Death in Provence

by Serena Kent

  He did not dismiss this out of hand.

  “Why was the chief of police so mean about it, then?”

  “Ach, that’s just him. Take no notice. I don’t.”

  “He has an odd sense of humour, doesn’t he?” said Penelope. “So, are they any closer to finding out who killed Manuel Avore?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And what about the hunters? Surely you can’t be happy that there are thickheads with guns rampaging around the village.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “But do you think it’s just a bit of traditional fun, like M. Louchard does—or can you do something about it?”

  “I am sorry you had this experience, Penny. If the hunters are from St Merlot, I will speak to them most seriously. They will not want to lose their gun licences.”

  They said goodbye at her door.

  It was only when she looked in the bathroom mirror that she realised she had mad hair, mascara splodged over her cheeks, and a streak of dirt across her chin. She had also missed her chance to ask about the initials LM on the draft contract.

  “Oh . . . rats!” cried Penelope.

  Under the dribbling shower, she scrubbed her thighs harder and harder with an exfoliating mitt as she tried to make sense of it all.

  Would a playing card be placed in the hand of a body prepared for a funeral? Surely that meant it was unlikely the bones had been dislodged from a legitimate grave. No, the presence of the ace of spades indicated foul play. And a strong likelihood that there had been a sinister significance to the one she saw floating in her pool, close to Avore’s corpse.

  19

  ACCORDING TO WIKIPEDIA, THE ACE of spades was a symbol of death. The time had come to call in a favour.

  As usual he picked up on the fourth ring. “Camrose Fletcher.”

  The familiar strident tones of her former boss made her feel homesick for the first time. He still talked far too loudly on the phone.

  She held the handset slightly away from her ear. “Cam, it’s me, Penny.”

  The voice at the other end gave a warm laugh and took on a softer tone. “Penny, how wonderful to hear from you! Tell me, how is la belle Provence?”

  “Slightly less belle than expected, all things considered, Cam. But still lovely. I need your advice about something.”

  Without pausing to draw breath, Penelope launched into a potted history of the events since her move. From her mobile, she emailed the sharpest photos of the hand and the playing card, and he opened them on his computer. Her account was punctuated by the odd remark from Camrose, an occasional sympathetic murmur, and one or two exclamations of surprise. When she had finished the tale, there was a moment of silence.

  Finally, with the understatement so recognisable in an Englishman of a certain background, he gave his reaction.

  “Two dead bodies. What a pickle, eh! Almost like being back at work again.”

  “Well, quite,” said Penelope.

  Professor Fletcher slipped into professional mode. His powers of concentration were legendary in the Department of Forensic Pathology. With a constant stream of questions, he probed and teased out the minutiae of evidence that would lead him incisively to the truth, though it had to be said that Penelope had always provided meticulous observational backup and vital insight on more than one occasion.

  “You’re quite right about the Avore body and rigor mortis—you know that as well as I do. He must have been dead for at least twenty-six hours for the rigor to pass, and limpness to manifest. That’s the first thing.

  “As for the second body, it is almost impossible for me to give a professional opinion without examining the bones, but you know that, too. However, I can give informed guesswork, from what I can see in the photographs.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. Penelope knew that at this moment, in the house he had bought in the Lake District for his retirement, Camrose would be cleaning his spectacles as he let the information flow through his impressive brain. Finally he resumed.

  “Given that the body has decomposed, it must have been there for a number of years. What type of soil was it found in?”

  “Clay, mainly. Dark, occasionally moist location. Vegetation: ivy, brambles, holm oak.”

  “As far as I can see, these bones don’t look heavily eroded or stained. Best guess, then, around five or six years, maybe a bit longer. No more than ten in the ground.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “From the radius and size of the hand relative to the playing card, male. Fully grown adult, but I can’t be more specific on age. . . .”

  “That playing card is interesting,” said Penelope. “The card of death—right?”

  “Quite so. Symbol of ill fortune and ancient mysteries.”

  A pause. Penelope heard him striking the keys on his computer.

  “Hold on a minute,” he said. “I’m just running it through high definition. Rather usefully, I managed to walk out with my old Home Office computer.”

  “I know,” said Penelope. “I had to cover for you. Those new HR people believed me when I told them it was practically obsolete. Steam-driven, just like you.”

  “Ha ha.”

  Penelope smiled to herself. In her mind’s eye she could see the twinkle in his cornflower-blue eyes, the thick white hair, and the weathered tan from the walking he loved so much. “The new brooms had no idea what they were sweeping out,” she said. “I just couldn’t stick it back in the secretarial pool after you left.”

  “You were always a gem, Penny. You and your phenomenal memory and eye for detail. I assume they had no idea what a shining star you were.”

  “Well . . . not exactly.”

  “I’m enjoying this, though! I may be retired, but that doesn’t mean I want to be completely out of the game. It is lovely to hear from you.”

  Me neither, she thought. I miss this. In so many ways, Camrose Fletcher had been the man in her life since the end of her marriage. Not that he knew that, nor ever would.

  “Now . . . that card . . . very interesting indeed,” he went on.

  “Can you tell how long that has been in the ground? Insect erosion? I checked, and there are a variety of ants, beetles, and woodlice at the location.”

  “It’s a relatively modern plastic-coated playing card. The plastic doesn’t degrade. Where the coating is worn, there is some ingress of mold. But that’s not what I’m looking at. There it is . . . a cut on one edge.”

  “Not beetle nibble?”

  “Absolutely not. I can see it quite clearly, and it’s a good sharp sliced cut.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s a marked card, Penny.”

  “What?”

  “My guess is that this is the kind of old-fashioned marked card used by professional tricksters and card sharps.”

  “The highest-value card in the pack.”

  “Indeed.”

  “That is interesting.”

  “What about the other card, the first one? Do you have a close-up photo of that?”

  “No. I only saw it. I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “I suppose the police have it now.”

  “I expect so,” said Penelope, not altogether confidently. “What are the chances that they are connected?”

  “My professional opinion would have to be that it’s impossible to say without examining both cards. But personally, I would strongly suspect a connection between this and your body from the chapel. Though obviously that is only a guess between friends.”

  A guess born of long experience, thought Penelope. “That’s what I thought.”

  There was a cough at the other end of the line. “Now, to other more important matters.”

  “More important!” Penelope nearly choked. “What could be more important than two dead bodies?”

  “Practically everything, my dear,” came the reply. “But to be specific . . . when are you going to ask me over?”

  Penelope grinned. “
Who says I want to?”

  “Well, in that case, an invoice for my consultation fee will be in the post tomorrow morning. It will, I can assure you, be of stupendous proportions. Or you can chalk it on the slate, and I’ll take dinner at your place next time I’m in the South of France.”

  “Deal!” said Penelope.

  “Bye, Penny, so good to hear from you. Chin up!”

  She replaced the receiver and smiled again. Camrose Fletcher always had the knack of lifting her spirits.

  Over the weekend, she kept the doors locked and cleaned like a woman doing penance. She had expected calls from the police—or Clémence, who would surely have heard about what had happened. But she was left to her own devices. The only other person she spoke to was Frankie.

  Penelope barely managed to stop her friend from boarding the next flight back to Provence. “I’m fine, honestly. I just wanted to, you know, keep you updated. If anything else kicks off, you will be the first to know.”

  “Well, whose bones are they? Do you have any idea? Who else has gone missing?”

  “I don’t know! No one is telling me anything!”

  “Is there anything in the paper? How can you find out?”

  “No, and I’m not sure yet. Whatever happens, I have to wait until Monday.” Penelope was exhausted just having this conversation. Which was terribly unfair, she knew, as Frankie only wanted to help.

  “And you’re sure you don’t want me to come back?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Positive thought and daydreams of how the house would look eventually and the gatherings it would host spurred Penelope on to greater efforts with scrubbing brush and scourer.

  * * *

  ON SUNDAY evening at six o’clock Penelope wandered into the village square. Once more, she thought how very pretty it was, the pale stucco buildings graceful in the shade behind the plane trees. She adored the exuberance of the maroon, sky-blue, and sea-green shutters. When she turned to look back through the open side of the square, the whole scene seemed to hang high in the sky. One day, she thought, she would know who lived here and might even be friends with some of them. Would she look back in fond nostalgia at this memory of herself, still travelling hopefully towards her new life?

  On the rough, dusty pitch under the trees were gathered two teams, one in claret, the other in dark blue, old and younger players alike. The older generation wore berets, and many were smoking. Pungent plumes rose, the sweet tobacco of unfiltered cigarettes, so redolent of old France. The old man on the bench had put down his newspaper and moved fractionally in order to get a better view of proceedings. A few children ran around, and wives chatted. This was clearly what passed for prematch tension in the world of Provençal pétanque.

  From the earnest huddle of the team dressed in claret vests and a peculiar assortment of baggy knee-length shorts, two familiar faces emerged. First Didier and then M. Charpet raised a hand in greeting. Penelope found herself a spot on the low stone wall and sat down. A few other spectators had turned out but it was clearly not a big match.

  “Ah, Penny, I am so glad that you have come,” said Didier. “We are just about to start. You know pétanque?”

  “It’s a form of boules, isn’t it?”

  Didier was not to be stopped from parading his English in front of his friends. He had clearly been working at the phrases and was aching to try them out.

  “This,” he started, pointing to the jack, “this little ball is le cochon, the pig. These—big balls, les boules—” Didier hefted out a pair of weighted silver balls.

  Penelope bit the inside of her mouth to avoid laughing.

  Everyone in the two teams was listening, perhaps wondering who she was, and why Didier Picaud was speaking to her in English.

  Didier was now in full flow. “The game! Big ball, throw near little pig.” He left a pause for his listeners to agree. “Big ball nearest little pig, you are the winner!”

  The game apparently required a combination of skill, ruthlessness, and extreme verbosity. Penelope had never seen a competition where the players would indulge in ten minutes of conversation about angles and velocity, with voices raised and much gesticulation.

  Every so often the slow pace of the match would be interrupted by a more aggressive attempt from one side to change the game.

  Penelope watched intently as a strongman from Rustrel rocked on his heels, knees bent, and hurled a boule underarm towards the pack. He froze for a few seconds in a strange posture like a crouching ancient Egyptian, one palm raised in front, the other behind. The boule smashed into the middle of the others surrounding the pig, scattering them hither and thither. There was a roar of approval from the visiting side.

  Penelope noticed that the boulangerie-bar at the corner of the square was open, the tables outside crowded. The players all had glasses of cloudy pastis, which they placed on the low wall by the pitch when it was their turn to throw. She wondered if it would be rude to leave the field of play and get herself a soft drink. Luckily for her, Didier caught her longing gaze and came over during a lull in the proceedings.

  “The news is good, madame. We are up by one, but there is still time for them to win.”

  Behind him, M. Charpet gave her a thumbs-up. From underneath his droopy moustache emerged a smile. The evening sun glinted on various gold teeth as he replaced his beret and prepared to defend the honour of St Merlot.

  “If you would like a drink from the bar, I will get you one,” said Didier. “Then it is the second half. It will get exciting!”

  Equipped with a cold Orangina, Penelope watched the remainder of the game unfold. As the climax approached, it became clear that things were really very close. Gitanes were being smoked down to the very last nub, voices raised, and on one occasion even the normally placid Didier had to be restrained from poking an opposing team member in the chest.

  The end was a tense affair, with St Merlot and the visiting team still neck and neck. M. Charpet had the last throw. If he could edge out an opposing boule, St Merlot would win. Much was riding on his elderly shoulders, perhaps too much. He approached the throwing circle, only to step away, walk down the far end, light another cigarette, and discuss tactics yet again with his colleagues. This gambit was repeated several times.

  Eventually, with a few encouraging pats on the back, and a steadying draught of pastis, he went down on one knee in the circle, a picture of concentration. Penelope could see Didier draw in his breath in synchronisation as Charpet drew back his arm. Dropping his wrists to provide backspin, the old man threw. The ball seemed to hang in midair for an instant, then dropped out of the sky into the perfect position, where it landed and came to rest immediately, touching the pig. St Merlot erupted with joy.

  Penelope held back, simply watching but feeling immense pleasure. The team clapped each other on the back and were congratulated by the spectators. The wives applauded and called to their children. Man of the match Charpet was borne off to the bar before Penelope had a chance to add her felicitations. On his way to join the others, Didier stopped. He didn’t seem to have a wife or girlfriend in the melée.

  “Well done! What a game!” she cried.

  “It’s always good to beat Rustrel!”

  “Are they your great rivals?”

  “No, we just hate Rustrel. But not as much as we hate Saignon. Though we despise Bonnieux, the arrogant pigs. And we detest Viens and Caseneuve. And don’t even mention Gignac and Gordes.”

  “Goodness,” said Penelope. “Do you like anyone?”

  “Well, there is St Merlot. But in truth, we don’t like many people here either.”

  Penelope laughed, then saw he was nodding seriously.

  “Not until we are sure we can trust them,” he added.

  “Is everyone going to the bar, then? Perhaps I should come too and start showing my friendly credentials to the St Merlot sporting set.”

  Didier smiled sadly. “Penny, where is your English reserve? Did you see any of the other women going w
ith the men to the bar? This is still a very traditional village in many ways. Women come to support the men when they play a match, but they do not go to the bar afterwards.”

  “Gosh, that is quite old-fashioned, isn’t it! I thought it would be the perfect time to meet a few people here.”

  “Me, I don’t care. But some of the older ones do. Can I give you some advice, Penny? It would be better if you just let them get used to seeing you in the village for a while. After that you can make an approach. In St Merlot, relationships happen very slowly.”

  He shook her hand with a formality he had not shown at her house and crossed the road to the bar. Penelope walked back home down the hill, feeling slightly flat. She had been starting to feel at home in St Merlot. Now the lid had been lifted on local life, it seemed to be far more complicated than it had first appeared.

  Then again, it was the same in any small country village, anywhere in the world; Didier was simply being honest about it. Only when she reached the Avore house at the end of the track—it was shuttered and looked empty—did it occur to her that at no time had anyone made her feel an object of curiosity. Perhaps she just looked like a tourist. But that was better than being pointed out as the Englishwoman who had found Manuel Avore dead in her swimming pool.

  And how many of them knew about the bones in the chapel? Surely word had spread. It always did in small villages.

  Perhaps it was just as well that Didier hadn’t asked her to join the victory drink in the bar.

  * * *

  ON MONDAY morning, her long-awaited telephone line with Internet connection was installed, but before she could set to work a shiny van arrived. On its side was a picture of a mermaid and the words “Geret et Fils—Piscines Claires.”

  Two men got out. The elder shook Penelope warmly by the hand, and said how glad he was that the house was occupied again. His Provençal accent was so broad she could only just understand what he was saying. The younger—presumably the “and Son”—looked sullen and distinctly uninterested in the proceedings. He was wearing torn leather trousers—in this heat!—embellished with punky zips and safety pins.