Murder is a Long Time Coming

by Anthony Masters

  ‘She’s wandering in her mind, monsieur,’ she had told Marius. ‘But she’ll be able to live at home for a little while longer. It’s as well to keep the old people together as long as we can, isn’t it?’ He had nodded but inwardly disagreed. Away for long periods, each time he returned home, Marius felt sure he would find that one of them had dropped dead or that Letoric had burned down around them. He planned to sell the house as soon as he could get the permission from Henri which had so far been withheld. Marius wanted to install both of them in sheltered housing in St Esprit, but Henri refused on the grounds of the wagging tongues. He has a point, thought Marius grimly, as he often did.

  ‘I’m seeing quite a few of them very soon,’ he replied to his father’s remark after a long silence. In fact he had already seen Mireille Leger – and been quite unable to penetrate her calm unyielding exterior. She had told him she didn’t know anything – and had continued to repeat the phrase until the end of an unsatisfactory conversation.

  ‘Not soon enough. I’m being slandered all over again – it’s building up. That damned paper –’

  ‘Is it Estelle who’s been telling you?’

  ‘Who else? I never go out.’

  ‘She’s got no right –’ he began.

  ‘She’s my only contact with the outside world.’

  ‘There’s always me, Father.’

  ‘You tell me what you think will please me.’

  Marius looked at the bottle of wine on the table. It seemed the only substantial thing in the room, what with the rickety old people and the equally rickety furniture. Family portraits hung dourly from the walls and a glass chandelier tinkled with muffled resonance. Dozens of photographs covered small marquetry tables that huddled against the walls and in the huge, tiled fireplace was a dusty arrangement of dried flowers. The air smelt of old polish and the herbs that used to hang in the kitchen and were now long gone. It was a perfume he would always associate with the Château Letoric – his beloved home that he was now being forced to sell before it finally dropped to pieces in front of his eyes, taking his helpless parents with it.

  He looked at his father. There was a kind of vulnerable distinction to him. He had originally been tall, slim, with a long hawk-like face that had flashed smiles at him when he was a child – smiles that had only appeared for an instant, as if they were purely, privately for him. Then Marius looked across at his mother, her hunched, shapeless figure over-wrapped despite the heat and her leonine head lowered over her plate, her face wiped clean of any expression. She played with the omelette on her plate, occasionally mumbling to herself. They had both had a long old age, he thought, and now they were crumbling like the house around them.

  What did he really feel, he wondered. For his mother – only a desire for her to die. She had been a remarkable woman, with her rich laughter and anecdotes, her fine intellect and the intelligence in her eyes. And, of course, her bravery; her spirit had been legendary, unbroken by the Gestapo and the searing physical pain they inflicted on her. She had never talked about the torture or her torturers and had always been careful not to expose to him as a child the marks on her body. But once she had left the bathroom door unlocked and Marius, for a brief accidental instant, had seen what they had done to her. Her breasts and stomach were a mass of small scar tissue and her shoulders bore longer, crueller stripes. It was only when he was older that Marius realised that not only had the Gestapo whipped her, but they had stubbed out their cigarette ends on her as well.

  As for his father, he didn’t know what to think. Like his mother, Marius had loved him to distraction, but he had always been that little bit more remote. For so many years his father had been a local dignitary, an associate of the mayor, a presider over committees, a giver of distinguished dinner parties, a man of importance. How would he preside over a kangaroo court? And yet a German officer had been murdered. How did this square with the law, despite the occupation? These questions had circled in his mind ever since the Lyon trial and he had come to no resolution for the simple reason that he had known only one tiny part of his father – the minute area reserved for him – and so therefore had hardly known him at all. And as for the querulous old man that he had now become? His hopeless misery, his reclusive existence, his protestations, his vulnerability had worn a hole in Marius’s heart and it hurt. It also enraged him. He loved St Esprit – and he hated St Esprit. More so now that its febrile clutches, its festering memory was reaching out to his father. And was he, Marius, dragging his feet? Certainly he wanted to clear his father’s name. But what if he began asking questions professionally – the way he had been trained to ask questions. That was something Marius was afraid to do, for fear of what he might find out. For Marius had no real idea whether his father was guilty or not.

  He spooned more omelette in. It’s practically raw, he thought. We’ll all die of salmonella poisoning. He poured more of the heavy velvet claret into his glass, knowing he was beginning to drink too much but justifying it, putting it down to stress, to the action that he was prevaricating over.

  ‘Do you never answer a question?’ asked his father sourly.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was a question,’ Marius defended himself. ‘I’ve never tried to minimise the effect of what is being said, but most of what is being said is very trivial. And ill-informed.’

  ‘I never presided over such a court.’ He thumped the scarred table with a veined fist. ‘I never would preside over such a court. You must ask more questions. Follow up every lead. Stop that damnable newspaper. Don’t you understand? It’s all flaring up again. I can’t take any more of it.’

  ‘Now Matthieu – stop losing your temper.’ The old woman’s voice was furred and slow and ineffably weary.

  ‘I am not Matthieu,’ he exclaimed. ‘That was your brother.’

  ‘Eat up your food,’ she said dreamily. ‘It’s your favourite – that blancmange.’

  ‘It happens to be an omelette.’

  ‘Don’t gulp it down.’

  ‘I was actually picking at it.’

  ‘I’ll give you a dollop of raspberry jam.’

  ‘In God’s name –’

  Marius smiled ruefully. They often had these mad conversations now. She was locked into a distant, splintered past; he in the frustrated anger of the present.

  ‘And what are you laughing at, Marius?’

  ‘I was smiling.’

  ‘At two old fools?’

  ‘No – at a misunderstanding.’

  ‘That’s all my life,’ he pronounced, pushing away the omelette, reaching for the wine. Marius looked at the brown age spots all over his hands. They clustered there like kisses from death. Marius shook his head, trying to clear away the wine-ridden thoughts. He was becoming maudlin.

  ‘What are you doing on my behalf?’ the old man asked. He was no longer aggressive, simply pathetic now with the whine in his voice.

  ‘I’m going to see Valier as well. He’s the man who’s been stirring up the trouble with this damned gutter journalism. I’ve made an appointment with the new mayor in St Esprit – and I’ve spoken to Rodiet on the phone.’

  ‘Gabriel Rodiet? He blames me for the execution of his mother. What is the point of talking to him?’

  ‘Because he is Chief of Police. He knows the town.’

  ‘And does he believe you? Believe my innocence?’

  ‘He’s got an open mind.’

  ‘That’s not enough.’

  ‘It’ll have to do for the time being. And I saw one of the Leger sisters. They’re not exactly our best friends.’

  ‘What did you see them for? You keep talking to our enemies. It was one of those old bitches who sent me those filthy letters after the Kummel trial, making the accusation. Kummel never mentioned my name.’

  ‘I know, Father,’ said Marius wearily. ‘Surely you realise that. We’ve been through it a thousand times.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of anything round here.’ The old man took a pull at his claret.
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  Only once had they spoken about the other horrendous accusation in Marie Leger’s first letter. ‘You would never have done those unspeakable things with that filthy peasant Claude,’ his father had stated rather than asked.

  ‘Of course not, Father,’ Marius glibly lied.

  ‘I’m sorry to have asked you, Marius,’ he had said, deeply ashamed.

  Now, his father spoke hurriedly. ‘You’ll be talking to Annette next.’

  ‘No, I shall avoid that. But you did her an injustice.’

  ‘She didn’t suit me any more.’

  ‘You could have given her notice. Not sacked her on the spot.’

  ‘I told you. She didn’t suit. What more do I have to say? And there’s no point in raking up the past.’

  ‘That’s what they’re all doing.’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘Who knows who I can trust? You probably don’t believe me. You’re like Rodiet. You’ve got an open mind.’

  ‘No. You’re my father. If you say you didn’t do it – and you’ve always denied it – then you didn’t do it,’ said Marius, conscious that he had denied his encounter with Jean-Pierre with the same authority as his father had denied heading the tribunal.

  ‘Anyway, you’ll be off soon. Back to that smart flat of yours in Lyon. While we rot here.’

  ‘I’ve got another fortnight. This, believe it or not, is my summer vacation. And as for rotting, if we sold up you could have excellent –’

  ‘Sheltered accommodation in that tower of babel? Are you mad?’

  ‘Or elsewhere.’

  ‘I’m not being run out of this town.’

  Marius closed his eyes. I will not have another glass, he thought. As he poured it out, he smiled across the table at his father and for a few seconds his crumpled features were replaced by that old hawk-like face, rapacious in its intensity. Well, at least the wine blunted reality – and brought back memories more sharply. For a while. But how long could he defy his own integrity by being so professionally inert?

  His mother belched and Estelle banged her way in.

  ‘Fruit tart,’ she announced, producing a glazed plastic confection straight from St Esprit’s supermarket.

  The two old people nodded as if before a schoolboy feast. But Marius could only call for the cheese.

  *

  ‘Mireille.’

  ‘What do you want now?’ Mireille’s voice was sharp.

  ‘I was looking for my writing case.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it.’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  Marie ambled through the small sitting-room of the lodge on the edge of the Ste Michelle estate, a dumpy little woman in a blue overall. She looks like a peasant, thought Mireille, a real peasant. Then she reminded herself that her twin sister might just as well look that way, for they had been reduced to being peasants anyway. Practically.

  They were not identical twins. Marie had always been dumpy but Mireille was spare, brown as a nut, trim in her early sixties. Together they ran a dried flower business, creating posies and baskets of every size and colour. They grew and dried the flowers themselves, and also the herbs for the aromatic cushions they made as a sideline. The Leger sisters’ sole means of transport was an ancient, battered Deux Chevaux which was the bane of the local garage.

  Regretting her impatience Mireille asked her sister to sit down. There was a kinder note in her voice and, surprised, Marie did as she was told, spreading herself in the shabby old leather armchair. The room was over-furnished with heavy tables and a good deal of unfortunate wicker-work. The lights were dim and the wallpaper, an undistinguished mêlée of roses, clashed with the myriad of pictures – some oval, some oblong, all showing one aspect or another of a large château whose gravelled drive swept down to a forest track.

  ‘It’s getting late, dear,’ said Marie.

  Mireille looked at her watch. It was just after ten. ‘I want to talk. Will you have a liqueur?’

  ‘Not with my digestion.’

  ‘Then I will. I shall have a Framboise.’

  ‘Are you sure, dear? After all, you know you never sleep after –’

  ‘I shall have a Framboise.’

  ‘Very well.’ Marie set her face against the problems drink caused her sister.

  When she had resumed her seat Mireille said, ‘I saw Larche yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She was instantly both agitated and indignant. Mireille sighed. She was going to be her usual difficult self. Unlike most twins, Mireille felt light years apart from her sister, but it was more wish than actuality, for she could read Marie very well and she knew Marie could read her.

  ‘Because I wanted to think.’

  ‘We could have shared –’

  ‘Now we are.’

  ‘So you saw Henri –’

  ‘No, you fool. I saw Marius.’

  ‘There’s no need to snap.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Mireille sought for strength. She had to control herself; she didn’t want the predictable argument that would send Marie snivelling to bed.

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘To justify his father.’

  ‘To defend his father?’

  ‘No, he wanted to know if we had proof – if anyone had proof.’

  ‘And if not – to shut up?’

  ‘No. He was probing. But reasonable.’

  ‘You think – he believes in his father’s guilt?’ Her voice was excited. She always got worked up over crime, thought Mireille. Even petty crime. And since the Larche scandal had been raked up again, she was in her element. Mireille hated her sister for her provincial muck-raking; she loved her for her bumbling helplessness. It was an awkward combination of emotions and one that gave her much pain.

  ‘No. He believes in his father’s innocence – because his father has told him that he is innocent.’ Mireille’s voice was very controlled.

  ‘He’s guilty,’ replied Marie with relish.

  ‘That’s your opinion.’

  ‘And the opinion of everyone else in St Esprit.’

  ‘A slight exaggeration – and there’s no evidence whatsoever. Just talk. Ever since we lost Ste Michelle, you seemed to have this obsession that Larche was involved in some kind of conspiracy with Alain.’

  ‘That bloody brother of ours – he’s as big a crook as Henri.’

  ‘A ludicrous statement,’ said Mireille, sipping her Framboise.

  ‘Henri is Alain’s lawyer, and they’ve always been like brothers – much closer than Alain ever was to us. It stands to reason that Larche helped him.’

  ‘Another sweeping statement – and we’ve had this conversation so many times. Don’t you ever get tired of it?’

  ‘You were as angry as I was; you’re as embittered as I am.’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m embittered all right. We lost the case and our share of the house and the land. And we’re living in this slum and I have to listen to you going on and on about it.’

  ‘It was all Henri’s fault,’ said Marie vehemently.

  Mireille took another sip, feeling pleasantly detached, watching her sister’s passion from a distance. ‘Don’t glare at me, Marie – it makes you look old.’

  ‘I am old.’

  ‘May I also remind you that you have reason to be grateful to Henri Larche?’

  ‘Grateful?’

  ‘He could have taken action – legal action – over those letters – those disgusting letters you wrote him.’

  ‘I thought he should know his son was a poof – that he went with Jean-Pierre.’

  ‘It was unforgivable.’

  ‘Who are you to be so high and mighty?’

  ‘I know what is right – and wrong – to do. You were wrong.’

  There was a long silence between the two sisters. Marie scowled childishly. Mireille went on sipping her liqueur.

  ‘What else did he ask?’ Marie asked eventually. This time she spoke more reasonably. It was always the same, thought Mireille – the argume
nt would subside into almost amicable bickering. It was as if the shouting was therapy for her.

  ‘Oh, he was only trying to see what evidence – what hard facts – any local people had.’

  ‘And you told him there was plenty?’

  ‘I told him there were no hard facts. Only opinions – and rumours – and suspicions – in a small town where nothing has happened for years but a bloody war.’

  ‘Enough for the Journal in Aix to take it up,’ Marie pointed out.

  The Journal had carried the headline on its middle pages – WHO PRESIDED? And underneath, the tabloid clatter began:

  Three years ago, Nazi war criminal Wolfgang Kummel told a court in Lyon that a high-ranking Frenchman had presided over a tribunal that …

  The machine-gun prose of the article stuttered on, naming no names, intimating the Frenchman’s rank was judge, calling on local citizens to come forward and identify. That to do so would be their duty. The final exhortation read:

  The journal believes the collaborator is still amongst us. It is the duty of every citizen to bring him to justice.

  ‘That muck-raker Valier.’ For the first time, Mireille looked angry. ‘He and that wife of his – they’re both outsiders.’

  ‘Now who’s being narrow minded?’ Marie looked at her in delight now that she had found a weakness.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve lived here all our lives. So have the Larches, come to that. Anyone you distrust has to be an outsider.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘Why did you tell me all this anyway? You knew it would stir me up,’ Marie said abruptly.

  ‘I don’t like secrets – secrets corrupt.’

  ‘Are you pleased you told me?’

  ‘It was a duty.’

  ‘You’re so sanctimonious,’ Marie sneered. ‘What are you doing?’ she added sharply.