Monsieur Pamplemousse & the Secret Mission (Monsieur Pamplemousse Series)
Page 17
As they drove through the square he waved goodbye to Tante Louise once more and then added another wave as he caught a glimpse of Madame Terminé on the balcony outside his room. He wondered how she would get on with Elsie. They would probably be more than a match for each other. It would be interesting to follow the progress from afar. He narrowly missed hitting a car coming the other way. White faces peered out at him. It was the first of the sightseers. He’d been right.
In the fields outside the village the circus was packing up to leave. He was just in time to miss the first of the huge pantechnicon lorries revving noisily as it tried to haul its load of trailers through the muddied entrance.
It was a pity in a way they were leaving. He felt a little en fête himself. It was a long time since he’d done so many good deeds at one and the same time. Tante Louise, the boulanger – if he had the nous to follow his advice, the Director, the Director’s wife, Elsie, Bernard … it was an impressive list. He wouldn’t have minded celebrating it with a ride on the merry-go-round. It was years since he’d been on one. Pommes Frites could have had a go on the helter-skelter.
Through a gap in the trees he caught a glimpse of the Lie. It looked dangerously high, but already Sunday-morning fishermen were out looking for eels and perch and pike, perhaps even a trout or two. In the Loire itself the season would end on the last Monday in September, but here it would go on until April. No doubt they had their minds on the evening matelote – the thick stew made with wine, mushrooms and cream, and laced with croutons. A sprinkling of waders and terns were watching hopefully from a safe distance.
He passed a notice saying BAL TRAP, then a small forest of acacia. At the side of the road a table had been set up, laden with jars of honey. Vineyards appeared with their inevitable Dégustation signs, and between them more fields given over to asperges, followed by a wood which seemed to be alive with men carrying guns.
A little further on he stopped in a lay-by near a road junction where a D road crossed the river.
It was the kind of day for a detour. He might even head towards Vendôme on his way to Bernard and continue his researches driving through the countryside where Ronsard had lived amongst the orchards and vineyards, writing love poems which likened the pale skin of his amour with cream cheese, before he eventually died of gout. As he reached past Pommes Frites for the maps he suddenly remembered the parcels on the back seat.
The bottle of wine was beyond his wildest dreams. It was the one he’d taken from the rack in the inner cellar. He resolved to drive more slowly for the rest of the journey. He laid it gently and carefully on the back seat, wondering as he did so who he would share it with. Bernard? It would need to rest for a while after its journey. Perhaps he would save it for a return visit by the Director and his wife; a celebration. Such wine was not meant to be drunk alone. He could hardly believe his good fortune.
The second parcel felt hard and angular. It was a tin. As he tore open the paper he recognised it was the one Tante Louise had kept the tisane in. Pommes Frites gave a loud sniff as he prized the lid open, then licked his lips. He remembered both the smell and the taste very well indeed. He had drunk very deeply of both that first night in his master’s room when it had been left temptingly on the floor, right under his nose.
Monsieur Pamplemousse held the tin up and savoured the almost overpowering aroma. He would always have good cause to remember it too.
He wondered who had left it for him – Tante Louise or Madame Terminé? If it was the latter, perhaps she was hoping for a return visit. Tisane in bed with Madame Terminé; it was quite a thought!
Climbing out of the car, he crossed to the bridge and leant on the parapet while he considered the matter. As a parting gift it must be unique; all that was left in the world. The temptations it offered were enormous. He would lose more than his shoe if he gave some to the Director’s wife. One whiff and Elsie would burn her puddings.
He held the tin up to his nose again and wondered about Armand. If Armand had discovered the secret earlier he would still be alive. Perhaps he’d had dreams of escaping from it all. It couldn’t have been pleasant spending a lifetime being swept under the carpet; spoken of but rarely spoken to. It was a moment of truth. Perhaps he was holding in his hand the answer to a lot of people’s dreams of escape. Deep down, he knew he wasn’t doing any such thing – he was simply holding on to a tinful of illusions.
On the other side of the bridge Pommes Frites put his paws on the parapet and peered down at the water as a dark brown patch floated into view, spreading out all the time and growing paler at the edges as it was carried downstream by the strong current. He looked up as Monsieur Pamplemousse joined him. There was no accounting for the way his master behaved at times.
There was a series of plops as first one fish, then another, then a third, rose to the unaccustomed bait.
As they got back into the car Monsieur Pamplemousse wondered if the fishermen further downstream would benefit in the fullness of time. Perhaps there would be a sudden and unaccountable rise in the piscatorial birthrate. He might even read about it in the journaux. There would be articles. Expert opinions would be called on, but they would never guess the real truth.
Two kilometres further on they met a road block. There was a caravan – a Mobile Headquarters – at the side of the road. Two gendarmes with walkie-talkies and rifles were standing outside the door chatting. A third gendarme stepped out into the road as he pulled in. He touched his cap as Monsieur Pamplemousse opened the window.
‘Pardon, Monsieur. We are stopping all traffic. There is an escaped lion in the area.’
‘An escaped lion?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse tried to avoid catching Pommes Frites’ eye, but he needn’t have worried. Pommes Frites was pointedly watching a butterfly hovering over the bonnet.
‘Has it come from the circus?’ he asked.
‘They deny all knowledge. They say they have only one lion and he is too old to bother with escaping.’ The gendarme gave a shrug. ‘It won’t get very far, but it is said to be enormous. There have been two sightings reported already this morning. If Monsieur was thinking of a picnic …’
Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at his watch. ‘I was heading for Mortagne-au-Perche, but I am late. I may stop en route for a meal.’
The gendarme’s face brightened. ‘In that case, Monsieur, there is somewhere I can recommend.’ He reached into his pocket and took out a card. ‘It belongs to a cousin of mine … he and his wife are just starting up. Be sure to accompany whatever you choose with the Beignets de Pommes de Terre. They are a speciality. Made with potatoes and eggs and gruyère cheese – grated, of course.’
‘And onions and butter?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse felt his mouth begin to water. There was a stirring beside him as Pommes Frites pricked up his ears.
‘Oui, Monsieur.’ The gendarme seemed surprised at the question. ‘With a pinch of nutmeg and salt and pepper.’ He wrote on the back of the card and then handed it through the window. ‘Voilà! Be sure and show this to them. They will look after you.’
‘Merci.’
The gendarme bent down and peered into the car. ‘That is a fine chien you have, Monsieur.’
‘Very.’
‘C’est magnifique.’
‘Oui.’
‘Un chien par excellence.’
‘Par excellence.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse revved the engine.
‘I am glad to see he is wearing his ceinture de sécurité.’ The gendarme touched his cap – twice. ‘Bon appétit, Monsieur. And watch out for the lion.’
‘Au revoir.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse let in the clutch. As they moved off he glanced across at Pommes Frites, but he appeared to be studying the landscape on the far side of the road. There were times when Pommes Frites closed his mind to the outside world. It would be interesting to know what went on at such moments. He decided to put it to the test.
‘Une promenade?’
There was no reaction.
‘Dormir?
>
‘Déjeuner?’
Patience received its due reward. Pommes Frites turned and delivered a withering look. There were, after all, certain priorities in life. Listening to the conversation with the gendarme he’d caught the odd familiar word or two; enough to get the general picture. He’d also noticed his master reach instinctively for that part of his right trouser leg where he kept his notebook hidden; a sure sign that he meant business. There was no need to go on about it.
Suitably abashed, Monsieur Pamplemousse put his foot hard down on the accelerator. He, too, had got the general picture, and really, there was nothing more to be said.
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ALSO AVAILABLE BY MICHAEL BOND
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AFLOAT
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE ON PROBATION
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE ON VACATION
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE HITS THE HEADLINES
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE MILITANT MIDWIVES
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE FRENCH SOLUTION
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE CARBON FOOTPRINT
MONSIEUR PAMPLEMOUSSE AND THE TANGLED WEB
About the Author
MICHAEL BOND was born in Newbury, Berkshire in 1926 and started writing whilst serving in the army during the Second World War. In 1958 the first book featuring his most famous creation, Paddington Bear, was published and many stories of his adventures followed. In 1983 he turned his hand to adult fiction and the detective cum gastronome par excellence Monsieur Pamplemousse was born.
Michael Bond was awarded the OBE in 1997 and in 2007 was made an Honorary Doctor of Letters by Reading University. He is married, with two grown-up children, and lives in London.
By Michael Bond
Monsieur Pamplemousse
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Secret Mission
Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Cure
Monsieur Pamplemousse Aloft
Monsieur Pamplemousse Investigates
Monsieur Pamplemousse Rests His Case
Monsieur Pamplemousse Stands Firm
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Location
Monsieur Pamplemousse Takes the Train
Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Probation
Monsieur Pamplemousse on Vacation
Monsieur Pamplemousse Hits the Headlines
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Militant Midwives
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the French Solution
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Carbon Footprint
Monsieur Pamplemousse and the Tangled Web
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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First published in 1984.
This ebook edition first published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2014.
Copyright © 1984 by MICHAEL BOND
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–1786–6