by Katie Penryn
I nodded.
“Good. I expect to see more dedication from you in the next six months. We, white witches can never let our guard down. The forces of evil are out there waiting for us to weaken. Have you been keeping up with the renewal of your defensive aura against the Witch doctor of the Wazini?”
“Yes, your Ladyship.”
“You must maintain it because that is a situation we have been unable to resolve as yet.”
I nodded again.
“Ladies,” she said and in the blink of an eye they all faded away.
“Phew,” said Felix. “Glad that’s over.”
Chapter 6
I started awake on Saturday morning with the thought that I had nothing suitable to wear for the medal award ceremony at the Château de Portemorency. When Felix came in with my tea, I told him about my misgivings.
“French women are so chic, Felix. I’ll be an onion in a rose patch.”
Felix roared his head off. “That’s great. You should see your face. You actually look like an onion with the miserable look you’ve got on your face. It’s enough to make anyone cry.”
A gentle knock rapped on the door. Jimbo bounced in and jumped on my bed. “What’s all the fun about?”
Felix stopped laughing long enough to say, “Penzi’s worried she’s going to stick out like an onion at the do tonight.”
A puzzled look crossed Jimbo’s face. “Why? She doesn’t smell bad.”
“Oh not that, you silly,” I said in exasperation. “You guys never understand about clothes and how important they are. I don’t have anything to wear.”
Jimbo looked more mystified than ever. “Can’t you buy something?”
Felix cocked an eyebrow at me. “Good idea. Can’t you? Maybe Gwinny would go with you and help you choose something.”
I sighed. “As if she could help. Have you seen the clothes she wears? She still dresses as if she’s living in that Druid commune up in Brittany. She’s not the fashion savvy woman who was my mother when I was a teenager.”
Felix sat down on my bed across from Jimbo and took a few mouthfuls of his tea.
“What about Izzy?” he said. “Now, there’s a woman who knows how to dress.”
Don’t think for a moment I hadn’t noticed Felix eyeing Izzy up and down whenever we met her because I had. It had never bothered me because all men do, and Felix had a point.
“Okay, Izzy it is… if she has the time today.”
I picked up my phone and called her. She answered immediately and said she’d love to accompany me, said she knew a cute little boutique down one of the side streets in Beaucoup-sur-Mer.
“I thought I’d have to go to Bordeaux,” I said, “and then I’d be too tired for the ceremony.”
“Ceremony?” she asked. “What ceremony?”
“The awards for the best cognac at the Château de Portemorency.”
“Oh, I’m going to that… and I have a surprise for you.”
“What sort of surprise?”
“You’ll have to wait and see. I’ll meet you on the Esplanade in an hour. Okay?”
I agreed and thanked her. She was a truly good friend to give up her time on the morning of an important party when she could have been preparing herself. As a movie star and an A-lister at that, she had to make sure she always looked her best for fear of the paparazzi printing unflattering photos.
“All settled?” asked Felix taking my empty mug off me and getting to his feet.
I nodded. “Thanks both of you for nudging me and blowing away my worries.”
“That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it, Jimbo?” Felix said guiding Jimbo towards the door.
Jimbo turned back. “Penzi, will these children like me?”
“Of course, they will. You’re special.”
*
We set off at four thirty for the fifty mile journey to the château, our route taking us through a panorama of vineyards stretching far away to the vanishing point on the horizon. Tendrils of brightest green waved above the gnarled stems of the vines. Spring had worked its magic and set the vines alive once more. We passed through Cognac, crossed over the River Charente and edged into the countryside on the other side of the river. Ahead of us rose the two ancient towers guarding the gateway into the château. Felix had read on the internet that these were all that remained of the old castle dating back to the ninth century. The château that appeared before us as we drove through the gate had been built on the ruins of the original castle and was relatively new for a French château, dating only from the mid 1880’s, but its style was from the period of Napoleon with a mansard roof and windows, and doorways lined with pillars and capped with pediments. We rolled on slowly through the crisply tailored lawns and flower beds to the empty parking area surrounding a vast stone fountain in the shape of an angel.
I parked our old runabout and hoped it wouldn’t feel too out of place when the limousines and expensive sports cars arrived at six. With our new-found wealth, we had to buy a new car, but hadn’t had time yet. Felix collected up his pocket sized digital camera and shot off a few snaps of the front of the house. I warned him to put it away and wait for our official visit for serious photo taking. We didn’t want our hosts to consider us intrusive.
We rang the doorbell at the side of the double height front doors. A middle-aged woman of short stature and with graying hair answered. She was about to speak to us when there was a loud rumble on the gravel behind us and two television trucks drew up.
“Merde,” she said to herself, and almost pushing us aside she ran down the steps to accost the driver climbing out of the first truck.
“You can’t park here,” she shouted.
“We were told Monsieur de Portemorency would be here to meet us and direct us,” the driver answered looking put out at such a hostile reception.
“Well, he’s met with an accident so you’ll have to do as I say,” she said standing with her arms akimbo to block access to the front door.
“Accident? That’s not a good beginning,” I whispered to Felix who shrugged his lack of knowledge. “Perhaps we should leave?”
“Wait, give the woman a chance to explain,” he replied.
Meanwhile the woman had been giving the driver directions. He climbed back into his truck, slammed the door muttering under his breath, and drove out of the courtyard and around the side of the château followed by his colleague.
The woman washed her hands of them and slapped her hands on her thighs before turning back to us. “What a day,” she said mounting the steps back up to the front door. Scanning our formal attire she asked, “You are guests for the awards? I’m Madame Brune, the housekeeper, and I apologize for the greeting I gave you, but it has been a disaster today.”
I nodded. “Mpenzi Munro and my friend, Felix Munro.”
“But you are early.”
“We have an appointment with Madame de Portemorency for five.”
She tutted and shook her head. “No one tells me anything and here I am rushing around trying to help sort things out. I’ll take you through to Madame now, but she may not be able to give you more than five minutes.”
“What’s happened?” I asked as I shepherded Jimbo through the door before me.
She led us down a long hall, her stout legs making short work of the black and white marble slabs. A vaulted ceiling rose high above us making my formal high heels echo as I tried to keep my balance on the slippery floor.
When she didn’t answer, Felix asked her again.
She paused for a moment waiting for us to catch up. “The atmosphere in the house has been horrible for the last few weeks. Monsieur and Madame have been arguing which is something they never do. I’m worn out with the tension because I don’t know what’s wrong. And now Monsieur’s had an accident. You’ll see soon enough. Everything’s chaotic, and the ceremony is due to start in less than an hour.”
She set off again. We followed until we arrived at a double door at the far end of the hall.
She stopped and said, “I realize I’ve been indiscreet. It’s because I’m anxious. Please don’t mention what I’ve said to anyone.”
She pushed it open and announced us. No one looked up and no wonder.
A tall slim woman with long blond hair was kneeling beside a man lying on the rug. He turned his head at our approach, his face blanched of all color and his expression bleak. A pool of blood was soaking into the rug but the woman’s position hid the cause from our view.
Felix rushed forwards. “Can I help? I have some training in emergency field medicine.”
The woman stood up and glanced from Felix to me. “You’re the Munros?” she asked holding out her hand to Felix before realizing it was covered in blood and wiping it on her skirt.
Felix gave her a polite smile and squatted down to take at look at the man’s wound. “Your husband?”
She nodded. “Yes, this is Jean-Claude. Silly man thought he could do the gardener’s work and now look what’s happened?”
I stepped closer. De Portemorency had a deep slash right across the front of his right ankle. Someone had fastened a makeshift tourniquet around his thigh. Just as well, I thought, but Felix asked for a belt and made a tourniquet around the shin and calf a couple of inches above the wound and released the higher one.
“We need to apply pressure,” he said and suited his actions to his words by feeling carefully around de Portemorency’s knee and pressing firmly upwards on what I guessed was the vein running behind the knee and down the leg.
Satisfied that he could do no more Felix asked, “Have you called the emergency services?”
Hélène replied, “Of course, they should be here any minute. Jean-Claude’s lost of lot of blood as you can see and there’s more outside on the front lawn.” She pointed out of the window at the back of the building where an overturned ride-on lawn mower stood.
The housekeeper cast around her for something useful to do. She picked up a cushion and made to put it under de Portemorency’s foot. “We should raise it,” she said.
Felix knocked the cushion away with his spare hand. “No, we mustn’t move his leg.”
“They’re here,” said Hélène with a sigh of relief at the sound of the eee-ore of the French Samu siren in the distance, the Service d'Aide Médicale Urgente. She ran out into the hall to meet the paramedics.
I knelt down and took Jean-Claude’s hand. “Hang in there. There’s help on the way.”
“What happened?” Felix asked the housekeeper who was still hovering about not knowing what she could do to help.
“The gardener didn’t turn up for work today. Monsieur waited until the last minute and then decided he would have to mow the lawn there at the back if the château was to look at its best for the ceremony. We told him to leave it, an inch here or there wasn’t going to matter, but he insisted.”
Jean-Claude muttered, “I thought it’d be easy.”
The housekeeper looked out at the garden. “You see that grassy slope?”
We nodded.
“We don’t know what happened, but the mower slipped on the wet grass and overbalanced. It fell on top of him. The blade sliced through his ankle. Any deeper and it would have cut his foot right off.”
“But it has severed his artery,” Felix said.
There was a bustle behind us and the paramedics came in. We moved aside to give them room. Within minutes they had done their best to stop the bleeding and were wheeling Jean-Claude out to their waiting vehicle saying there wasn’t a moment to lose. Felix gave Hélène his arm and supported her out to say goodbye to her husband. She wanted to go with him to the hospital but he insisted she stay and host the award ceremony.
“Chérie, we’ve worked so hard to be in the top three. You must stay. They’ll take good care of me. Now, hurry and change. You’re covered in my blood.”
Hélène kissed him and allowed herself to be drawn aside by Felix as the doors to the ambulance were closed. As her husband was driven away, the ambulance passed the first of the limousines arriving with attendees of the ceremony which was due to start at any minute.
I whispered to Felix, he handed me his silver hip flask. I left him to help the housekeeper with the TV crews and the guests and accompanied Hélène upstairs thinking she needed some moral support and possibly a hand changing her dress. When we entered her bedroom, two pretty spotted cats leapt off her bed and ran to hide behind the curtains. Hélène collapsed onto the bed and put her head in her hands. Any minute now she was going to start crying and that wouldn’t do. I poured out a capful of Laphroaig and coaxed her to swallow it.
“Come now, you’ve had a shock. This will help.”
She held my hands with hers and tipped the cap up taking a sip. She spluttered and spat it out.
“Try again,” I said refusing to take my hand away. She gazed up at me with tears gathering in her eyes. “Drink,” I said. “Jean-Claude is depending on you to do the right thing and uphold the family honor.”
She smiled at that. “That’s a very English way of looking at things,” she said, but she did drink the whisky down.
I rubbed her hands and waited for the spirits to take effect. The color crept back into her cheeks and she gave me another faint smile. “Thank you. You’re kind.”
“Here, let me help you,” I said easing her to her feet and turning her round so I could unzip her frock.
While she flicked the hangers along in her wardrobe, I took her discarded frock into the bathroom and put it to soak in the basin which I filled with cold water to prevent the blood from staining.
She came into the bathroom behind me. “Oh, please don’t bother,” she said. “I’m never going to wear that again. Such a horrible memory.” She burst into tears and sat down on the bathroom chair.
I snatched up a facecloth and wet it. I gently pulled down her hands and held the cold cloth to her eyes.
“Save the tears, Hélène. Your guests are arriving.”
“I can’t go down there. Everything will be in a muddle without Jean-Claude. He’s the cognac specialist. I’m just the business side of things.”
“Nonsense. Felix will have made sure by now that the organizers of the ceremony know what’s happened. All you have to do is turn up. Now dry your eyes and let’s get you dressed again.”
Ten minutes later Hélène was ready to return to the ceremony downstairs, a little swollen about the eyes but with a determined smile on her face. I gestured towards the door.
“No wait,” she said turning back. “I have to find my cats and reassure them. We scared them when we came in.”
“They’re behind the curtain over there,” I said pointing to where a cat’s tail was on view.
Hélène crouched down and whispered to the nervous felines. While I kept a close eye on the time, she coaxed them out of their hiding place and encouraged them to jump up onto the bed again.
“Hélène,” I called to her. “We must go.”
“Of course,” she said, “but I couldn’t leave my precious Asheras trembling with fright. They’re so valuable, we don’t allow them out of the house.”
She followed me to the door.
“Let’s do this,” she said as we stepped out of the room and began our descent of the long staircase.
“See, you didn’t need to worry,” I said when we reached the bottom.
The guests were taking their places in the magnificent Empire reception room at the front of the house. Felix spotted us and brought the organizer over to greet Hélène. He expressed his dismay at the accident and at Jean-Claude’s absence.
“Let me fetch you a drink,” said Felix signaling one of the waiters over and taking a brandy cocktail off the tray. He handed it to Hélène saying, “Get that down you. It’ll put hairs on your chest.”
“What?” she asked staring at him aghast. Then she laughed. “Oh, that’s some English joke, no?”
“There you are,” said Felix. “That did the trick.”
“You people are as kind as Mo
nsieur Bonhomie said you’d be. Now I must circulate.”
And circulate she did.
Felix and I walked about the room speaking when spoken to, but we didn’t know anyone there. The general topic of conversation was the sharp frost that had zapped the vineyards a couple of days before and debate as to whether it had damaged the new growth badly enough to affect the year’s harvest. Perhaps that accounted for the tension in the household. I was glad when the signal was given for the ceremony to begin and people made their way to the velvet chairs arranged at the end of the room. As the crush sorted itself out, Izzy appeared with a handsome man in tow, followed by the ever present Garth, her ex-Special Boat Service bodyguard. She gave me a brief wave and found seats a few rows behind ours.
Chapter 7
Several members of the Bureau National de Cognac, the BNC, gave speeches about the history and culture surrounding the production of cognac; the previous year’s harvest; and the development of export markets, the largest of which is the USA. Hélène was sitting in the front row. She kept her back straight throughout the long and somewhat boring proceedings, well, boring to me because the French was so fast and so idiomatic I found it difficult to follow what was being said. Hélène appeared to be bearing up to the challenge of hostess of the prestigious ceremony. At last the speeches were over and the chairman of the BNC introduced the Minister for Agriculture and Food who was there to award the medals.
A hush fell over the audience of cognac producers and aficionados. As is customary the chairman read out the winner of the brass medal, followed by the silver. He paused for dramatic effect before reading out the winner of the coveted gold medal. The audience leaned forward as one and held their breath.
In a ringing voice he called out, “The winner of the Médaille d’Or for last year is…”
No one heard who the winner was except those standing beside him. The microphone had died and all the lights had flickered off plunging the room into darkness. What a time to have a power cut. All was consternation and muddle. Felix and I stood up quickly and pushed along our row of seats to the side. Way up in front of us, Hélène was sitting with her head in her hands and rocking from side to side.