Death in Provence

by Serena Kent

  “Bonsoir, St Merlot! Comment ça va?”

  This brought a louder cheer, and in an instant the band were into their second number. Judging by the reaction, it was a favourite. Couples old and young, mostly either very old or very young, took to the floor, in the former case waltzing beautifully round the square, and in the latter jumping about and running in circles. As she watched the mayor smiling and clapping along, she saw her chance to go over and say hello.

  Penelope had nearly made it through the crowd when she felt a hand on her arm. Forced to check her stride and turn around, she found herself staring straight at the slick dark hair of a very short man.

  The chief of police was as pompous as ever. “Bonsoir, madame. You seem to be looking for someone. Can I be of help?”

  Penelope smiled weakly. “Actually I was after the ladies’ . . . You know . . . WC . . . toilette . . .”

  Comprehension dawned, with some distaste, on the face of the chief.

  “Always ask a policeman,” said Penelope. “That’s what we say in England.”

  He looked at her as if he could not decide whether she was being rude or unpleasantly foreign. “Ah, of course—it is over there.” He pointed straight back in the direction from which Penelope had just come.

  “Silly me, I must have missed it.”

  “Yes, madame. And when you are finished, I wonder if we could have a brief word. It is quite important.”

  “Have you found out who broke into my house?”

  “No, madame.”

  Penelope backed away, flew into the dames, and stood in the cubicle thinking. There had been a hardness to the police chief’s expression when he looked at her that she did not like at all. At length, she flushed the loo and lingered over washing her hands.

  He was waiting for her outside. There was no escape from whatever he wanted to say to her, though she noted with a little satisfaction out of the corner of her eye that Clémence had found the man from Coustellet and engaged him in conversation.

  25

  THE CHIEF OF POLICE PULLED out two chairs from a nearby table and gestured to Penelope. “Please, madame.”

  They sat down. Perhaps remembering that they were not at the police station, he reached over to a bottle of rosé and poured her a glass. He had none himself.

  Penelope took a gulp of wine and tried to look as if she was completely relaxed, but close up, those ratty eyes and moist lips were quite disconcerting.

  “I am glad that I have seen you here, Mme Keet. It is better that I speak to you casually, I think.”

  None of this seemed very casual to her. She knew what he was going to do. He was going to warn her off asking questions. That bloke from the shop at Coustellet must surely have reported her for meddling in the investigation. Then there was the package she had left for Gamelin. Penelope braced herself, feeling like a schoolgirl hauled up before her headmistress for a misdemeanour.

  Reyssens leaned closer, about to say something.

  “Have you identified the bones yet?” Penelope said, deciding to defend by attacking first.

  She had a nasty flashback of holding the skeleton’s hand. Of pulling the arm farther out of the undergrowth.

  The chief sighed. “Madame, we are still investigating. It is not easy. The body was almost completely decayed, and apart from the fibres of a suit he was wearing, there was no obvious identification.”

  “A dead man. With no obvious identification. Probably murder, then.”

  “It seems so.”

  “How did he die?”

  “His skull was crushed. A heavy blow to the head.”

  Just like Manuel Avore.

  “You must have some theories about what happened?”

  “Indeed, madame.”

  Penelope was not used to being kept at arm’s length in a police investigation. It made her quite cross, especially now that her inhibitions were drowning in rosé. “It seems, monsieur le chef de police, that the dream house I purchased in a quiet corner of the Luberon is in fact a home for murderous psychopaths! Am I going to discover a new body every time I go for a walk? The place is cursed.”

  “I must admit, Mme Keet, that I have thought the same. Especially since the previous owners of Le Chant d’Eau complained more than once about strange events.”

  Penelope suddenly felt very drunk. “What strange events, exactly?” she spluttered. “Strange enough to report them to you? Would you consider that I am a victim of strange events?”

  “Mme Keet. You must listen to me. I know that you found the victim in the old chapel. But I must ask you again to keep this information confidential. It is of great importance that the precise location of the body is not widely known.”

  Penelope knew of the reporting rules on murders from her Home Office days but had always found the police generally keen to pass on information once verified—except in very unusual circumstances, usually involving personal safety. Her heart skipped a beat.

  The chief of police rammed the point home. “In this case, it is better we do not say too much.”

  Good luck with keeping that quiet in this village. “Why is that?” Penelope asked.

  “Because, madame, I think that the perpetrator was someone who lived in the village, and may still be here.”

  Penelope shivered. “Why can’t you find them, then?”

  “Mme Keet, you ask all the time questions. You are even doing it now. Making your own investigation. Bringing me axes from a garden hut. Sending Inspector Gamelin playing cards. Do you think this is a game? Will you bring me a piece of broken tombstone from the chapel next week? I hope not, for I do not find it amusing.”

  They glared at each other.

  “All right,” said Penelope. “I have a few final questions. If you will answer them now, I promise I will ask no more. Now,” she went on doggedly to head off any objection, “have you found out any more about the murder of Manuel Avore?”

  He regarded her with some distaste.

  “Not so much. We have not found any serious motive to kill Manuel Avore. Oh, we know he was unpopular, but not that unpopular. He was not particularly wealthy. But he was a gambler. In fact the only lead we have involves his gambling—he had debts, and I am sure you can imagine how some of the gambling establishments deal with those who do not pay up! The card, the ace of spades—”

  “Oh! So you do have the card from the pool, then?”

  “Of course. My scene of crime team is most expert.”

  Penelope was relieved to hear it.

  “As I was saying, the ace of spades has a significance.”

  “It’s the Death Card!”

  The chief of police brewed up an exasperated expression. “No! It is a tradition in the criminal gangs of the Marseille area that those unfortunates who repeatedly do not pay their gambling debts face the consequences—they are beaten up, or worse, and this card is left.”

  “I’ve heard that. I wasn’t sure how seriously to take it.”

  “The kind of people who leave these cards, they do not like it when their activities come to the attention of the police. When the beatings are so bad that they become murder, and bodies are found after a long time. They are ruthless, madame. They take revenge.”

  The evening air took on a sharper edge as the impact of these words sank in. It seemed far-fetched, but the chief appeared deadly serious.

  “You think . . . I might be in danger now?”

  Reyssens pulled a face. “When a dead body is found, you always seem to be there . . .”

  “The break-in! The shots at the chapel! You all keep saying it was hunters, but what if— Do you think— I was thinking that, what if whoever was shooting at me was actually trying to make me go into the ruined chapel, so that—so that—” Penelope felt sick, losing track of what exactly it was she was thinking.

  “There is another possibility. These criminals exist to make money, and it is very satisfying for them to be paid for a crime they want to commit for their own purposes. Do you know
anyone who would wish you harm?”

  “What? You mean anyone who wanted to get a hit squad to take me out?” Penelope squeaked, appalled. She honestly could not. “Well, my husband wasn’t very happy after the divorce settlement, but I really truly could not see him doing anything remotely like this. He’s far too wet to contemplate murder, and I am no longer there to clean the mess up after him. I have had to deal with a number of sensitive issues in my previous employment, but again, nothing springs to mind.”

  He held up his hand. “Then you must leave everything to us. No harm will come to you—unless you continue to involve yourself in this matter. I ask you again to be calm and wise. We, the police, are investigating. You can be vigilant, and please feel free to report anything out of the ordinary to me. As for the reckless hunters, the mayor will have to review the licences for their guns.”

  Reyssens stood to go, drew himself up to his full not-very-impressive height, and poured her another glass of rosé. If he meant it as an insulting gesture, it succeeded. She had not done well this evening in her quest to prove that she was not another wine-soaked expat, but surely these were extenuating circumstances.

  Penelope watched him retreat into the whirling dancers and the flashing lights from the stage. She tried to think logically. Was Reyssens just trying to stop her asking questions? An awful one wriggled out from somewhere in her rosé-induced haze. What if he was the murderer? What if Avore was the prey that always eluded him, until he settled the matter for once and for all? Perhaps only that would explain why was he so unpleasant to her . . . what if . . . what if . . . Reyssens were a very dangerous adversary indeed?

  It was highly unlikely that some murderous criminal gang was after her blood. But she drew no comfort from that. Did the more recent crime have anything at all to do with her, or the house, or Manuel Avore’s gambling debts? What about Avore’s merry widow and her possible recognition of the man in the newspaper cutting? The pack of cards missing the cardsharp’s ace of spades? None of it felt remotely personal to her. In fact, the only focal point at which any of the stories intersected was her house. So what was the draw to Le Chant d’Eau?

  She started to feel very worried indeed about returning to her dark and isolated house. There were whoops as the band’s lead singer announced “Le Madison!” and the villagers began to move as one to perform a kind of line dance. As Penelope watched them jump and change direction, some smoothly practised, others hopping to keep up with the row, she tried to imagine one of them as a cold-hearted villain.

  “Penny! I have some interesting news!”

  Penelope jumped as Clémence sat down next to her. She seemed a little breathless.

  “So do I.”

  Clémence stood up again, grabbed her arm, and guided her toward an empty bench just beyond the coloured lights in the trees.

  “You first,” said Penelope flatly.

  “I spoke to M. Darrieux. He told me he is not allowed to give out any information about the bank card details to us. I cannot say I am surprised. When he saw us here tonight, he told the mayor that we had both been asking questions, and it is now entirely clear to him that we are not, and never have been, agents for the Strauss toolmaking company.”

  “He told the mayor? What a sneak!”

  “However, it does mean that the mayor now knows that the axe was purchased at Coustellet. At the same shop that sponsored the prize for the best tractor.”

  “But where does that get us?” asked Penelope, struggling with the feeling that the axe had only led into a blind alley for a second time. It was very small beer indeed compared to the possibility of being the next dead person in the village.

  Clémence shrugged. “I don’t know.” But she couldn’t help smiling. A little bit smugly.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Nothing to do with Coustellet. But I took the chance to have a nice conversation with the lovely mayor. And now I feel much better.”

  Penelope rolled her eyes. “Oh, well. That’s all right then. You get kissy-kissy with the mayor, while the chief of police intimates that I might be next in line!”

  “What?” Clémence’s eyes widened in horror. “You—and Laurent?”

  “No! The next victim!” Penelope had had far too much to drink. She burst into tears. “I’m scared, Clémence! And you know what? Reyssens wants me to be scared.”

  Clémence could not have been kinder. Getting her on-again, off-again relationship with the mayor back on track had obviously had a beneficial effect.

  “I find it hard to believe that you could be in danger, but we must take every precaution,” she told Penelope when her sobs subsided. “Mon dieu. I must go.”

  “Great,” said Penelope. Mustn’t keep the mayor waiting. The two lovebirds would soon be making fantastic French whoopee while she staggered back to an empty house of horrors. “That’s all right. You leave me here. I’m sure I’ll be safe from psychopaths for now because the not-so-nice policeman says so. Perhaps I need another drink.”

  Clémence shook her head. “No, Penny. I must go to collect my things, pack a suitcase—”

  “Are you running away?”

  “Precisely, Penny. I am leaving my house . . . to come and stay with you.”

  Penelope did not know what to say. “What about Laurent?” she managed eventually. “I thought you would be, you know . . .”

  “We are not ‘you know’ at all. It is finished. Never again.”

  “Oh, no. What happened?”

  “I shall not speak of it. Please do not ask.”

  Penelope did a double take, utterly confused.

  “So, I will come to Le Chant d’Eau,” said Clémence. “I stay, just for a day or so, while we think of what to do next.”

  It was a sweet offer, accepted gratefully.

  Penelope sat on her own for the next hour, sipping fizzy water and politely declining requests from both the mayor and M. Charpet to dance. It was hard to know which was more upsetting—the dismissal of her fears by the chief of police, or his insinuation that she might really be the next victim if she didn’t leave everything to the authorities. If it wasn’t paranoia, this was where she was safest: in full view of the massed villagers of St Merlot as they danced under the stars. But what if one of them had her in his sights?

  * * *

  AS THE last slow dance drew to its overblown conclusion and the accordion’s final chords drifted over the entwined couples, Clémence came to take her home.

  “Where did you leave your car?”

  “At home. I walked up.”

  Clémence shook a finger. “It is just as well you are not walking back in the night. Everyone is drunk. The road is very dangerous.”

  “Everything here is more dangerous than it looks,” said Penelope. Her head was already starting to hurt from all the wine. “Urgh. Why did I drink all that gut-rot?”

  An enormous suitcase took up all the space in the rear of the Mini Cooper. Penelope squeezed into the passenger seat beside more bags.

  “Exactly how long are you intending to stay, Clémence?”

  “Just an overnight bag, Penny.”

  “I’ve seen expeditions to the North Pole that departed with less!”

  Clémence crunched the car into gear, and they shot off down the hill. “In my job, it is important always to look good.”

  They screeched to a halt round the first bend. Just as well I wasn’t too drunk to forget my seat belt, thought Penelope. Bang slap in front of them was M. Louchard on his prize-winning Best Tractor of the Year, weaving around the road in slow motion, the digger cradle held proudly aloft.

  He looked around, smiling for practically the first time that Penelope could remember, when he heard the tyre burn behind him. “Bonne nuit, mesdames!”

  Clémence opened her window and congratulated him on his win, then swerved violently and suddenly to overtake. They bumped along the grassy verge.

  “That was close!” cried Penelope.

  “We did not want to
get stuck behind him on the track to your house. Or indeed at the entrance to the track by the Avore house. Did you see?”

  “See what?”

  “His passenger.”

  “Passenger?”

  “I think we can assume that the romance of the fête has worked its magic. Mme Avore has finally found ’appeeness.”

  Penelope spluttered. “Wha-at? Oh, I see. Yes, happiness. I didn’t see her on the tractor.”

  “She was riding in the cradle. And now, look, they are following behind us very slowly and carefully down the track.”

  At the front door Penelope fumbled for her keys, and then for the lock. She was finding it quite hard to concentrate—and she wished she could remember where the outside light switch was. Funny, she thought she’d left it on.

  She finally managed to get the door unlocked and pushed it open. She stepped carefully into the hall, and was reaching for the light switch when from behind her came the sound of a gunshot and a scream. Another bang. Then the sound of glass shattering.

  “Clémence! Oh my goodness . . . Clémence, are you OK?”

  “Merde!”

  “Are you hurt?”

  The light flared and then fizzed as the bulb popped, leaving them in blackness. Penelope felt her way towards the kitchen and found the switch in the corridor. It revealed Clémence in mid-hop, holding her foot up. It was bleeding. The hall floor was covered in shards of broken glass. The window next to the door sported a large round hole from which further cracks emanated like a spiderweb.

  “Your foot!” exclaimed Penelope.

  “My beautiful shoes!” wailed Clémence. She hobbled to the stairs and sat down to examine the blood on the pale pink suede. “They are ruined!”

  “What just happened? I mean . . . beyond the obvious . . .”

  “Un coup de fusil,” breathed Clémence. Her command of English seemed to have deserted her with the lateness of the hour and emotions running high.

  Penelope shivered. “Oui.”

  Silence. It was broken by the squeal of a squirrel-like loir outside.

  “Aimed at one of us,” said Penelope.

  “Of course not, Penny! Hunters . . .”

  “Do the hunters go out in the evening?”