The Prisoner of Castillac (Molly Sutton Mysteries Book 3)

by Nell Goddin

  The pigeonnier was all ready, but she had Dutch newlyweds coming the next day. The woman who had made the reservation made it clear that what sold her were the beams of sunlight coming through Pierre Gault’s artful little windows, so Molly was unwilling to try to foist an upstairs bedroom with faded wallpaper on her. The haunted room wasn’t hideous, but it was hardly the place for a romantic getaway. Molly knew a mistake like that would end any hope of repeat business or good word of mouth.

  So Addison was coming around lunchtime, and he would be staying in the haunted room. Molly had only exchanged a few mails with him. He was paid up; he had accepted the proposed switch from cottage to bedroom in the house without argument; she had no reason at all to have any misgivings.

  Yet she had them.

  The idea of having a strange man upstairs in her house, while she slept…it was, now that it was about to happen, a little unnerving. Though she thought it was unfair of her to feel so skittish. It was certainly going to be fine, she said to herself, as though saying it would make it so.

  She spent the morning tidying up as she always did when a new guest was about to arrive. No time to eat apart from a hurried lunch of crackers and some Camembert that was about to be too old. As she was putting a load of wet laundry into a basket to take outside to hang, she heard someone pull up in the driveway—Castillac apparently had a taxi once again, and in the back seat was the imposing figure of Wesley Addison.

  “Bonjour!” said Molly, coming outside and wiping her laundry-wet hands on her jeans.

  “Hello, Miss Sutton,” said Addison, paying the driver and getting his small bag from the backseat. “I am Wesley Addison.”

  Molly didn’t like him. Yes, okay, it was a snap judgment, but the feeling was strong and immediate.

  “Come on inside!” she said, with forced jollity that made her cringe.

  He was large man, very tall, with a build like a former football player. He had broad shoulders and his neck wasn’t visible. And when he smiled, Molly could see he was missing a tooth along the side.

  “All right then! Let me show you your room—and thank you so much for being willing to switch. As you can imagine, sometimes the life of an innkeeper is one of moving pieces on a chessboard!”

  Addison looked at Molly quizzically. “‘Innkeeper’?” he said. “I thought you had gîtes.”

  “Yes! Well, sometimes French and English don’t have the same exact words, you know? So if I’m speaking French I say gîte, and for English I say B&B, and call myself an innkeeper. It’s all more or less the same thing.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be serving breakfast?” asked Addison, looking confused. “And I understand that I will be staying in your house, but it is not an inn, am I correct?”

  Molly took a long, deep breath. “That is all correct, Mr. Addison. Sorry for my imprecision.”

  They went up the winding staircase to the second floor, and Molly showed him his room, which looked pleasant now that she and Constance had given it a good scrubbing and the bed had a fresh duvet. “Here you are,” said Molly, wanting to be done with Mr. Addison as soon as possible. “I’ll be around La Baraque most of the time, so if you have any questions, or need anything, just give me a holler.”

  “A holler?” said Addison. “Curious, I’d have said you were from Boston.”

  Molly made a fake chuckle. “Yes, I’m afraid the accent gives me away every time.”

  “But ‘holler’ is a Southern Appalachian usage. Why would a person from Boston choose that particular word?”

  Molly raised her eyebrows way up high and shrugged. “Can’t say, Mr. Addison. I’m afraid sometimes I open my mouth and who knows what might come out. Maybe somewhere along the way I had a friend who said ‘holler’. Maybe I heard it on TV.”

  “Television,” spat Mr. Addison, rolling his eyes.

  “Not a fan?”

  “It has done more to confuse and muddle linguistics than any other influence. I abhor it. I’m quite glad to see my room does not have one, as most hotels rooms do. Now, would you be so kind as to bring me some mineral water? I would like Vittel. And then after I have rehydrated, I am going to rest. Traveling, as I’m sure you are aware, can be extremely fatiguing, especially when one crosses the ocean.”

  “Yes, Mr. Addison. I’ll bring you some mineral water shortly.”

  Molly walked slowly downstairs, thinking this was going to be the longest week of her entire life.

  14

  All day at school Gilbert was distracted by thoughts of Valerie. He looked for extra newspapers lying around that he could pilfer, an old magazine, anything—but people didn’t read the way they used to. They got their news online, read their magazines online, and loose newspapers for making anonymous notes were hard to come by.

  Gilbert wondered what the old school kidnappers were going to do now that their main stationery source had disappeared. During science class he cooked up a long story in his head about two hapless would-be criminals who snatch a little girl from the playground while her mother is talking to a friend, but when they cannot find enough newspapers to spell out their ransom note, they give up and let the girl go.

  Amusing, at least for the duration of science, which Gilbert found acutely boring. But when the made-up story was done he was left with the reality of Valerie tied to Monsieur Labiche, and no way that Gilbert could think of to tell anyone about it.

  He was herded onto the bus at the end of the day, as usual, and let off at the end of the Renaud farm driveway, also as usual. He ran inside at top speed to get out of the rain and kissed his mother hello. She was sitting at the kitchen table cutting up vegetables for soup.

  “Maman, do we have any old newspapers anywhere? I need one for school.”

  “I don’t believe so. It’s a fire hazard, letting things like that pile up. I try to read them and get rid of them as quickly as possible. We don’t want to go up in flames, now do we? Sit down and have your baguette with chocolate.”

  Gilbert sighed. It was always that way with Maman: they were always one step from a conflagration that would burn the farm to the ground, taking the two of them right along with it, or one step from being knifed, poisoned, abducted. Gilbert suddenly could not bear to be in the house one second longer. He grabbed a rain slicker from the coatrack by the door and said over his shoulder as he went back out, “I’m going to check on the chickens. Be back later!” and slammed the door before his mother had time to draw a breath.

  First he went to the chicken house in case his mother was watching out the window. He went inside, murmuring to the hens, who were quiet and mostly up on perches, asleep. The rainclouds darkened the sky, which made them nap. He waited long enough that he figured his mother had sat back down, and then went back into the rain and ran across the field towards the Labiche farm.

  It was raining hard. Everything was brown and green, streaked and blurry, as though he were living inside a watercolor. The slicker had a visor but it didn’t work very well, and he had to keep wiping water out of his eyes so he could see where he was going.

  Why he wanted to see where Valerie was he couldn’t say. He knew there was nothing he could do for her. But maybe, just maybe, he thought, with the optimism of the young—maybe Monsieur Labiche has left the door unlocked, wherever he’s keeping her. Maybe he, Gilbert Renaud, could find out her hiding-place and free her, all by himself.

  It was awesome to think about. Once again a parade figured in his thoughts, and he sat astride the strong shoulders of his father until he realized that no, he would be in the parade, just like Valerie. On the float, waving to all his classmates as he rode by.

  It ended up that he stood in the woods looking at the Labiche farm but saw nothing except cows. He was afraid to get close because the slicker was orange and so bright he figured a blind person could see it. So in the end Gilbert trudged back home, thinking about Inspector Maigret, Hercule Poirot, and even Madame Sutton, who was famous in Castillac for solving the Desrosiers murder—how wo
uld any of them be handling the situation, if they were nine years old and had no one to talk to?

  “Gilbert!” his mother shrieked when he came inside, water sluicing down and causing a minor flood on the floor of the kitchen. “What were you thinking, running about in this weather? Don’t you know you could catch your death of cold?”

  “Oui, Maman,” he answered robotically, knowing not to argue. “Maman!” he said, getting struck by an idea. “You know what happens after a rain this time of year?”

  “Many things, Gilbert dear. Sometimes the lettuce rots right in the ground. The stream overflows—”

  “No, I mean something good! Wild greens, Maman. Our fields will be filled with them. I want to pick baskets and baskets, and take them to the market this Saturday and sell them. I’m going to make us rich, Maman!”

  “Oh, my boy, will you ever get out of your daydreams and into real life? You think you’ll make us rich foraging in the mud with a basket on your arm?” Mme Renaud laughed and went back to chopping carrots.

  Well, thought Gilbert, shivering from his wet clothes. She didn’t say I couldn’t.

  * * *

  Ben had paved the way by calling Mme Gervais and asking if she would mind talking to Molly about Castillac during the war. She had readily agreed, always pleased when a younger person (and to Mme Gervais, absolutely everyone was a younger person) took an interest in the past. Molly swung by Pâtisserie Bujold on the way and picked up a couple of croissants and two chocolate réligieuses, the pastry named after nuns because the two custard-filled puffs one on top of the other looked vaguely like a sister. Very vaguely, but Molly was not going to get literal about it. They were breathtakingly delicious and her current favorite.

  She found her way to rue Baudelaire without any trouble, stopping to look in the window of the lamp shop next door to Mme Gervais’s little house, admiring the silk shades and astounding variety jammed into the area for window display. She had never really given lamps any thought, but now saw several that she hoped were not as expensive as they looked, since she immediately had the perfect spot picked out for them at La Baraque. Reluctantly she tore herself away from the lamps and knocked on Mme Gervais’s door.

  “Bonjour, Madame Sutton!” said the old lady, opening the door almost immediately.

  Molly was relieved to hear that the Mme Gervais’s accent was one she could easily understand. They went in to the sitting room—Mme Gervais seeming much younger than her 102 years—and the old lady offered Molly a cup of tea, which Molly accepted.

  “Now, tell me,” Mme Gervais said as she bustled in the kitchen, getting the pot on the stove. “Ben was a little cagey when he called. Is there something in particular you want to know about the war years? Or do you want me to speak more generally? I can give you something of my own experience, or more of an overview.”

  Molly sipped her tea and thought for a moment. “I’m not going to be cagey,” she said. “I am interested in both your experience and your overview. Now that I live in Castillac, the history is important to me for all the reasons I don’t have to explain to you. But this morning I am after something specific. You can keep a secret?” she asked, with a half smile.

  Mme Gervais laughed. “Funny you should ask, because of course in wartime, the secrets were coming fast and furious. And they were often a matter of life or death.”

  “So is this one, possibly,” said Molly. “I’m sure you remember Valerie Boutillier?”

  Mme Gervais nodded slowly, surprised.

  “There’s been an indication that she may still be alive, somewhere in or near Castillac. The authorities, for whatever reason, are not going to do anything about it. So I am taking up the search.”

  “With Ben?”

  “Yes.”

  Mme Gervais gave Molly a long look. “And why does this matter to you, an American who never knew Valerie?”

  “Anyone who thinks about a woman being missing for seven years would try to help if they could, wouldn’t they? Most people, I mean. And also—I suppose it’s a common enough thing that newcomers might be more protective of their new home than some people who grew up there and take it for granted? My feelings about Castillac are deep. And Valerie is part of this village. She made a strong impression before she went missing, and of course she is now a source of collective sorrow, and even fear.

  “I don’t mean to sound grandiose, Mme Gervais. It’s not that I think I have any special abilities or anything like that. But if Valerie is still alive I would like to find her. I would at least like to try.”

  “What else can we do?” said Mme Gervais, shrugging. “And how do you think I can help?”

  Molly looked into the old lady’s face. It was heavily wrinkled but her cheeks had color and her eyes were bright; she was vital and sharp and ready to join in. “You can be a big help, as I’ll explain. I am making the assumption that when Valerie was abducted back in 1999 she was not killed, but hidden somewhere. And then a further assumption that the abductor is someone local, and she is still nearby.”

  “Held prisoner?”

  “Yes.”

  The two women thought the proposition over.

  “Sometimes I think there is no end to the horror we humans will visit on one another,” said Mme Gervais.

  “Yes,” said Molly. “I think that too.” They both sighed together. “So what I am wondering is whether you might have some stories about wartime that might be relevant. I’ve heard it mentioned that here in the Dordogne, people—Jews, mostly—were hidden for long periods, to escape both the Nazis and the Milice who got their orders from Vichy. How did they escape capture? What sort of hiding places were used?”

  “You are thinking that if the abductor is local, he might know of these stories too, and have tried something similar?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  Mme Gervais finished putting cups and the teapot on a tray, and then poured hot water into the pot and carried the tray to the small living room.

  “I am thinking, Molly. You know the forest called La Double?”

  “Yes, Madame. I have taken some walks there.”

  “Many of the Resistance hid there. The local men had hunted in the forest before the war and they knew it intimately—they could give the Nazis the slip easily enough, and there were plenty of stories back then which ended with our fighters harassing the Nazis in some way and then disappearing into the sheltering arms of the forest.

  “But I don’t believe that is the kind of thing you are looking for. I will have to give this some more thought. Of course I knew of people who hid Jewish families—the Dordogne was thankfully one of the least oppressive départements in that regard, and we had Jewish children going to school openly in Périgueux for quite some time. It was only later that the Milice got so out of control and began executing French citizens right and left and going from house to house searching for Jews.

  “One thing I can tell you—I might look harder at farms. Obviously it is more difficult to hide someone in town, where any stray noise might be noticed and in general there is less space. Doubtless you have considered these things.”

  Molly nodded.

  “Additionally,” continued Mme Gervais, “a farm might be able to provide some of the food for a long-time captive. Of course, during the war there were food shortages continuously and even the farmers struggled to eat. But if you have a village house, maybe you could provide a bit of lettuce to the captive, if you are lucky enough to have any sort of garden. But cheese and meat you would have to buy. There is the expense, of course, but also—it might be noticed. If a single man—and I don’t think we need to bother about any politically correct idea that women would be equally capable of such a thing, just between us—if he were to buy enough food for two, it might, might, eventually be noticed.

  “Though people are generally not very observant, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Molly nodded again. “I’m afraid so. Myself included much of the time.”

  “As for specific hid
ing places, I’m afraid I cannot think of anything especially unusual that you wouldn’t have thought of. Attics, cellars, and barns, that is what I remember. The poor people would have to stay inside almost all the time, entirely dependent on whoever had taken them in, and all of them knowing that discovery was likely to mean execution or deportation for everyone involved and maybe even the entire community.”

  Mme Gervais bowed her head, lost in memories, and Molly sat with her quietly and did not interrupt.

  15

  It had rained during the night and the area by the barn was muddy. Bourbon looked as though she were wearing brown socks. After the morning milking, the cows lumbered into the west field where it was shady during the first part of the day, since it was already very warm.

  “Bourbon!” called Achille, and the dog turned and looked at him questioningly. Usually she followed the cows to the field to make sure they got there in an orderly group. “We’re going to check the fencing,” he said, and he thought Bourbon nodded before trotting back to his side.

  When they passed a small copse Achille cut a branch to walk with. Not to lean on, because he was strong and had no need for that, but only a stick to poke in the mud or swat through the air if he felt like it. The fencing on the farm was not in the best shape. Some stretches were wood, with a few sections of barbed wire. Several rotting posts needed replacing. Achille sighed as he found one that was so far gone it really couldn’t be put off any longer. When he pushed at the post, it nearly broke off. His father had tried to teach him to dispose of the worst chores first thing in the day, but Achille had never managed to form that habit. Instead, anything he disliked doing, he put off and avoided and forgot about, until it was no longer possible to ignore.

  “If I don’t fix it, the cows will get out,” he said to Bourbon. “And I wouldn’t be surprised at all if some of the neighbors took the opportunity to steal one of them. Or even more,” he said, working himself into a snit. “All right, let’s walk the rest of this line and see if there’s anything else I have to do today, and then we’ll go back for tools.”