by Serena Kent
“The sangliers come out at night, certainly . . . so . . .”
Penelope shook her head. “Should we call the police?”
“Hunters do stupid things. We all know that. Especially on the night of the fête. No one is allowed to shoot within four hundred metres of a house, but they don’t care about that if they see the animal. They will have seen a sanglier and chased him too close. I think we will see tomorrow in the light that there are the tracks of an animal.”
“Leave the glass and the shot where it is,” said Penelope.
The two women tried to dismiss their fears over cups of chamomile tea. They did not entirely succeed. Clémence stuck stubbornly to her belief that crazy things happened on nights like these. It was not sporting to report local incidents.
Penelope felt stone cold sober as she went upstairs to make up the guest bed. As she shook out clean sheets, it occurred to her that Clémence was as reluctant as she was to call Reyssens.
26
THREE ANADIN EXTRA FAILED TO neutralise Penelope’s headache the next morning.
She had spent a fitful night, sensitive to the least sound from outside. When she managed at last to drop off, she was pulled abruptly from sleep by reruns of her conversation with the chief of police. Clémence had had similar problems, judging from the sound of movements in the spare room.
Penelope trudged wearily outside. There was a chill in the air, and the grass glittered with the first dews of autumn. The stones and dust of the driveway had been churned up. But was it done by an animal? How was she supposed to know what a wild boar track looked like?
Whatever it was, the scuffing on the ground did not seem significant. Most of it was accounted for by their own footprints and the marks caused by dragging Clémence’s enormous suitcase to the front door.
Penelope rubbed her head. She went back into the kitchen, where Clémence was preparing coffee. As the pot began to steam and bubble on the stove, the women sat down and considered the situation.
“I’m not convinced, Clémence. There doesn’t seem to be much evidence of wild boar outside.”
“It was just an idea.”
Silence.
“I will call someone to repair the glass on Monday,” said Clémence. Unlike Penelope, she looked fresh and smart and exuded efficiency, even on a Sunday morning.
“Thank you. I am very glad you are here! After what the chief of police said . . .” Penelope slumped as she realised something. “He wants me to stop asking questions and getting involved—but we have to tell him about this. Show the police the broken glass and the shot. Urgh. My head hurts. I could so do without this!”
Clémence pushed a cup of strong black coffee in front of her. “He’s not going to like it.”
“That is true.” Penelope sipped. “Here’s what else is bothering me. Apart from the possibility that I’m now on some gangland hit list, of course. This theory that Avore was killed by the Marseille underworld enforcers because he couldn’t pay his gambling debts. Has the mayor mentioned that one to you?”
“He may have . . .”
“How likely do you think that is, honestly?”
“It is true that many bad things are blamed on gangsters from Marseille.”
“Exactly. Every week La Provence carries stories about ‘Le Chicago de Provence,’ and you know what I think? That there are many crimes that are blamed on the bad people from Marseille because that is what the people who live in these lovely villages in the Luberon want to believe. If they can’t blame the Avores or the hunters, of course. But that doesn’t make the stories true.”
Clémence considered this. “You could be right,” she said at last. “So who are the real suspects in this case, then?”
Penelope went to get a sheet of paper and a pen. “OK, this is blue-sky thinking. We make a list of every person and every idea, even if we don’t agree. First, let’s put down the criminals from Marseille and Avore’s gambling debts, because both the mayor and the chief of police have said that is a line of inquiry. Then we have all the people in St Merlot who had a reason to dislike Manuel Avore. There are plenty of them.”
“Unhappily, that includes Mme Avore, who perhaps had most to gain from her husband’s death.”
“That’s the spirit. Now, there is M. Louchard, who loves Mme Avore . . . and M. Charpet, but only because it looks as if someone tried, rather incompetently, to frame him by using his tool store here.” Penelope drew a cartoon frame around his name as she saw the look of horror on Clémence’s face.
“Now we come to the theory that it might be something to do with me and this house. Does some xenophobic Provençal hunter resent my purchase of the house and want to scare me off?” Penelope wrote down “Brit-hating local.” She drew a wiggly line attaching that to Louchard’s name.
“You don’t really think that,” said Clémence.
“We are ruling nothing out. I suspect the chief of police might have some sympathy for such a person.”
“Write down: ‘Person who bought the axe from the shop in Coustellet.’ It might still be relevant.”
Penelope nodded. “I agree.”
“What about the shots last night? And the shots fired at me in the ruined chapel?”
“It really could just be the crazy hunters.”
“OK, but I’m not convinced. Now let’s think about this house. Is there any reason why anyone would want to scare me off?”
Clémence shook her head slowly. “I know these villages. Some here might resent foreigners buying up houses, but none of them would threaten you. The worst resentments are kept between themselves, the bad blood between families that has existed for generations.”
The coffee and the conversation were starting to clear Penelope’s head. Now she needed some sugar. She ripped into a bag of supermarket croissants bought for emergencies and slathered one with black cherry jam. Clémence, who visibly shuddered at the sight of this processed chemical pick-me-up, stuck to black coffee.
“So,” said Penelope, munching, “we are left with one decent lead in the Avore case. The axe purchase in Coustellet. But the police have that and won’t even discuss it now. There are Avore’s enemies in the village, and his widow and M. Louchard. And there is one more thing I think we need to talk about. Why does the mayor always dismiss this case as if it’s of no importance at all? Why does he do that?”
“Does he?”
“He does with me. It’s as if he just wants it all to go away so we can pretend it never happened. He wants to leave everything to the police, almost because he dislikes the chief and knows how useless he is. And it has made me start to wonder whether there is anything more to it.” She was on the point of coming clean about the mysterious draft contract she had found in the priory, but something inside stopped her. Clémence had too strong a relationship with Laurent to risk passing on this little nugget. She decided to dig a little further first.
“What are you saying? That you suspect the mayor? Penny, really!” Clémence gave a peal of laughter.
“Haven’t you even considered that he might know more than he is telling us? Has he got other connections with Louchard and Avore that we do not know about?”
Clémence looked serious for a moment. “Laurent always knows more than he tells. But you cannot suspect him! Why would he do such a thing? What gain would there be for him? Next you will be asking if I have done this murder!” Clémence rocked back and laughed hard. This was clearly the funniest thing she had heard in months.
Penelope put her hands up. “We don’t know that Laurent has nothing to gain. But I’m not saying I think he did it—of course not. It’s just that I get the impression he might know more than he says he does, and he has some reason for not wanting the killer to be found locally. That’s all I’m saying.”
She fought against her better judgement, then added, “Also, there’s the man in the red Ferrari. His friend.”
“What about him?”
“I think I heard that car the night befor
e we found Avore in the pool. It was just before I went to bed.”
Just like Frankie, Clémence couldn’t understand what was strange about that. “And you can’t really believe it was strange, or you would have told the police when they asked if you had seen or heard anything that night. But you didn’t, did you?”
Penelope had to admit it. “Who is that guy, anyway?”
“Benoît? They knew each other in Paris, years ago.”
“So what is he doing here? Is there something between him and Laurent?” Benoît? The draft contract. BdeR. LM.
“They are friends! If there were more, I am sure it would be merely of the business nature.”
“Anything to do with the priory here?”
“I cannot tell you. All I can say is that there are delicate negotiations there.”
“Could Avore and Louchard have had any involvement with that?”
“I can assure you that Laurent has nothing to do with the death of Manuel Avore.”
“I think if you had been broken into and shot at, your mind might become as suspicious as mine, Clémence,” Penelope said. Every time she felt absolutely confident that she and her erstwhile estate agent were on the same side, another seed of doubt grew. She was grappling with this disturbing thought when they were interrupted by a knock on the kitchen door.
M. Louchard stood, beret in hand, looking both furtive and distinctly the worse for wear.
“Entrez, monsieur,” said Penelope, getting up to usher him inside. He seated himself, still clearly ill at ease, and began an explanation for his visit, which lost her after the first few words.
Clémence heard the farmer out as he stumbled through his speech. Then she sat back with a relieved expression. “It was just as well we did not call the police.”
“I didn’t catch all of that. What did he say?”
“He has come to apologise about the window. On the way up the track last night, behind us, he saw a wild boar close to your house and the temptation was too much for him. He was showing off to Mariette and took a stupid shot. He missed. The boar ran up the track towards his house, and he shot it—eventually—but unfortunately some damage was caused in the battle. He cannot remember shooting in the direction of your house, but he had had a few celebratory drinks and he fears that he may have inadvertently broken your window. He has come round to say sorry and that he will repair it, and . . .”
Clémence glanced towards M. Louchard. He got up and went out.
“He has brought a gift by way of apology.”
Louchard reentered, bearing a tray. On it sat what appeared to be a large snarling boar’s head, giving them the evil eye from a mess of bloody fur. Almost worse was the brown-stained cloth tied around the neck, like some horrific cravat.
Penelope took one look and gagged. She dived for the sink. Just managing to hold down the contents of her stomach, she took a large gulp of water.
Pretending not to notice, Clémence continued, “He says maybe you can stuff it and put it over your mantelpiece.” Was there a hint of a malicious smile on her lips? “Or of course, there is the tête de sanglier—that’s quite a delicacy in this area. You must boil up the head until the eyes fall out, and then . . .”
“Enough, Clémence! Please.” Penelope took a few deep breaths, composed herself, and returned to her chair, avoiding the penetrating gaze of the dead boar.
“Isn’t it strange, Penny—wherever you are in the room, it always seems to be looking at you!”
“Mme Valencourt, you are not helping!” Penelope was beginning to lose her cool with her French companion.
In the ensuing silence, M. Louchard placed the head on the kitchen table and went outside to collect a tool kit and a sheet of glass. Without another word he went along to the hall, and they heard the sound of the remains of the broken glass pane being tapped from the window frame. Penelope flopped onto a kitchen chair. It creaked and groaned under the additional weight of three supermarket croissants and jam. She couldn’t worry about that this morning. “Oh, golly. What a relief! I mean, at least we know what happened last night. Even if I’m not thrilled to know that my neighbour takes passing potshots at the house when he sees the ingredients for a casserole trotting around outside. Is it going to be like this all winter?”
Clémence wiggled her hand to imply that it might.
Penelope slumped. After a few moments she said uneasily, “He could have killed you. How can you be so sanguine about it? The only reason he has come round this morning to mend the window is because he doesn’t want any trouble with the police. But what if he is trouble—big trouble?”
27
THE CENTRE OF THE VILLAGE had been transformed yet again for the vide grenier. Stalls had been set out under the plane trees and crowds were milling around, though the professional brocanteurs must surely have come early and taken all the best stuff.
Clémence dropped Penelope at the edge of the square. She clearly had no burning desire to rummage through other people’s old tat. “See, nowhere to park. I will come back for you later. And I will speak to M. Louchard when he has finished his repairs. If he is hiding anything, I will find out, I promise.”
She was probably hoping to run into the mayor.
Penelope had visited a few brocantes on her earlier trips to the region, and quickly realised that they fell into two categories. First, there was the true brocante, the vide grenier—“empty the attic.” Anything and everything that the locals wanted to chuck out would be laid out on the trestle tables, in no particular order or price, to turn a quick euro. Prices were sensible, and bargains could be had, though Penelope reckoned a few hours boiling in disinfectant might be necessary for some of these items.
The second type of brocante was staffed by professionals, intent it seemed on getting their own back on all foreigners (and in this case “foreigners” meant anyone who hailed from beyond the valley’s boundaries, particularly Parisians). Vastly overinflated prices were asked for unwanted paraphernalia of all sorts, from pots and pans and glassware to the distressed chest of drawers retailing at about the same price asked for a Chippendale in Christie’s, which turned out to be so distressed that it fell apart with a moan and a death wish when the drawers were opened.
The St Merlot vide grenier had attracted a few professional brocanteurs, but it seemed to be a classic village event. Where table space was not available, patches of ground had been cleared and mats put down to display the items. The array of goods was bewildering.
Penelope stopped to admire a full-size fibreglass panda that stared glassily back at her from an open van.
“Trois cents euros, madame,” quoted the stallholder, a young man with long hair and a silk waistcoat.
“Merci.” Her accent was not yet good enough to pass muster, and the youth carried on in broken English.
“The black and white markings are one hundred percent accurate.”
For a moment, Penelope considered whether or not it would be a good idea to purchase the panda, placing it in her mind’s eye peering out of the bamboo thicket from which M. Avore had emerged a few months previously. But, unsure of exactly how M. Charpet might react to this surreal intrusion into his domain, she moved on to the next stall, in which were arrayed tablecloths, napkins, and laceware of intricate design—items that Penelope knew she actually needed rather than wished for. She sorted through the piles, hoping to find starched vintage sheets and tablecloths.
She made a purchase—a white embroidered bedspread, clearly freshly laundered, for twenty-five euros—and then moved on, hoping to find some colourful pottery to give her new home that authentic South of France vibe. Instead, she found an awful lot of old vases and terrible pictures, cutlery, scruffy books, and scratched vinyl records, along with kitchen devices bought in the 1970s which probably had never worked, even then.
She was still feeling rather under the weather, and the midday heat was not helping. But she perked up when she saw a smarter group of stalls. One had wrought-iron garden tab
les and chairs; another was selling mirrors and small pieces of bedroom furniture. She went up to a stall set out with lanterns. They were all shapes and sizes, mostly made of distressed metal. Some were painted white to give exactly the shabby-chic look Penelope was seeking.
She picked out two lanterns of the same design and asked the price. They weren’t as cheap as she’d thought they’d be, but they were exactly what she wanted for her terrace.
“Votre meilleur prix?” she asked. She knew the phrase from watching all those thousands of British antiques programmes when the contestants went across the Channel to sniff out more interesting bargains.
“Soixante euros les deux, madame.”
Penelope smiled at the stallholder, a pleasant-looking man in his forties wearing aviator glasses. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t think where she had seen him before. Then she realised. He was the man who’d come into the bakery and interrupted the conversation about Louchard. Jean-Luc. So this was one of his other interests, apart from owning the garage. “Pas mal,” she said, grinning. But what was really his best price? It always worked on the telly.
Sixty euros, he repeated. Clearly business was business, a chat in the bakery notwithstanding.
Penelope reacted casually. She moved away from the lanterns she liked and picked up an old oil lamp. It was a simple burner, the oil reservoir made of brass, rather battered, with a new wick and a glass bowl.
It looked very similar indeed to the one that she had found in the hall cupboard, though hers had not been polished. Perhaps they might make a pair on her dining table on a warm summer evening when she had guests.
“How was M. Correa’s peach and pistachio gâteau—the one that was going to be perfect at nine o’clock?” she asked. “It’s rather wonderful, how people here are so precise about food and how it should be served.”
“It’s how we live,” he said.
“I will take both lanterns and this lamp for seventy euros,” said Penelope firmly.
The deal was done.