by Serena Kent
Penelope fainted.
32
WHEN SHE CAME TO, PENELOPE saw flashing blue lights through the trees but couldn’t work out what they were. M. Louchard was leaning over her. Two gendarmes in blue uniforms moved swiftly to her side.
“What’s happening?” she cried. “Did someone shoot me? I knew someone was trying to shoot me!”
“Is all right, madame. Everything is OK.” Louchard smiled. “Only a few moments you have been sleeping.”
“Sleeping?”
“You passed out,” said a muscular policeman.
She was helped down the hill to her house, to find a reception committee outside comprising the chief of police, the lugubrious Inspector Gamelin, the mayor, and Clémence.
The diminutive Reyssens stepped forward. “You did well, madame.”
Praise indeed.
“I will make you a cup of tea,” said Clémence. “We will all have one!”
“I think I need a plum brandy,” said Penelope.
“How do you feel now?” asked the mayor, sounding genuinely concerned. “Do you need to lie down?”
Penelope lowered herself onto a kitchen chair, helped by a gendarme. She felt a little shaky but not too bad, all things considered. “No, I’m fine.”
The mayor sat down next to her and held her hand. That felt nice. “As soon as you feel ready, tell us what happened out there.”
Everyone looked at her expectantly. The chief of police stood by the window. “There are two gendarmes standing guard outside the back door, and two more by the front entrance,” he said. “You have no more worries.”
The mayor took a nod from Gamelin and asked her gently, “What can you remember?”
“I don’t really understand what happened,” Penelope murmured. “I thought Didier was such a nice, helpful young man. I thought we were friends—and then he dragged me off in the back of his van!”
It was galling to think that her judgement had been so flawed. Had she taken leave of all her senses since moving here, or had hormonal confusion seen off the last of her brain cells? She closed her eyes.
“He had a knife.” It was coming back to her, but everything still seemed a bit fuzzy. “He was going to set my house on fire . . . or something. He wanted my house.”
Was that right? Penelope sat back in her chair and took a sip of plum brandy. Feeling sticky and hot, she picked up the nearest flat object from the table and started to fan herself. She put it down again quickly when she realised it was her copy of The Menopause and You.
“The Malpas family has been trying to take ownership of this property for many years. But legally their claim had no validity, and no one took them seriously,” said the mayor.
Penelope was still feeling fuzzy, but she remembered something. “M. Charpet told me the Malpases did own it before the war.”
“That may be true,” said the mayor. “And there have always been questions about how the Avores came out of the war living here, rewarded for some act of treachery. Unfortunately, many of the official records were lost or destroyed in the months that followed the Liberation.”
“How convenient,” said Penelope weakly.
“After the war there was such confusion. Much was covered up, especially by the collaborators. Whatever we suspect about their misdeeds can never be proved.”
“What happened then?”
“The Avores were useless farmers. They couldn’t make this place work, and it was eventually sold by Manuel Avore to pay his debts.”
“Except that it wasn’t!” cried Penelope. She had a rush of clarity. “I need to fetch something!”
She climbed the stairs and returned, clutching her head and the title deeds to the house.
“Ooh, I don’t think I should have done that. But look at this!”
She set the document on the table and found the relevant page. Her legs were so weak, she sat down again quickly. “Manuel Avore did not sell the house to the couple from Lyon in March 2010. By then, it wasn’t his to sell. For only a matter of months, it was owned by . . .” She pointed to the name.
They all spoke at once.
“Michel Cailloux!” exclaimed the mayor.
“Sacré bleu!” said the chief of police.
“That changes everything,” said Clémence. “The disputed land on the title deeds! The complication arose because a parcel of land had never been correctly transferred to the previous owners, the Girards. It remained registered to the Avores, though it is clearly part of this property. The notary thought it was a simple mistake, years ago. But perhaps Manuel Avore deliberately kept it back from Cailloux when he sold the house and land to him.”
Inspector Gamelin made a measured note of the page number on the document. “May I take this to copy?” he asked.
Laurent Millais was nonplussed. “So why did no one know this Cailloux, then? Where did he come from?” He seemed quite cross not to know.
“I think I can answer that,” said Penelope. “And tell you why Cailloux was killed. Cailloux was a professional gambler—a cheat and a card shark.”
They all stared at her.
“Cailloux double-crossed Avore and Malpas at a game of cards. The prize was Le Chant d’Eau.”
Penelope closed her eyes to marshal her thoughts. She explained about the game that was supposed to deliver justice and the house back to the Malpas family, and the way Michel Cailloux took his chance to outwit both parties and renege on his deal with the brothers, a piece of chicanery that resulted in his murder.
“So you suggest Cailloux was killed by a Malpas?” asked the chief of police.
The mayor whistled. “It would explain the ace of spades in his hand.”
“What if the card was placed with Cailloux’s remains to make it look like a sign from the Marseille underworld?” Penelope turned to the chief. “That was what you told me you thought it was, didn’t you?”
He went puce.
“And what’s more,” said Penelope, “I think Didier must have seen these deeds this afternoon. I was reading them upstairs when he arrived. I left them out when I heard a noise and went to find out what it was. Didier went up there, supposedly to begin rewiring. He was up there alone. Come to think of it, he was acting a little strangely after he had seen the card table I found.”
“Card table, madame?” asked the chief. “What was special about that??”
“I found a card table at the back of the barn. It had the deck of cards and the newspaper cuttings in it—the ones I sent to M. Gamelin. You remember, the deck without the ace of spades. Didier must have recognised the table before he went upstairs. He might even have put the cards in there himself, after . . . after . . .”
“After helping to bury the ace with the body of M. Cailloux!” supplied Clémence. “So, he would have known you had found the cards, and he saw that you were searching the deeds. Which was why he threatened you as he did! You were close to making the connections. And that is why . . .” She hesitated.
“Go on,” commanded Reyssens.
“Before the sale to you could go through, we had to sort out a mistake in the land documents. You remember? A small section was still registered—wrongly—to the Avores. No one had noticed that in the quick sale to the previous owners.”
Penelope’s head whirred. “Goodness . . . I’ve just thought of something. You know the old story about treasure hidden on the property? What if it’s in the parcel of land that caused the legal difficulty . . . that Manuel Avore tried to fudge when he lost Le Chant d’Eau in the game of cards?”
Clémence widened her eyes.
“What if that was what Jean-Luc Malpas and Didier were after, as well as the house? Didier admitted it—or I think he did.”
“We will be investigating all of this,” said Reyssens pompously.
Penelope glared at him. “Do you think the Malpas men are the ones who’ve been shooting at me? Breaking windows with hunting shotguns? Trying to kill me in cold blood with bullets?”
“We
are already investigating this,” said Reyssens.
“I should think so, too,” said Penelope. She looked across at her neighbour. “And don’t forget that one of them could well have fired the shot from M. Louchard’s farm with the express purpose of framing M. Louchard, making it look as if he was the gunman.”
“C’est vrai—les salauds!” said Louchard.
Gamelin nodded. “I have no doubt that we will find that the rifle used was that of Louchard. My detectives will be taking it for examination.”
“How did he get his hands on Louchard’s rifle?”
The mayor interjected. “Oh, that is easy to explain. You see, Jean-Luc Malpas is a representative of a tool and machinery shop—a business that also supplies locks. Sometimes Jean-Luc fits these locks if there is no one else to do it. For him, it would be the work of moments to get into M. Louchard’s farm and his rifle cupboard. He can open any house or outbuilding without damage. Without leaving any evidence that the door has been opened.”
Penelope silently digested this news. “This tool and machinery shop—Darrieux SARL, at Coustellet?”
“Yes.”
“And of course, Jean-Luc Malpas knew Louchard would be away that day at the tractor competition in Banon,” added Clémence.
“And Didier knew I would be having lunch with M. Charpet and his sister!” Penelope realised. “He was right there, at the vide grenier, when M. Charpet invited me, and I accepted!”
“There you are, then.”
“It’s so hard to believe . . .”
Reyssens puffed up his chest like a cockerel. “As I have said, it is clear that the Malpas family wanted to scare you off. It was a horrible act of intimidation against you, the new owner of Le Chant d’Eau. I have no doubt that the murder of Manuel Avore and the planting of his body in the pool, perhaps even the shootings . . . it was all intended to scare and confuse you. To make you leave almost as soon as you had arrived.”
“And to make the property almost unsaleable,” added Clémence. “Who wants to buy a house associated with a murder? The Malpases could then have bought it for very little.”
“It nearly succeeded,” said Penelope.
“Ah, but you are British, madame. We can all see that you have the famous stiff upper lip and courage,” said the mayor warmly.
Penelope managed a smile, feeling—it was true—a certain stiffness around the mouth. She sat up a little straighter.
“So Didier was talking to you?” asked the mayor.
“He would hardly shut up. He’s a chatterbox under the best of circumstances.”
Gamelin listened intently, pen poised above his notebook.
Penelope rubbed her right temple. “It was something to do with his uncle. He said I saw Jean-Luc the day I arrived. I’m not sure I’m thinking straight. A minute ago everything was clear, and now I’m just getting a headache.”
“No, I think you are right, and we are beginning to see the answer,” said the mayor. He squeezed Penelope’s hand and then stood up, as if he were giving a speech.
“It was the bad luck of the Malpases that you, Penny, had no fear of dead bodies—and also that you understood them and what forensic science can tell us. For it was you who first disputed the idea that Manuel Avore had met with a simple drowning accident or was a suicide, was it not?”
She nodded. “It was the floppiness of the body when it was brought out of the pool. I couldn’t help noticing.”
“Exactly.”
“The timing didn’t add up. M. Avore couldn’t have been that dead, if you see what I mean, if indeed it was him, I’d seen him around six thirty the previous evening. Judging from the lack of rigor mortis, the body that came out of the pool at midday the next day had been dead for more than twenty-six hours.” She turned to the chief of police and Gamelin. “I tried to tell you that. The man I met on that first evening and the body in the pool could not have been the same person.”
Reyssens nodded, expressionless.
The mayor held up a palm. “And you were right, Penny. My theory is this. You were supposed to think that you met Manuel Avore in your garden on the day of your arrival at Le Chant d’Eau. I think you met Jean-Luc Malpas—dressed as Manuel Avore!”
“You’re right. Didier admitted it.”
The mayor smiled at each of them in turn. “A clever idea, was it not? Jean-Luc is a skilled trickster. He is about the same height and build as Manuel Avore. He could do a good job of impersonating Manuel—especially to someone who has never met Manuel Avore before. He put on the man’s cap and suit. He would have made sure you noticed all his characteristics. If you would give them in a description, it would seem obvious that this person you saw was Manuel Avore. You, newly arrived in the village, who knew no one here yet!”
The chief of police reached into a pocket and brought out a notebook and pen.
“They killed Avore earlier, and in the evening, when you had only been here for a few hours, Jean-Luc Malpas dressed in the dead man’s clothes and came down the track into your garden, pretending to be him. Everything he did and said was calculated to sound like Avore, from the description you would give when the body was found.”
“When I was in that . . . that hide,” she started haltingly, “Didier said that Avore came to Jean-Luc’s house to make trouble and taunt them about me moving into Le Chant d’Eau. There was a fight, and Jean-Luc hit Avore with an axe. I’m guessing it’s the axe I found in the borie. So what was the point of this whole charade, of pretending to be Manuel Avore, of meeting me? Was it to try to give themselves an alibi for the supposed time of death?”
Suddenly she was feeling much better, as if she was back at work with dear Professor Fletcher at the Home Office forensic department.
“I think it must have been,” said the chief of police, making a note. “We will know for sure when they are interviewed.”
“Do they know nothing about forensics—how quickly that trick would be exposed?” Penelope shook her head. The lack of proper planning and attention to detail among the criminal fraternity never ceased to amaze her. “And . . . though I did meet Jean-Luc Malpas at his brocante stall at the vide grenier, and he did look familiar, naturally I never connected him with the man I thought was Manuel Avore. He was wearing nice clothes and sunglasses, too.”
“Exactly.”
Many of the villagers had the same shortish, wiry stature and suntanned faces, Penelope thought, but it might be rude, if not un-PC, to say so. One had to be so careful these days. Not that that stopped anyone from commenting on British upper lips.
“Do you think Jean-Luc heard M. Charpet saying that the oil lamp I bought looked familiar? I found out later that I’d probably bought back the outside lantern that he’d stolen. How mean is that? I expect he thought it was funny. How easy was I to rip off! But I never could have imagined that—”
“Tell her about the Coustellet connection,” prompted Clémence.
“I was coming to that,” said the mayor. “That was what we discovered today. You were quite right to link the Darrieux store at Coustellet to the perpetrators of this crime. It was an important observation that may not have been given due credit.”
Reyssens shifted uncomfortably.
“It was Jean-Luc Malpas who bought the Strauss axe. I exerted some . . . pressure on M. Darrieux to reveal the credit card details of purchasers. His name was not among those, but he found himself remembering that Malpas had bought that make, and had first tried to get it for free because it was faulty and its head was loose. Darrieux wanted to send it back to the manufacturer, but Jean-Luc persuaded him to let him have it at cost price. It was very lucky for you that we did go to the shop. That was when Clémence phoned you, only to find that Didier Picaud was with you. We came straight back up—only just in time, as it turned out.”
Penelope shuddered. “When they dumped Manuel Avore’s body in the pool that night, they planted the axe in M. Charpet’s hut. They must have thought they had solved all their problems at once
.”
Mention of the axe seemed to have made the chief aware that he ought to be scuttling back to the police station. He stood up and said goodbye, shaking hands solemnly, this time with a noticeable modicum of respect.
Slumped at her kitchen table, Penelope found she couldn’t stop talking now. “Didier! I had no idea! How on earth did you know? I feel like such an idiot—but how could I have known?”
Then she raised her hand to her mouth. Everyone looked startled.
“What is it?” asked Gamelin urgently.
“It must have been either Jean-Luc or Didier who cut the brake cable on my car, too! What if I’d got in it to drive down the hill?”
The horror seemed worse now that she really was safe.
In the end there was only one more question. “Why didn’t Didier drive farther away after he had bundled me into his van? Why stop at the hide?”
“I can answer that, madame,” said M. Louchard proudly. “There was nowhere else to go. When I get the call from Clémence that Didier is at Le Chant d’Eau, I drive my prize-winning Mariette to the end of the track, and I park her there to block the exit!”
33
TWO DAYS LATER, AFTER COUNTLESS cups of tea and acts of kindness from her new friends and neighbours, Penelope was invited to present herself at the mairie.
Gentle wind in the trees sounded like running water as she walked briskly along in the autumn morning sun. In the woods above, the hunters’ hide where she had spent such an agonising half hour with Didier was so skilfully masked by holm oaks that it was invisible. She moved on swiftly.
No cars passed her on the road up to St Merlot. When she arrived at the square, the stock-still old man reading the newspaper under the trees looked up as she passed, and raised his hand in salute. The unexpected movement almost gave her a heart attack.
“Bonjour, Mme Keet!”
“Er, bonjour, monsieur!”
Penelope gave him a wide smile as he tipped his beret and resumed reading.
Next, she passed a few people milling around the shop, who smiled at her. Penelope felt as if a door had finally opened. She would still be a foreigner here—but a welcome foreigner, who was part of village life.