identity of its source.”
“And?” Penelope was getting a little tired of this preening monologue.
“Until recently, this blood was coursing through the veins of . . . of . . .” At this point the chief could contain himself no longer and burst out laughing.
Penelope drew herself up, quite shocked. “I’m sorry, but in England this would be considered most inappropriate. The DPP would hardly be—”
“. . . the veins of, how do you English put it, some bunny rabbits!”
“Rabbits?”
The mayor’s mouth twitched, suppressing a smile.
“Madame, many of the farmers round here lay rabbit traps, and usually kill the unfortunate creatures that are caught with a short sharp blow from a l
arge instrument—in this case, your axe.”
Penelope did not answer. She felt her face redden as she searched for the right words.
“Do not worry, madame. It is an easy mistake to make, and at least the innocent M. Charpet can be removed from our list of suspects.” The chief of police released a patronising sneer.
Heat flooded Penelope’s body. The mayor stepped forward. “I think, madame, that I should take you home.”
Numbly, she agreed.
* * *
CONVERSATION WAS awkward as they walked towards Le Chant d’Eau. Penelope felt deflated. She had only been trying to help. She debated whether to mention the ace of spades close to Manuel Avore’s body. Surely the coincidence would not have escaped the police; if she had noticed it, they would have, too. It should be in the photographs taken of the forensic scene by crime officers. She didn’t want to give them another opportunity to make her feel stupid.
They walked on in silence.
The mayor placed a friendly hand briefly on hers. She jumped. Don’t be ridiculous, Penelope told herself sternly, and risked meeting those incredible blue eyes.
“Madame, do not be upset. The chief may not have said so, but the find was actually most helpful. A useful piece of detective work.”
“What, to find out that M. Charpet, unusually for a country man, kills bloody rabbits! Come on!”
“No, madame. Whoever used the axe to kill rabbits, it was not M. Charpet. You see, M. Charpet says he has never used that axe to kill rabbits, or anything else. It is not his. He has never seen it before, and we believe him.”
“So someone else must have used it and put it in the borie!”
The mayor inclined his head in tacit agreement.
“The axe could have been used to kill M. Avore and cleaned afterwards—but the killer didn’t clean underneath the axe head, which is where most of the rabbit blood was found.” Penelope perked up. “So who put it there and why? Even if rabbit blood was found, that doesn’t mean it couldn’t also have been used as a murder weapon. I mean, what if it was used on Manuel Avore and then cleaned—and then used to butcher a rabbit just to confuse matters? Or the shaft alone was used?”