Murder is a Long Time Coming

by Anthony Masters

  ‘It was dangerous.’

  ‘And Henri?’

  ‘Henri?’

  ‘Was he in danger?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Who from?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Not Kummel?’

  Solange was very still.

  ‘Did he know him?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘Mother –’

  ‘He got information from Kummel.’ Her voice was sing-song but he was sure that she had understood what he had asked her – and was equally sure that she was telling him the truth. ‘Occasionally.’

  ‘I thought Father was outside the Maquis?’

  ‘He was. It was just Kummel – Kummel he spoke to.’ She spoke childishly, but the simple statement gave Marius hope. He was also sweating with apprehension for although his mother was giving him information – vital information – would she ever remember it again? Did he have a tape-recorder? Somewhere? But he knew he didn’t. She was getting restless now, her hands were plucking at the counterpane.

  ‘Mother, how many times did Father see this man?’

  ‘I don’t know. Henri – I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s Marius, Mother.’

  ‘You told me – you told me, Henri. You told us all. Alain. You told him.’ She was mumbling.

  ‘Did Alain meet Kummel too?’

  ‘So what’s next, darling?’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Where are you going to take me today, Henri? Shall we go out for lunch?’

  ‘Where would you like to go?’ asked Marius, ready to humour her.

  ‘To the café by the river.’

  ‘Le Clozel?’

  ‘I want to go there with Henri and Wolfgang. They never take me. Of course – it belongs to them now. Tc the Nazis.’

  ‘The café?’

  ‘The coffee. They took all my coffee.’

  ‘Mother, I brought you some.’

  ‘No.’ She was getting very agitated now, sitting bolt upright in bed, fingers pulling at the sheets. ‘They took my coffee.’

  ‘It’s here.’

  Marius offered it to her but before he could react, rhe punched the air and caught the saucer. Coffee leapt in an arc towards her, splashing her nightgown and the sheets. Solange set up a howl of childish rage which quickly turned to an animal cry of drawn-out lament.

  ‘Mother – it’s only coffee.’

  She howled louder.

  ‘Mother –’

  ‘Now what’s going on?’ It was Estelle, framed in the doorway, her face greasy with night cream and smelling of whisky.

  ‘She punched at the saucer and –’

  ‘She must have been upset.’

  ‘We were having a chat.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘None of your business,’ yelled Marius above his mother’s cries. He thoroughly resented Estelle’s tone. It was as if she was taking over in his own house. But wasn’t it his own fault for neglecting his mother, he admitted honestly.

  ‘She’s thoroughly upset.’ Estelle went up to her. ‘Quieten down, my lovely. Estelle’s here now. She’ll look after you.’

  Solange subsided a little, but pointed an accusing finger at Marius.

  ‘It’s him.’

  ‘What’s he done?’ asked Estelle with pleased vindictiveness.

  ‘He’s from the Boche,’ pronounced Solange, gesturing at her son. ‘Bloody Hun.’

  Marius walked down the stairs and out on to the terrace, cursing. Then he went back inside, picked up the telephone receiver, looked at his watch, shrugged and dialled Monique’s number. She answered after it had rung over a dozen times.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Marius.’

  ‘Darling – I’m sorry. I was asleep – I’m so tired.’

  ‘Shall I ring back?’

  ‘I just wanted to reassure you. About the deadline. You’re on?’

  ‘I thought I’d pressured you into it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why can’t I come down? Today. Share it with you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Marius –’

  ‘Please. No. I’ll be with you soon. I – I just want to talk. I must get rid of Estelle.’

  ‘Let me come. I can –’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Marius, why won’t you let me help?’

  ‘Because I don’t want you mixed up in this filthy business, that’s all.’

  ‘It won’t go away. It won’t be over in a fortnight. Not just like that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Her voice was edgy.

  ‘I have to get rid of her. She’s practically taken Mother over – and she’s incredibly rude to me.’

  ‘I’d keep her.’ Monique’s voice was firm.

  ‘You’re exhausted. Your father’s been murdered, Marius. How can you think straight? But you’ll never get a nurse in – not in these circumstances. And if Estelle’s reliable – is she?’

  ‘With my mother – yes.’

  ‘Offer her a decent salary. Make her responsible.’

  Marius stood thinking about it. The employment of Estelle was an unpalatable thought, but if she lived in until he had properly considered Alain’s plan …

  ‘Marius?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Temporarily.’ His voice was hollow.

  ‘I know she’s a pain. But you won’t be there – don’t you see?’

  ‘Yes, I see. But Alain – Alain Leger. He’s offering to go into partnership with me, to restore Letoric. Maybe, then, we could get a nurse to live in.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful offer.’

  ‘I’m thinking it over.’

  ‘And can Estelle cope in the mean time?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marius slowly. ‘I think she can cope.’ The question is, he thought, can I? Again they said their goodbyes – and again he sat for a long time with his head in his hands.

  Mariola Claude lifted herself heavily and arthritically out of her bed.

  ‘Jean-Pierre,’ she croaked. He wasn’t a bad boy always, she thought. Sometimes, just sometimes, he made his old mother a cup of coffee in the morning. And surely she deserved it today of all days. After all, it was on the surety of her property that he had got bail. And where was he? In bed, no doubt, snoring his head off. Well, at least he hadn’t had anything to drink last night – Rodiet had brought him back too late for that. She supposed he had stayed questioning him for hours. Certainly they had been hard at it when she’d gone to bed. So maybe she’d let him off. For once.

  Mariola clutched her nightdress to her and ambled into her son’s room.

  ‘Jean-Pierre.’

  The sheets were pushed back and the window was open. A breeze rustled some rolled-up cigarette papers on the scarred card table in the corner.

  ‘Jean-Pierre.’

  Mariola moved slowly to the window and looked out. She could see him sitting on the old tractor on the rutted track beside the lavender field.

  ‘Jean-Pierre,’ she shouted again, but he didn’t turn towards her.

  ‘Estelle.’

  ‘Yes, monsieur?’

  ‘Can you come into the study for a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  For the first time in months she was quite well dressed. Her linen skirt had been well ironed and her blouse looked crisp and fresh. She had obviously just bathed and washed her hair, but this time he couldn’t smell his father’s bath soap on her.

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I said what I did.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Marius paused and looked out of the window. It was nine and the sun was high in a cobalt sky. ‘Look – you’re right about the nurse. Can we strike a bargain?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur?’ She looked up at him, grinning. The old Estelle was back, but only temporarily. Her coquettish look vanished in seconds.

  ‘You keep to the hous
e rules, and I’ll employ you.’

  ‘And what are the house rules?’

  ‘Keep off the drink and behave responsibly to my mother. And if you will – you can take over as nurse and housekeeper.’

  ‘What will you pay me?’ she asked flatly.

  He mentioned a sum, and she nodded. ‘Did you expect as much?’ he asked.

  But she didn’t reply. Then she said slowly, ‘I’m fond of the old lady. I’ll look after her. But for how long?’

  ‘Until she becomes unmanageable.’ Or Alain and I can make other arrangements, he thought.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We’ll have to think again. It’s a big responsibility, but I’m paying you well. Is there anyone at home?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘So you’ll live in?’

  ‘If I can have a better bedroom. At the moment I’m camping in her dressing-room.’

  ‘Take your pick. I shall be going back to Lyon in ten days’ time. Of course I’ll be in contact. Every day, on the phone. And obviously I shall visit much more frequently,’ he added and caught the look of understanding in her eyes. She knows I’ll be checking up on her, he thought. Alain, too – I’m sure he’ll keep tabs on her.

  ‘Very well, monsieur. I’ll try. But as the old lady becomes –’

  ‘I know – I’ve told you. I’ll make a decision about that. What are you staring at?’

  Her gaze was fixed rigidly on the window. ‘It’s Mariola – Mariola Claude. She’s coming up the drive. And I’ve never seen her move so fast in her life.’

  Marius spun round. Estelle was right. Mariola Claude was staggering up the weed-choked gravel, her face working. And she was shouting something. It was only when she had almost reached the front door that he could make out what it was.

  ‘Murder!’ she was screaming. ‘Murder!’

  9

  ‘Yes?’ Marius opened the front door, standing on the threshold, his skin icy against his cotton trousers and shirt. ‘What do you want?’

  But she was babbling incoherently.

  ‘Madame – what do you want? What’s the matter?’

  Estelle pushed past him and took her gently by the shoulders. Marius was reminded of what he had seen last night – Gabriel taking Jean-Pierre by the shoulders so intently. But Mariola Claude was still gibbering incoherently. Then she whispered the word again.

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Who’s been murdered?’ asked Estelle with a warmth that Marius had not noticed in her before. She was obviously good with old ladies. But what did she mean by murder? Marius knew he was not registering, but the same icy feeling was with him.

  ‘Jean-Pierre,’ she said and then repeated his name. ‘Jean-Pierre.’

  ‘Murder?’ asked Marius dully.

  ‘They cut his throat,’ she said.

  They both stared at her uncomprehendingly. Then the professional in Marius swung into action. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘On the tractor.’

  ‘And he’s dead?’

  ‘They cut his throat.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Whoever it is. They did for your father. Now they’ve done for my boy. My son.’ She rocked herself to and fro, incoherently muttering again.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Marius. ‘Phone the police and then look after her here.’

  Estelle nodded.

  A breeze stirred the lavender field and Marius inhaled the scent from its soft, musky blooms. From somewhere, a long way away, came the distant sound of a transistor radio. With a jolt, he could see the figure of Jean-Pierre sitting in the seat of the ancient blue tractor. He was slumped forward, his head on the steering wheel, and Marius could see a cluster of flies, swooping and diving around him.

  Rather than feeling shocked or revolted, Marius was flooded with compassion. As he drew level with Jean-Pierre, he could see the blood. As with his father, there was an amazing amount of it, hidden by the rusty dashboard, over the engine housing of the tractor and down to a shiny pool on the ground.

  Jean-Pierre’s eyes stared ahead in minute examination of the steering wheel, and his hands drooped by his side. His face had set in a rigid expression of astonishment. Marius reached out and stroked his bare arm. It was still warm, or was it the sun that was now high and blazing in the sky? Ineffectually clapping his hands Marius tried to disperse the flies, but they returned in seconds. Some of them clustered around Jean-Pierre’s vacant, open eyes.

  Who the hell has done this? he wondered. What did Jean-Pierre know that warranted this barbaric act? While the motive for his father’s murder still seemed obvious, this one was inexplicable. His memory flashed back to the scene he had witnessed last night: Gabriel with his hands on Jean-Pierre’s shoulders, looking down at him so intently. What did it mean? An interrogation? A warning?

  Again his hand stroked the warm brown flesh of Jean-Pierre’s arm. Then Marius realised that he was having an erection. God, he was being excited by a dead man. But Marius felt no sense of shame. He went on stroking Jean-Pierre’s arm and remembering the times when he had turned to him, the times when they had both turned to each other – way behind and beyond the days of bitterness and blackmail and regret.

  ‘Jean-Pierre,’ he whispered. ‘Remember?’ And Marius remembered for them both.

  The yearning, the lavender fields, the sunflowers – all merged into one, each one part of the same. The heat on Jean-Pierre’s clumsy bronzed body. Marius reached out – they both reached out and their limbs met, straining against each other, locked against each other. So many times he had said to himself it would be the last. But it had never been. Had he loved him, or just lusted after him? Were the two synonymous? He continued to stroke Jean-Pierre’s arm, his erection hard against his trousers.

  ‘Monsieur Larche.’

  ‘Who?’ Marius spun round. ‘Ah –’ He was confused, horrified, as if he had been caught fornicating. It was Lebatre, looking heavily commanding.

  ‘They called me – your girl …’

  ‘Estelle.’

  Lebatre edged nearer. ‘What a lot of blood,’ he said absently.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The same method –’

  ‘As my father.’

  ‘We’ve got a psychopath on the loose,’ Lebatre said stiffly.

  ‘Same motive, perhaps?’

  ‘Hardly. Perhaps he knew something. But what? Your father was killed for revenge. What was Claude killed for?’

  ‘We don’t know what my father was killed for,’ said Marius slowly. ‘In the light of what’s happened, maybe the motive wasn’t revenge.’

  ‘Then what the hell was it?’

  ‘Perhaps my father knew something. And Jean-Pierre knew it too.’

  ‘Pure speculation,’ snapped Lebatre.

  ‘Absolutely,’ admitted Marius. ‘Is Gabriel coming out?’

  ‘He’s been told. But there’s no reason for him to come – I’m in charge of this case.’ His voice was defensive.

  ‘Gabriel brought Jean-Pierre back last night.’

  ‘Why?’ Lebatre sounded very surprised.

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘I said we’d finished with him and could he get one of the men at the Gendarmerie to bring him back.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I saw them through the window. Talking.’

  Lebatre frowned and spoke quietly. ‘He had no right.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He shouldn’t interfere. It was my case. So is this. Just because …’ He paused.

  ‘Because what?’ asked Marius curiously.

  ‘It’s local, isn’t it? Amongst friends.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘That’s why he’s interfering.’

  ‘Aren’t you being rather unprofessional?’ Marius’ tone was sharp.

  Lebatre shrugged. ‘I’m reacting as any man would.’

  ‘Any policeman?’

  Lebatre shrugged again and there was an awkward
pause. Abruptly he changed the subject. ‘I’ve got the forensic team coming out here.’ He looked at his watch. ‘They won’t be long.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s a rerun.’

  Gabriel shrugged. His team surrounded Jean-Pierre, still slumped over his tractor wheel but now the object of much attention. He was being photographed, dusted for fingerprints and carefully scrutinised by the doctor who had already pulled his stiffening body forward to examine the sharp slit in his neck. Lebatre supervised a team searching the arid, straggling undergrowth and the sun beat down relentlessly on everyone.

  ‘We can’t take that for granted.’

  ‘Two different killers in such a short space of time. Unlikely.’

  ‘I never rule anything out, Marius.’

  ‘Do you suspect me?’

  ‘After your confession?’

  ‘Come on, Gabriel. I could have hated him.’

  ‘I saw him last night. I know what you thought of him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He told me. Even a very temporary abstinence seemed to have clarified his mind.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘He told me how fond he was of you – and how sorry he’d been about those blackmail notes. He claimed to have written them very much under the influence.’

  Marius nodded. ‘That’s probably true.’

  ‘Then he told me that however much he provoked you, you would still be very fond of him.’

  ‘You believed him?’

  ‘He spoke genuinely.’

  ‘Come on, Gabriel. You’re being unprofessional.’ He was accusing Rodiet now, just as he had accused Lebatre.

  ‘No, I’m acting on my experience of human beings.’

  ‘I saw you with him last night.’

  ‘In the car?’ He appeared completely unruffled.

  ‘In the house. I’d been walking – and I saw you both through the window.’ Marius paused. ‘I was surprised.’

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘That you’d brought him home – that you hadn’t left it to one of your minions.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to him. I’m very interested in this case, Marius. It’s my roots.’

  ‘Lebatre is furious,’ said Marius reprovingly.

  ‘I did notice a certain coolness.’

  ‘Don’t you care?’

  ‘Not a lot. He’s a boor.’

  ‘So you’ll go on – taking an interest?’