by Michel Bussi
The teacher turns and holds out a gentle hand, accompanied by a sincere smile. The smile of a prisoner called to the visitors’ room, Sérénac thinks, without knowing why that image should come to mind.
“Hello, Inspector. I’ve prepared everything for you. It’s all there, in the envelope on the desk.”
“Thank you. My deputy really believes in this line of inquiry, because of that birthday card found in Jérôme Morval’s pocket…”
“And you don’t?”
“I don’t know. You’re probably better placed to judge than me. To tell you the truth, I think my deputy is working on the hypothesis that Jérôme Morval might have had an illegitimate child about ten years ago. That kind of thing…”
“You really think so?”
“Doesn’t it strike you as credible? Mightn’t one of your little pupils fit that profile?”
Stéphanie slides her fingers toward the white envelope, and presses it against the inspector’s chest.
“Your job might be to go rummaging around in the private life of my little cubs, but it certainly isn’t mine!”
Sérénac doesn’t push the point. Instead he studies the classroom, pretending he’s searching for a response. In fact, the inspector knows exactly what he is going to say next. He has been turning the phrase around and around in his head all the way from Vernon to Giverny, like an old piece of chewing gum. His eyes settle on the pastel colors of the poster for the “International Young Painters Challenge.” He notices that the Robinson Foundation is also mentioned on another poster hanging in the classroom, which extols the delights of the National Gallery of Cardiff, against the background of a landscape of moors painted by Sisley. After his calculated silence, Sérénac starts again:
“Stéphanie, do you know the village well?”
“I was born here!”
“I’m looking for a guide… How can I put it? I need to get a feel for Giverny, to understand it… I think that’s the only way I’m going to be able to get anywhere with this investigation.”
“‘Observe and imagine,’ like the painters did?”
“Exactly.”
They smile at one another.
“OK, I’m all yours. I’ll just slip my coat on and then I’ll be with you.”
Stéphanie Dupain has put on a woolen jacket over her straw-colored dress. They walk along the Rue Claude Monet, chatting as they go, down the Rue des Grands Jardins, turn down the Rue du Milieu, then cross the stream again on the other side of the Chemin du Roy, just in front of the Moulin des Chennevières. Stéphanie has walked the children of her class along the streets of Giverny hundreds of times. She knows all the anecdotes about the place, and shares them with the inspector. She explains to him that every street corner in the village, almost every house, every tree even, is preserved and admired somewhere else, at the other end of the planet, in some prestigious museum, framed and varnished.
“Here,” Stéphanie points out with a slightly strange smile, “it’s the stones and flowers that travel, not the inhabitants!”
They cross the Chemin du Roy. The river that flows under the bridge and escapes through a brick arch, toward the Moulin des Chennevières, brings a kind of freshness to the air. Stéphanie stops, a few yards before they reach the mill.
“This bizarre house has always attracted me. Really. I don’t know why…”
“Can I make a suggestion?” Sérénac asks.
“Go on…”
“You remember the book you lent me? Aurélien, by Aragon. I spent much of the night in its company. Aurélien and Bérénice… Their impossible love… In the chapters set in Giverny, Bérénice lives in a mill. Aragon doesn’t specify which one, but if you follow his descriptions to the letter, it could only be this one.”
“Do you think so? That this is the place where Aragon’s gloomy Bérénice sits around moping, torn between her two loves, reason and the absolute…?”
“Hey… Don’t give away the ending!”
They walk toward the big wooden gate. It is open. A light breeze blows along the valley. Stéphanie shivers slightly. Laurenç resists the desire to take her in his arms.
“I’m sorry to disappoint Aragon, Stéphanie, but for the dormant cop within me, this mill is, more importantly, the closest house to the spot where Jérôme Morval was murdered.”
“That’s your business… I’m just a tour guide… If you must know, the mill has a long history. Without it, Monet’s garden would never have existed, and nor would the Water Lilies. The brook that goes through the gardens is really a millrace dug by the monks in the Middle Ages to feed the mill. Upstream, the brook passed through a field, which Monet bought centuries later in order to build his pond…”
“And then?”
“For a long time the mill belonged to John Stanton, an American painter who was apparently better at wielding a tennis racket than a paintbrush. But since time immemorial, and no one really knows why, the children of the village have always called the Moulin des Chennevières the ‘witch’s mill.’”
“Scary…”
“Look, Laurenç… Follow my finger.”
Stéphanie takes his hand. He lets her do it, savoring the moment.
“Look at the huge cherry tree in the middle of the courtyard. It’s a hundred years old! For generations, the children of Giverny’s favorite game was to creep into the courtyard and steal cherries…”
“And what do the police do about that?”
“Wait, look again. Do you see, among the leaves, the reflections glittering in the sunlight? Those are strips of silver paper. Ordinary silver paper cut into ribbons. It’s completely stupid. They’re designed to keep off the birds, which are far more dangerous to the cherries than the local kids. For the small boys of the village, it’s a much more chivalrous game than trying to steal the fruit…”
Stéphanie’s lilac eyes sparkle like an adolescent’s, like the most luminous of Monet’s Water Lilies. All melancholy seems to have fled. She continues, without allowing the inspector time to interject.
“So, the knight has to run in and steal some of those silver ribbons, then offer them to the princess of his heart, to tie up her hair.”
She laughs, bringing Laurenç’s hand to her loose chignon…
“The incriminating evidence, Inspector…”
Laurenç Sérénac’s fingers lose themselves in her long chestnut hair. He tries not to emphasize the gesture. Stéphanie must surely have noticed how troubled he is.
What’s she trying to do? How much is she improvising? How much is premeditated?
The silver paper discreetly fastened into the teacher’s hair crinkles under his fingers. He snatches back his hand as if it were threatening to catch fire. He smiles and stammers, feeling that he must look like a complete idiot.
“You’re amazing, Stéphanie… Really. Wearing silver ribbons in your hair. I suppose it would be indiscreet to ask which knight-errant gave them to you?”
She smooths her hair quite unselfconsciously.
“I shall just tell you this, to reassure you—it certainly wasn’t Jérôme Morval. It wasn’t his kind of thing at all, that childish romanticism. But don’t imagine mysteries where there are none, Inspector. In a classroom, there are always plenty of little boys who like to give presents to their teacher. Shall we continue?”
They walk a little way along the stream and stop just in front of the washhouse, at the precise spot where, a few days before, Jérôme Morval’s body was found in the water.
They think about it, inevitably, and silence slips its way in between them. Stéphanie tries a diversion:
“It was Claude Monet who gave this washhouse to the village. Like some other people in the commune, he tried to use gifts to win acceptance from the locals…”
Sérénac doesn’t reply. He steps away from her, and for a moment enjoys the movement of the aquatic plants as they dance on the bed of the stream. His voice is suddenly harsh:
“I have to tell you, Stéphanie, your husband
is fast becoming the chief suspect in this investigation.”
“I’m sorry?”
The sweet young fantasy has flown away like a startled bird.
“I just thought I should keep you in the picture. Those rumors about you and Morval… His jealousy…”
“That’s ridiculous! What are you playing at, Inspector? I’ve already told you that there was nothing between me and—”
“I know, but…”
He stirs the mud on the riverbank with his shoes. Yesterday’s rain has erased any trace of footprints.
“Does your husband own a pair of boots, Stéphanie?”
“Do you often ask such idiotic questions?”
“It’s the kind of question a policeman asks. I’m sorry… but you haven’t given me an answer.”
“Of course, Jacques has boots. Everyone does. He might even be wearing them right now. He’s gone hunting with some friends.”
“But it isn’t the hunting season.”
The teacher’s reply is crisp and precise:
“The owner of the hill above the Astragale pathway, Patrick Delaunay, has been given permission to destroy wild rabbits outside the hunting reserves and the normal hunting periods. The limestone meadows are overrun with rabbits. Your men can check; there’s a file at the Department of Agriculture, along with a list of the plots concerned, the damage caused by the creatures, and the names of the huntsmen who have agreed to assist Delaunay. All his friends in Giverny, in fact, including my husband. Everything’s been negotiated, Inspector. This way, they can blast away all year-round, perfectly legally.”
Sérénac frowns, as if memorizing every detail.
“Fine, thanks. We will check. You’re going to receive a visit from my deputy, or from another police officer. Don’t worry, they’re much less indiscreet than I am, Stéphanie. So what was your husband doing on the morning of the murder?”
Stéphanie steps toward the bank, rubbing a willow leaf between her fingers.
“Did you suggest coming here just to ask me about the crime scene, Inspector? To put me in the mood, so to speak?”
Sérénac stammers: “Please… don’t think that—”
“Jacques had gone hunting that morning,” Stéphanie cuts in. “Early. But it’s often like that at this time of year, weather permitting… My husband has no alibi. But no motive either… The fact that Jérôme Morval discreetly tried to court me isn’t a reason… We sometimes went walking around here, just as you and I are doing right now. We talked about painting—he was interesting, cultured. But my relationship with Jérôme Morval stops there. It certainly doesn’t constitute a motive for the crime.”
Stéphanie Dupain’s eyes follow the water of the brook, then settle on Laurenç Sérénac.
Fathomless.
“Look, Inspector. I could slip on this wet ground and fall into your arms. Someone might see us… Observe us. Imagine. Take a photograph. That’s what people do here. And yet we would both agree that nothing had happened.”
Sérénac can’t help glancing around. He can see only a few passersby, quite a long way off in the meadow. Apart from the Moulin des Chennevières, he can’t spot a single inhabitable building.
“Forgive me, Stéphanie. It’s only a lead… Perhaps I was exaggerating when I used the term ‘chief suspect.’”
He hesitates for a moment before going on.
“In fact, according to my deputy, Inspector Bénavides—and I think he’s right—there are three possible motives for the murder of Jérôme Morval: jealousy, because of his many mistresses; illegal art dealing, linked to his passion for paintings; or some kind of secret to do with a child…”
Stéphanie thinks for a moment. Her voice assumes a disturbingly ironic tone:
“Well, if I’m following you correctly, then I should be your main suspect. Because the three motives lead to me, don’t they? I used to talk to Morval, I’m organizing a painting competition… And who knows the village children better than I do?”
She bites her chalky pink lips and holds out two clenched fists, as if waiting to be handcuffed.
Sérénac’s laugh sounds strained.
“There’s no evidence against you! Quite the opposite, in fact. According to what you told me, you weren’t Morval’s lover, you don’t paint… And you don’t have any children.”
The inspector’s careless words suddenly freeze in his throat. A dark veil slides over Stéphanie’s eyes, as if Sérénac’s words have caused her intense distress.
A violin string breaking.
Her acting skills don’t go this far, Sérénac thinks. He reflects on what he has just said.
You weren’t Morval’s lover.
You don’t paint.
You don’t have any children.
Everything about Stéphanie’s attitude proves that he’s mistaken… that one of those statements is incorrect.
At least one.
But which one? And might this have something to do with his investigation, with the murder? Once again Laurenç Sérénac feels as if he is stepping into a marsh, getting bogged down in unconnected details.
Slowly, without saying another word, they head back toward the school along the Rue du Colombier. They part, troubled by an awkwardness that neither of them can express.
“Stéphanie, as the phrase goes, I’m going to ask you to remain at the disposal of the police.”
He smiles.
She replies, a forced warmth in her voice: “Of course, Inspector. It’s not hard to find me. I’m either at school or at home, just down from the playground.”
She glances toward the round skylight below the mansard roof.
“My world isn’t very large, as you can see… Oh, but yes. In three days’ time, I’ll be taking the children of the village to visit Monet’s gardens. In the morning.”
She runs off toward her classroom. The light mauve of her eyes lingers for a long moment in Sérénac’s thoughts, distorting the reality of what he has heard, reassembling it into a strange picture, painted with chaotic brushstrokes.
Stéphanie Dupain.
What is her part in this case?
Suspect? Victim?
He is very disconcerted by her. The only reasonable thing to do would be to drop the case, call the investigating magistrate, and pass everything on to Sylvio, or any other policeman.
But one certainty, just one, holds him back.
The intuition that he can’t explain, that haunting feeling, that Stéphanie Dupain is asking for his help.
23
From my keep, I didn’t miss a thing. The two walkers by my cherry tree, the silver ribbons in her hair, the mud on his shoes, right by the crime scene.
In front of my house!
I would be wrong to deny myself, don’t you think? And doesn’t their story strike you as boringly obvious? A romance between the handsome police inspector who’s come out of nowhere, and the teacher awaiting her savior? They’re young, they’re attractive. Their fate lies before them, in their hands.
Everything is in place.
They just need to meet a few more times… The flesh will do the rest.
I come down from my tower, cursing under my breath. I take several long seconds to go down each step. It will take me several more minutes to lock those three locks. I even have trouble closing the oak door; it’s as heavy and old as I am. You would think that the hinges rust overnight. To each his own rheumatism, if I can put it like that.
I think again about the policeman and the teacher. Yes, those two dream of breaking the picture. Of bursting out from the frame. An escape on a gleaming chrome motorbike. What girl wouldn’t dream of escaping like that?
Unless someone threw a monkey wrench in the works, of course.
Unless someone writes a different ending.
“Come on, Neptune!”
I walk. I walk. As so often, I cut across the parking lot of the Museum of Impressionisms. I pass in front of the building. As usual, I grumble to myself about the hideous, pavilion
-style, seventies architecture. I know, of course, that a big garden was planned to hide the museum. A maze of privet and white cedar was planted years ago—they call it an Impressionist garden. But many people aren’t even happy about the hedges. Now that the French have bought it back from the Americans, maybe they’ll knock the whole thing down. I can tell you this: if they wanted my advice, I’d be in favor.
Anyway, I’ll be dead before it happens. For now, they’ve settled on putting four old-style haystacks in the field behind the museum; the only thing that’s missing is a pitchfork. I think the whole thing looks a bit odd, but people seem to like them, and you often see delighted tourists posing in front of them.
When I was younger, I often used to walk up behind the museum, past the Cambour Gallery. The view of the terraced, landscaped roofs of the museum isn’t something many tourists know about, but it is quite surprising. Even if the best view is still the one from the hill above the water tower. Now that my legs are giving out, all I have is memories…
I continue walking. My rickety walking stick scratches the pavement. A group of five people overtake me, old people—well, not as old as me. They are speaking English.
It’s always like this during the week; Giverny is as deserted as any other village. Apart from the buses run by the tour operators… Three-quarters of these visitors speak English and they do a return journey along Rue Claude Monet, going as far as the church and coming back by the same route. On the way there they look at the galleries, and on the way back they buy. At the weekend it’s different. Parisians disembark, and people from Normandy.
Even though the group in front is drawing away from me, I still advance, at my own rhythm. I would like to be able to speed up a little when I pass in front of the Kandy Gallery. Amadou Kandy runs the oldest art gallery in Giverny.
Thirty years I’ve been bumping into him. For thirty years, he’s been boring me rigid…
Damn!
His shop looks like a kind of Ali Baba’s cave. He comes out of his doorway as soon as he sees me.
“So, my lovely. Still haunting the streets?”
“Hello, Amadou. Forgive me, I’m in a hurry…”