“Mister Mayor, I believe I’m speaking on behalf of everyone when I ask you to provide us with more details about the death of Mrs. Campbell.”
The mayor wishes he were miles away, you can tell by the way the corners of his mouth curl down, but he stands up, because that’s what we all expect of him, now let’s see what he has to say:
“D-d-dear c-c-constituents, you are all aware of the t-t-tragic circumstances surrounding the death of Li-li-lisa C-c-campbell, I d-d-d-don’t have to re-re-re-mind you.”
We think the mayor should really learn to get to the crux of the matter instead of telling us what we already know, but maybe it’s just sadness and idleness making us talk that way.
“Li-li-lisa C-c-campbell was indeed sh-sho-shot dead by a stray b-b-b-bullet, our friend D-d-d-doctor Harmer has c-c-c-confirmed it.”
Doctor Harmer can confirm whatever he likes; he must be pushing eighty by now, with his wrinkled skin and his judgment failing as fast as his eyesight, we really need a new doctor in the village, but who on earth would want such a position? His so-called confirmation leaves us skeptical, but the mayor hasn’t finished:
“I’m afraid m-m-my s-s-sister-in-law, Al-Albania, has t-t-taken a t-t-t-urn for the worse this w-w-w-week…”
Apparently the murder of Lisa Campbell has upset Albania Meaney more than the rest of us, even though those two were like cat and dog ever since Albania decided to do her own hair, and yet she’s been having a complete breakdown over the past three days, a real drama queen, that one, as we’ve said before. And if the mayor thinks anyone in their right mind is going to send her flowers and a get-well card, he’s got another think coming! His comments are met with sullen silence, and he gets the message and quickly turns back to the problem at hand:
“The huntsman has y-y-yet to identify himself, b-b-b-but it’s only a matter of t-t-t-time. Isn’t that so?”
We try to share his optimism, but the baker jumps to his feet in a flash:
“What about Sybille?”
We stifle a gasp, and the mayor replies:
“Wh-wh-what about Sybille?”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that she could be the unknown huntsman?”
Two accusations in the space of three weeks—that’s a good average for a baker. We know the man’s got personality to spare, but now he’s outdone the mayor, the priest, the doctor, and even Albania. Note to selves: consider the baker as possible candidate in next municipal election. The mayor’s face drops:
“M-m-mister Leaven, haven’t I w-w-w-warned everyone about being too quick to make ac-ac-accusations? My re-re-recommendation still stands this week.”
The baker frowns, he doesn’t like being contradicted, before he was elected mayor, Roger Gross would never have dared stand up to him, but his position of power has obviously given him the confidence to confront the baker, who turns red and huffs:
“All I’m saying is this: Two weeks ago there’s a robbery, last week a broken window, this week a murder. What’s it going to be next week? A rape? Worse: genocide?”
We swallow nervously, genocide, what an awful word. What could it mean? It’s so hot in here, and there goes Angelina White putting another log in the stove, what is she thinking? Look at her adjusting her woolen shawl, that old spinster, but the baker has a point: over the past three weeks our world has been turned upside down; whereas before, we had to pray for some miserable scandal to spice up life in the village, now everything is happening too fast. Maybe we should have ferreted out a new police chief when the previous one died of old age three years ago, but then again, who would want to come live here, in the middle of nowhere? We’ve been negligent all the same. All this brouhaha is making us dizzy, let’s try to breathe calmly, ah look, there are the young newlyweds Albert Miller and Blanche Bedford standing up to say something, so far as we know it’s the first time they’ve spoken as Mr. and Mrs. Miller, so it’s worth listening to what they have to say:
“We have something to say.”
Ah, young people, what do they know, but we forgive them because it’s their first time, still, we have to laugh as they explain that they’ve got something to say, well of course they’ve got something to say; it’s obvious, isn’t it? Those more learned than us would call it a pleonasm, but even so, we smile tenderly as Albert explains:
“Sybille cannot be the unknown huntsman.”
He cuts a fine figure, young Albert, with his long straight nose and broad shoulders, we can see why Blanche, who has a certain style about her too—all Helga and blonde braids—took a liking to him, but wait, we’re getting distracted here. What did he just say?
“I said Sybille is not the unknown huntsman.”
Well now! Leaven and Albania may be quick to accuse, but as far as the miller is concerned, Ruth is whiter than his whitest flour, yet does he have any proof? What nerve to contradict the baker! It’s enough to earn you nails in your bread, just ask Dr. Harmer, who got exactly that a few years ago, luckily he’s a doctor and was able to treat himself, because you can imagine that eating a load of nails full of tetanus for breakfast could seriously upset one’s digestion. Ah haa! There goes the baker, he’s not going to take that sitting down:
“Ahh, so Sybille is not the unknown huntsman, you say? Then who is, my children?”
His expression is as mean-spirited as can be. That’s it—the Millers’ bread will be stuffed full of rusty screws tomorrow morning, we’re sure of it, and now Blanche picks up where Albert left off:
“Baker Leaven, of course we don’t know who it is, or we would have gone straight away to the powers that be, as you can well imagine.”
The baker’s eyebrows arch, as do ours, she’s feisty, young Mrs. Miller, and articulate too, rather unusual for a woman her age these days. She goes on:
“What we do know—because we saw it with our own eyes—is that Sybille was not in the woods at Mrs. Campbell’s presumed time of death.”
Then she sits back down and blushes abruptly. That’s all well and good, but why should we take her at her word, how does she know that, and where was Sybille if she wasn’t in the forest because, between you and us, the only time of the year Sybille isn’t in the woods is on her birthday, at least we assume it’s her birthday because she parades through the village all decked out in her fanciest get-up like it’s carnival day, putting on airs and singing in her own tongue, it’s a natural catastrophe that occurs every September, but that’s beside the point, let’s hear what Albert Miller has to say:
“That’s right. That day Sybille was at the mill up on the hill.”
We’re stunned by the revelation. Sybille at the mill? Whatever for? We instantly make a connection: perhaps she decided that, instead of snitching the baker’s loaves, she’d go straight to the source and swipe the flour instead, which would automatically incriminate her for robbery, a crime we’ve suspected her of all along, let’s see what more young Albert can tell us, he’s begun to blush, maybe it’s his blood pressure:
“You see, that day after work, I stayed on at the mill for a while, and Blanche came to join me there.”
Now, why on earth would he have stayed after work, everyone’s free to go home at the end of their work day, that’s the rule, but the baker jumps in and puts the question to him before we have a chance to ask, as we said earlier, he’s a real big mouth, that one, and Albert replies:
“We stayed at the mill because we felt like it, that’s all. The reason why doesn’t matter. Anyway, while we were lying near the grindstones, we heard a noise, and when we stood up and looked out the window, we saw Sybille prowling around the mill. I don’t know what she was doing there, but it was most definitely her, and I can tell you it was exactly eight o’clock—the time Dr. Harmer says Mrs. Campbell was killed—because I heard the church bells chiming in the distance.”
Interesting! Now, Sybille has a solid alibi, she has Albert and Bl
anche to thank for that if ever she bumps into them at the mill or elsewhere, they’ve just saved her skin, but that’s just gone and thrown a wrench in the works—who could have pulled the trigger if it wasn’t Sybille, and did the Miller boy say they were lying near the grindstones, but before we can take that thought any further, the baker stands up again:
“Mr. Mayor, Father Wavery, Dr. Harmer, with all the respect I owe these children, I must question the credibility of their testimony. Did they really see Sybille? At eight o’clock, the sun is setting and it’s hard to see clearly. Perhaps it was someone else they saw? And then there’s the question of what the young couple were doing lying in the flour?”
He doesn’t miss a beat, our baker, but we must admit that we too are curious as to what the two young lovers could have been up to, lying together at a mill, it must be another of their tall tales, we can’t make head nor tail of it, and now it’s a very scarlet Blanche who replies:
“Primo, what we were doing is nobody’s business but ours. Secundo, yes, it was definitely Sybille, we recognized her hair. Tertio, we are not children, and quarto, don’t bother baking any bread for us tomorrow, Mr. Leaven; we’ll be finding ourselves another baker, thank you very much.”
What a joker, that girl, we’ll be finding another baker! Good luck, what with Leaven and his monopoly on dough for miles around, but one man who must be pleased is Giorgio Cantarini with all those Italian words, they always were close, those two, and where is Cantarini anyway? We can’t see him anywhere, what’s the point of allowing him his e basta if he’s not even there to hear it, in any case, the testimony of the young ones is all of a sudden more believable, they say they recognized Sybille by her hair, and that is altogether probable, you’ve really got to see that woman’s hair to understand, it’s impossible to describe, suffice to say it’s something of an ecological disaster, oh look, there goes Father Wavery—again!—eager to have his say:
“That’s enough for today. We won’t learn the huntsman’s identity this evening, that much is clear. Now it’s time to go on home and pray, pray that no further tragedy befalls our village, pray for the soul of our friend Lisa Campbell.”
There he goes again, cutting short the meeting, not that we really mind, after all we have to admit that over the past two weeks our Monday meetings have been something of a roller coaster ride. Let’s go home to bed, it’s getting late, Old Man Harmer has already been asleep on his chair for a good half-hour, he’s ready for retirement, that one.
6
it’s friday, we’re having fun. We watch each other out of the corner of our eye, we smile at each other, our hearts are so very light. That’s because at their Monday meeting, they practically exonerated Sybille. All thanks to the testimony of two of our members. We slept better this week, and we’re sure the Professor did too. He’s keeping us waiting, as is his wont, we keep an eye on the rostrum in case he appears out of nowhere by some sleight of hand. Perhaps our two courageous colleagues will be awarded a medal of honour. We tap our feet and smile.
At last! The Professor appears. We stand and greet him with thunderous applause. The two young heroes blush with pride. Our eyes turn to our master.
His lips are trembling, his eyes bloodshot. He points his divine finger at the couple in question:
“You!”
Yes, them! Tears well in our eyes; we’re writing a page of History, what a wonderful and unique opportunity. The Professor repeats:
“You! You!”
He doesn’t look as happy as we do, but we continue to cheer even louder. Our enthusiasm is bound to win him over. Goodness, how presumptuous of us! Influence the Professor? Us? The idea delights us, we even feel a little bashful; our cheeks flush as we continue to clap.
“Silence!”
We fall silent. Such an enigmatic Professor we have, so unpredictable! Surely the sign of a genius.
“Miserable little swine!” he whispers.
He’s suddenly sweating profusely. His face turns purple. Who is he talking to? Who will have the honour of an affectionate nickname? The Professor says it again, this time a little louder:
“Miserable little swine!”
Now it’s clear. He’s pointing straight at our two brave members, the very same two who managed to get Sybille off the hook.
“Who asked you to testify on Sybille’s behalf?”
The young newlyweds bite their lips in pale silence. Even from our viewpoint we can see they’re gripping each other’s hands so tightly their fingernails have gone white. The woman clears her throat and speaks up:
“Professor, no one asked us to. We simply thought that Sybille and all our fellow members would be relieved to have us shoulder part of the burden.”
She projects her words in a powerful, juvenile tone; we raise our eyebrows. It’s an impressive performance before a man of the Professor’s stature. But it takes more than that, much more, to disarm our master. A smile plays on his lips. What has he got up his sleeve for us now?
“Look at them. So young. So blond. So oblivious.”
He scans the room.
“Don’t do it again. Ever. There’s only one person here who calls the shots.”
Oh, how we long for him to ask us who that person is; we know the answer. We twitch with anticipation, but the question never comes, and the Professor spits:
“And that’s me!”
Oh! Oh.
“Off with you now. I’ve seen enough of you all. Off to bed! To bed!”
We leave the room, vaguely disappointed.
7
What a wonderful week it’s been, in truth a week as normal as can be, but the mere fact there has been no drama other than Amelia Gross having her wisdom teeth removed is enough to lift our spirits, brighten our mood, soothe our nerves. If Sybille had attended the Monday meeting she would surely have proclaimed that the curse had been broken—her and her druidess talk—and for once we would have let her ramble on because it really wouldn’t bother us, but where on earth is Mr. Gross? The mayor’s never late for anything, that’s his most notable quality, we bet Mrs. Latvia the florist knows, after all she knows everything, right down to the late-night habits of the baker, let’s ask her and see what gossip she’ll serve us up this time:
“Mayor Gross? What, am I the only one with eyes and ears in this village?”
Mrs. Latvia wraps everything about herself in euphemism and overblows everything about everyone else, they say it’s typical of pathological liars and histrionic personalities, but what do we know; we’re only repeating what we once overheard Dr. Harmer telling the late Lisa Campbell, and now it’s the baker who jumps in:
“With all due respect, Mrs. Latvia, every one of us here has eyes and ears, only most of us know well enough to leave them at home where they belong.”
There go the florist’s glasses fogging up, such a sensitive woman, or maybe she’s faking it, it’s hard to tell from where we’re sitting. The baker had best retract his comments, how’s he going to get himself out of this one? And now Mrs. Latvia takes out a ridiculous pink handkerchief and sniffles:
“I’m only trying to help. If you don’t want answers, don’t ask questions. I’m at my wits’ end here, looking after three babies on my own at my age and with no pension. It’s no picnic, I can tell you.”
We have to give her that. Since last week she’s had to take the Campbell kids under her wing, and three ill-bred orphans under the same roof as an elderly florist, well, you can imagine the scene—more tragedy than comedy, if you ask us, what with the eldest who spends his days clutching his head and screaming ever since he stumbled across the bloody corpse of his mother—it’s understandable—just think of Mrs. Latvia with two little ones missing their mother and a third who cries night and day, if on top of all that she has to sell her bouquets to make ends meet and endure the baker’s insults too, well, what is this world coming to?
She continues:
“She had to go and put me in her will, that Lisa Campbell. She couldn’t just have left her kids to a young one like Blanche Bedford or to a wealthy spinster like Angelina White, no, of course not! She had to go and burden poor Latvia. For some there’s no rest until they’re six feet under, and I’m sure that will be my fate too. I’m warning you, one day you’ll find me dead as a doornail among my French lilies if I keep up this pace. I’m not twenty anymore, you know!”
Even the baker looks touched. With his jowly cheeks and his jaw unclenched, he looks almost friendly. We could swear we saw a tear of compassion roll down his cheek just now, but surely it’s just a figment of our imagination. Perhaps Mrs. Latvia is ready to answer us, now that she’s unburdened herself in public, so we try again. She blows her nose into her hankie and stands up:
“The mayor is with Amelia, as a matter of fact. She has taken a turn for the worse, and he wanted to be by her side.”
Goodness, we had no idea Amelia wasn’t doing well. We were under the impression that getting one’s wisdom teeth removed was a minor operation, we shift our gaze as one toward the elderly doctor because, of course, we don’t have a dentist in the village, and the doctor has always insisted he can do the job of both dentist and GP, but with eighty years under his belt, we have to wonder what’s left of the man’s memory, even if he is a doctor.
The mayor might have realized that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure and sent his daughter to town to have her teeth out, where you’d think there are dental surgeons, but he didn’t. Mind you, he’s been a firm devotee of Harmer since the doctor saved Morosity Gross’s life during the difficult birth of their daughter Amelia, speaking of the doctor, he gets up to speak:
“Allow me to enlighten you.”
Dr. Harmer’s voice is more tremulous than ever, and his hands are just as shaky, which is getting to be a real challenge for the apothecary, who has to decipher the doctor’s prescriptions, but never mind that, let’s listen to the old man:
The Unknown Huntsman Page 3