Death in Provence

by Serena Kent

“Don’t believe everything you hear at the bakery, by the way,” he said, warming up to a chat as he wrapped them and found a bag. “Correa is a terrible gossip. His wife is almost as bad, and the information is not always reliable.”

  “Oh?”

  “For a start, they both loathed and detested Manuel Avore, despite what he told you, for a very good reason.”

  “Really?”

  The stallholder shrugged. “Just like everyone else. Only it cut deeper with Jacques. He and Manuel had been friends since they were boys, then gambling partners. But one day, Manuel could not stop himself. He borrowed money, then cheated his friend. Jacques went back to the table to try to win it back—in Cavaillon, in Salon, in Marseille, in Nice—but he only went deeper into trouble. He almost lost everything, including his wife. It took him years to pay off his debts. But he stopped gambling and worked and worked to build his skills and his business.”

  “That doesn’t mean he couldn’t feel pity for Manuel,” Penelope pointed out.

  “Sure. Until Manuel gets out of prison and starts blackmailing him, saying he’s found out that Jacques is still gambling, that he is starting to owe money again, and only buying the cheapest ingredients for the bakery. People can accept many things, but not that. Not where their daily bread is concerned.”

  “Is it true, though?”

  “Who knows?”

  Penelope took her purchases and thanked him. It was clear that, as ever, nothing was quite what it first appeared. The boulangerie-bar in the corner of the square was as busy as ever, so there was no chance of popping over for a quiet coffee and a gentle fact-finding chat. It was odd that Correa had been so effusive about not hating his old friend, when he hardly needed to say anything at all.

  She couldn’t see Clémence anywhere, so she went over to the boulangerie-bar and lingered. M. Charpet, with his diminutive sister Valentine, wandered over.

  “Madame,” began her gardener, haltingly. Then he hesitated. Valentine poked him and whispered a command.

  “Madame,” he began again, “my sister and I—what have you bought there?”

  Penelope showed them.

  M. Charpet made a face at the candle lanterns, but took the oil lamp and examined it carefully.

  “It’s pretty isn’t it? And it could be useful,” said Penelope.

  “Where did you buy it?”

  “Where? Over there at the stall near the garden tables and chairs.”

  M. Charpet continued turning it around in his hands.

  “Have I made a good buy?”

  “I think perhaps you have, madame.” He handed it back. “Now, I must ask you. Valentine and I would be most honoured if you join us for lunch next Sunday.”

  Penelope was touched, and tried hard not to let it show. But she had a wide smile on her face as she answered. “Of course M. Charpet, I would be delighted to come. Thank you.”

  Another voice broke in. “Did you enjoy the first band last night, Penny?” Penelope turned round, in a good mood after M. Charpet’s invitation. “And did you like the special effects with the stage lights?”

  Didier wore a black AC/DC T-shirt, and his hair was wilder than ever.

  “I did! The band was brilliant! I loved the Stones and the Beatles sets. And as for the stage lighting, you should be a professional!” Actually, Penelope didn’t think it had been anything particularly spectacular, but she sensed Didier would relish the praise and recognition of his efforts. “Just promise me you won’t go on a world tour before you’ve done my rewiring!”

  He grinned widely. “Did I hear that you have been invited to a Sunday lunch chez Charpet?”

  “You did.”

  “That is certainly an honour, madame. He is a famous man in this village, and his sister’s cooking is excellent. Though if I may, I would like to give you some advice.”

  “All right.”

  “Eat nothing from now until Sunday. Nothing at all! They keep an excellent table.”

  “You mean the food is good?”

  “That is exactly what he means.” The mayor materialised by her side.

  “Oh, hello,” said Penelope. The electrician said a cheery goodbye and rubbed his stomach, telling her not to forget.

  “Have you seen Clémence?” Penelope asked Laurent innocently.

  “No, is she here?”

  “She stayed with me last night. I got a bit . . . upset at the fête.” She was not going to admit to being tipsy and letting her imagination run away with her. “The chief of police talked to me, and as usual, I did not find the conversation exactly sympa.”

  “Penny, you really must not take this personally. I am sure he is just trying to make his investigation.”

  “What can you tell me about the body in the ruined chapel, then?”

  Laurent was smiling, but he shook his head and wagged an index finger. He did a passable impersonation of Reyssens. “No more questions, Mme Keet!”

  They were interrupted by an old couple Penelope didn’t know, who started twittering like excitable starlings about the success of the fête. Laurent did not introduce her to them.

  Penelope backed away, left with the feeling that she had received a brush-off again, however charmingly delivered.

  At home, she placed her new purchase on the terrace wall next to the oil lamp she already possessed—she had thought they were very similar, but she was astonished to find they were identical. Despite everything else on her mind, she felt immensely pleased with herself for spotting the item at the brocante.

  Clémence came out to admire it, and she had some more good news. Pierre Louchard had finished the repair. He’d also been persuaded to take the boar’s head away, to give to someone who would really appreciate it.

  28

  PENELOPE DID NOT FOLLOW DIDIER’S gastronomic advice over the course of the next week. Each morning she resolved to eat like a bird, and ended up stuffing herself like a goose being prepared for foie gras. It must have been stress.

  There were no more strange incidents, though as a precaution she gave up the country walks. Clémence had returned to her luxurious house in Viens, imparting one pearl of wisdom before she went. “Frenchwomen do not eat croissants, Penny. And if one day the spirit is not strong enough to resist, we will never, ever have a second one. And afterwards, we will not eat lunch that day.”

  So now she knew. A chic woman with the body of a Chihuahua was a croissant-free zone. Penelope felt shamed. She took lots of exercise in her pool, delighting in the sparkling freshness of the unheated water. It was definitely not seeping out. At least that was a success, though she had to make a conscious effort to push thoughts of Manuel Avore and bones to the back of her mind. She also visited some furniture stores, arranged to have the bathroom refitted, and worked hard to make the house feel like a home. Her cello remained in its case.

  Each day she expected Clémence, the mayor, or the police to call with further news of the investigation, at which point she would tell them what she had confirmed from a forensic perspective. But all remained quiet. She was left alone, hoping that the professionals were getting on with their jobs.

  * * *

  COME SUNDAY, she thought about driving up to the Charpet house, but decided to face her fears. Her gardener always walked. The route was hardly off the beaten track. She set out wearing a bright pink jacket she had found in Apt. This time, no hunters could possibly mistake her for a wild boar.

  From across the valley she could hear church bells. Her heart rate quickened at a smattering of gunfire from the hillside below, but it sounded a long way off. With any luck the hunters would stop soon for a legendary French Sunday lunch in the country.

  It was a clear sunny day, and over the hills the green of the trees was edging imperceptibly into gold. Black grapes hung in bunches from the vines along the way, and fig trees were dotted with large, sticky ripe fruit.

  Where the track met the path down to the ruined chapel, she felt a frisson of fear. She quickly turned left and took the path
in the opposite direction up the hill towards the village, as M. Charpet had instructed. She climbed for some ten minutes, past crumbling stone walls and brambles, until she came out in the village at the point beyond the main square.

  The narrow streets of the old part of the village were quiet and still deep in shadow, even though it was near midday. Large tubs of red geraniums and lavender clustered at doors and windows. All seemed in various states of mild disrepair. Pink valerian sprouted from every crack in the stone walls.

  Penelope walked along looking for a house number or a name on a postbox that would help her identify the Charpet house, but the village, as always, seemed intent on keeping its secrets.

  A rich aroma of roasting meat drew her to a house on the corner. It had the blue shutters she had been told to look out for. She went up to the door and pulled on the iron chain that hung to one side. Somewhere far away a bell sounded.

  She readied herself. This lunch was going to be a real test of her French, but surely the important aspect was the goodwill on both sides. And she was certainly looking forward to sampling Valentine’s fabled cooking.

  The door was opened by a smartly dressed M. Charpet. She was touched to see him in a grey suit with a white shirt. As Penelope stepped over the threshold, she was struck by the cool freshness of the interior.

  The ground floor of the house was effectively a cellar, with a vaulted stone ceiling. The flagstones on the floor had been polished by centuries of footfall, though they were only occasionally visible between the piles of potatoes, jars of preserved tomatoes, and tins of unnamed provenance that occupied most of the space. From the arches, long strings of onions, hams, salamis, and garlic in plaits hung on meat hooks. Along the back wall, shelves groaned under dusty bottles of wine.

  If ever there is a nuclear holocaust, thought Penelope, this is where I’m heading.

  M. Charpet ushered her up the old stairs in the corner. He proudly pointed out more produce arranged on shelves as they passed.

  The first floor was one large room, with a kitchen along the side, leading onto a large verandah at the back that overlooked a strip of garden. It was the most perfectly designed allotment that she had ever seen. Apart from a pen in the corner from which a large brindle dog stared back at her, the whole space was given to lines of startlingly healthy vegetables, an artist’s palette of colour. Not one inch was wasted, not a hint of any fertile area given over to a garden as Penelope and her English neighbours would imagine it. This was a garden for production, not show. But that did not stop it from being beautiful, as long as one liked things in straight lines.

  Valentine was adding the finishing touches to lunch. She was such a tiny woman that she had to reach up like a child to the kitchen counter. Penelope handed her the flowers she had brought, and they exchanged three kisses.

  “Can I help you to do anything?” asked Penelope, but Valentine waved her away. Her brother beckoned her to a table on the terrace that already groaned with aperitif bottles and slices of salami, no doubt from the cellar, large orange cubes of melon, plump black olives, radishes, crisps, nuts, and toasts covered in pâté of some sort. It would have been quite enough for an averagely hungry rugby team.

  She had a sudden horror that more guests were expected, which would change the complexion of the relaxed gathering she’d been anticipating. But no, it was just the three of them. Penelope began to see what Didier had meant. If this was the ballast with a prelunch drink, what would the main course be like?

  It was to be some time before Penelope found out. For between the aperitif and the main course were no less than three starters: a pork terrine, followed by prawns and mayonnaise, and aubergine caviar and Melba toast.

  “Didier Picaud told me it was going to be good.” Penelope sighed as she helped herself to a tiny extra spoonful of aubergine caviar. “But I never thought it would be this sublime.”

  The Charpet siblings exchanged a look.

  “I keep a good table, madame,” said Valentine with evident pride. “Like at your house. Le Chant d’Eau was once renowned in the village. My parents used to talk about how everyone wanted an invitation to dine.”

  Penelope loved the idea of owning a house that had been known for its hospitality. She allowed herself another little daydream about giving her own summer parties when all the work was finished. Then she shook herself. “You mean the Avores were once popular hosts?”

  M. Charpet and his sister laughed derisorily.

  “No, never! This was before, when it was owned by the Malpas family. Before they were forced out by the Avores.”

  “Forced out?”

  M. Charpet glanced at his sister, whose almost imperceptible nod seemed to stiffen his resolve. “Madame, the history of the Avore and the Malpas families is not a happy one.”

  Penelope leaned forward unconciously as Charpet continued.

  “Le Chant d’Eau was owned by the Malpas family for generations, but something happened during the war. No one knows what it was exactly, but we all knew that Gustave Avore, Manuel’s grandfather, was a collaborator.”

  The old Frenchman paused to register his disgust. “There were four Malpas brothers, all strong Resistance men. It is rumoured that old Avore informed on them.”

  He spoke carefully so that Penelope would understand. “The occupying forces needed information about the Resistance—and they had plenty of collaborators in the town hall administrations willing to reward those who did the dirty work of informing on the patriots. Whatever happened, when Provence was liberated, the Avores were living at Le Chant d’Eau, and the two older Malpas brothers and their families had been shot. The younger two were still fighting farther north. Roger and Jean-Jacques were hotheads. They wanted to take the fight all the way to Germany. They did not return for many months.”

  “But surely the Malpas brothers got the house back when they reappeared?”

  “Ah, madame, the end of the war was a difficult time. Many people wanted to forget that some among us were collaborators and traitors. Roger and Jean-Jacques Malpas were quietly given compensation, but they never managed to repossess Le Chant d’Eau. That would have required the opening of too many old wounds. Who knows which official had sanctioned the original transfer? Was he still there? Everyone preferred to keep the past closed. Especially some of our administrators who had cooperated with the Nazis.”

  “So that’s why people hated the Avores.”

  “Collaborators can never be forgiven, not here in the Luberon. That was the cause of the feud between the Louchards and the Avores, too. The Louchards were brave Resistants. This Avore business is of course sad, but I cannot say that I am not pleased that he has finally met with justice.” Charpet, who had been working himself up throughout the conversation, finished by bringing a fist down hard on the table and tossing back a nearly full glass of wine.

  Penelope did not want to upset her host by pushing him now for more information. There would be other times. Grasping for a change in subject, she launched into the first optimistic thing that came into her head.

  “When I first arrived, M. Louchard said there was a village rumour that there was hidden treasure somewhere on my land. Do you know anything about that?”

  “That old story!” piped up Valentine.

  “It’s not true? Oh, now I’m disappointed!” joked Penelope.

  “Actually, that’s a wartime story, too,” said Charpet, looking fierce. “The so-called treasure was supposed to be another reward old Avore received for helping the Nazis. It must have been a lot of help, because the word was that he was given looted jewellery and gold that was never processed into gold bars. Dirty gold, from terrible thefts. Jewish gold, you know.”

  Penelope nodded, feeling uncomfortable.

  “It was kept hidden because he knew it would be taken from him if anyone found it. So he buried it. That was the story anyway.”

  “But surely he would have sold it, bit by bit, over the years?”

  “He probably did. But
the story persisted.”

  A pause lengthened as they considered the past.

  “Mme Valencourt told me that there had been a few strange events at the house when the people from Lyon owned it.”

  M. Charpet exhaled deeply. “They were not here very much. And when they were, they did not seem very happy. They were always having problems with the water, the electricity supply, too much rain or too little rain. They came here less and less, though it was supposed to be their dream retirement home . . . and then, the fatal accident, poor souls.”

  “Then it was empty for, what—two years?”

  “About that.”

  “Do you have a big family, Mme Keet?” asked Valentine, side-stepping the depressing turn the conversation had taken on the subject of Le Chant d’Eau and its previous owners.

  “No, not really.”

  Under close questioning, Penelope told them a little about David, the children, and the “très amicable divorce.” She didn’t want them to think she was the slightest bit sad.

  “David is a lawyer in London. He works very hard. Now I look back, I realise he was not at home very much, even when the children were very young. I married him and instantly had a family.”

  Valentine nodded slowly. “You did not have a child of your own?”

  “No.” Penelope paused. “I think of Lena and Justin as my own. And I am the only mother they remember. Though they have always known that their birth mother died—it was terribly sad, very sudden. She drowned, in the sea. Caught in the current on a weekend trip to the beach. David was devastated. When I met him, he was so tall and handsome, but he had the saddest eyes I had ever seen. All I wanted was to take some of the pain away.”

  She found she wanted to talk about this. “David used to tell me I was too hard on the children, discipline-wise, when they were growing up, but I could see problems ahead if I let him spoil them and do whatever they wanted when he was not there. I thought that was part of being a good mother. Sometimes I feel they still resent this, even now they are adults—and at others I know that the fact that we can have all the normal family disagreements and still love each other means that they consider that I really am their mother. Does that make sense?”