Downfall

by Sally Spedding

  10.35 hrs.

  From a sudden flicker of insight to a churning over and over of the very latest developments, Delphine left the D338 just past Beaumont-sur-Sarthe and pulled into a deserted, pot-holed parking area in front of a small guest house and campsite named Auberge de l’Aube. Here, another, more decrepit sign indicated the Bois des Hermites some two kilometres away.

  Jérôme Meyer’s last-minute discovery on his computer had left her firing on more cylinders than her loyal but underpowered wheels. Sensing that now more than ever, the dead baby boy in the Hôtel les Palmiers was somehow connected to Basma Arouar’s former enterprise on the Rue des Mazières, in Saint-Denis. There, in April 1996, another infant, this time a mixed-race baby girl of just five days old, had been found dead in her cot in the bedroom she’d shared with her mother. Also unnamed.

  ‘… Her little kidneys failed. Then everything else… too quickly… too quickly…”

  Unnamed? Why? Could she have been Basma’s child? Delphine had thought out loud before the archivist reminded her of the country’s privacy laws to safeguard the identities of those at risk. Especially if a lunatic was on the loose. But in this heartbreaking case, it seemed that the birth mother, a forty-four-year-old Algerian, had fled the capital, never to be seen again.

  Delphine had swiftly done the maths. Hadn’t her former boss worked at the Hôtel les Palmiers for seven years? Been fifty-four at the time of her death?

  “Was there a Coroner’s report?” She’d asked her new ally before leaving his domain.

  “Nothing. No birth certificate either, and no record of any burial or cremation. My curiosity was aroused at the time, but then,” he’d shrugged. “Too much other, bigger news was surging in.”

  *

  Delphine pushed her defunct, spotted umbrella into an already full poubelle, and brought up the substantial collar of her mother’s coat to cover her ears. Then she picked her way past various chained-up pieces of play equipment and the odd bench-style table and chairs badly in need of a lick of paint. But this was winter. Most things excusable because of it.

  Most things, except the freezing hybrid of hail and rain still falling.

  To the right of the shabby-looking Auberge de l’Aube, stood a row of what must have once been smart log cabins, each with its own, faded sign naming an exotic animal. ZÈBRE, LION, PANTHÈRE and the like. She wondered which one the Seghers’ had stayed in. Or even in the house itself? Meyer’s online research hadn’t said.

  The door for deliveries was signed towards the right-hand side of the house, beneath a large, wooden trellis supporting a jungle of dead vines. A sorry sight, and one which made her want to tear them down and start again. Like her efforts at Bellevue when there’d been some hope.

  An elderly woman so hunched over, her face was almost hidden, opened the door. It then took a huge effort stirred more by anxiety than curiosity, for her to raise her gaze and, with a surge of sadness, Delphine could see she’d once been beautiful. There was a whiff of urine. Also mothballs.

  Having introduced herself together with a quick resumé of her current existence, Delphine ventured to ask if she could come in from the bad weather just to raise a few questions. The old girl, who’d given her name as Ursula Villedin, added, “if it’s about the 30th November 1968, then I’ve run out of things to say. There’ve been that many people phoning or calling on me over the years…”

  “Who, for example?” A dumb query, which could have put paid to everything, but this stranger was full of surprises.

  “All men,” she said. “And that got me thinking.” She gestured for her visitor to pass her into a square hallway decorated not for any festive season like Roza’s cheerful caravan, but with a multitude of fly strips blackened by so many insects. Thirty-five years’ worth at least, it seemed. Delphine tried to dodge them on her way into a kitchen that also doubled as a bedroom. The incumbent then re-bolted the side door and tapped her on the shoulder. “Take a good look,” she said. “They’re my souvenirs.”

  “Of what?” Tempted to hold her nose against the intensifying smell of pee and just then, dog, which explained two large water bowls set below an ancient, rusted fridge.

  “The incremental deteriorations of life. Although you, right now, are still young.”

  “And you’re a conceptual artist. That’s cool.”

  The old woman tittered her approval, giving Delphine an opportunity. “You mentioned men,” she reminded her. “Do you mean reporters? Media types?”

  “In the beginning, yes. But when it had all died down, different sorts. You know what I mean…”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Homosexuals.”

  That word could have been mould on her tongue.

  “It’s a disease,” the owner of the Auberge elaborated. “And I’m only glad I never had boys.” She eyed Delphine with a strange look. “You never know.”

  What about lesbians, bisexuals and those with transgender problems? Delphine wanted to ask, but Ursula Villedin belonged to another era, so what was the point? Beyond the window, the sky had turned black. The sleet more like rain hitting the smeared glass. She wondered what Martin and Jean-Marie were doing now. Just hours ago, she’d have cared, but not any more. However, something about them was activating a mental trip-switch.

  “You mentioned having had reporters here in the beginning,” she ventured. “Do any turn up these days?”

  “Best you sit down.”

  Delphine chose the most reliable-looking wooden chair at the nearby table where crumbs and other food remains lay scattered around an almost-empty, oily vinaigrette bottle. She watched her hostess lower herself on to what was clearly her seat with its thick, already dented cushion. In the far corner, stood a bottled gas heater faintly glowing, obviously on the lowest setting.

  “Yes. One in particular,” said the other, as if the memory still preoccupied her. “Although last time, he wasn’t alone.”

  “Who?” As the old fridge made a sudden, startling noise.

  “I had his card somewhere until I threw it out with all the others. Some things I’d rather forget.”

  Yet, like a colander, Ursula Villedin seemed busy sifting through her recollections. The wait in the end, was worth it. “Jean-Marie Longeau,” she said finally. “Last Monday evening, while I was having my supper. His hair was extraordinary…”

  Monday the 3rd. Coincidence, or what?

  “Please go on.”

  “He asked if I could add anything new to what I’d already told him. I said no, except I’d heard another vehicle arrive and leave the morning after…”

  “And this second man?”

  “He stayed in the car. It looked new to me, but then most things do these days. He seemed a bit older then you, but not much. Good looking, wearing a black beret pulled down over his hair…”

  Martin?

  She’d spotted it in their hallway, amongst the many long scarves.

  “He might have been English,” added her companion abruptly. “Because that’s the language he used to call out to the other man to hurry. I learnt quite a bit of it when I was young.”

  “But what did they want, after so long?”

  From somewhere, a clock chimed out eleven, then the old woman’s voice surprisingly strong. High-pitched.

  “Oscar? Viens-ici!”

  Delphine, unsure what was happening, pushed back her chair. But there was no need, for when the door to the hallway flew open, Julie’s double hurtled in, with identical black and white markings, cute tan eyebrows and the same eager expression on his face.

  She felt sick and overjoyed in turn, as the border collie nuzzled against her left thigh. He then reached up to her face, trying to lick her bruise.

  “He likes you,” smiled his owner, then snapped her bony, ringless fingers for him to desert her. “But not that Jean-Marie nor the Anglais. In fact, he went for their car. Ran after it too, as if he knew…”

  “Knew what? Had they upset you?”
/>   “No, but someone else has and still is. With words, Mademoiselle Rougier, that I never want to hear again as long as I live.”

  Delphine drew her mother’s coat even closer around herself. She mustn’t be distracted by the beautiful dog, now lying at his mistress’s slippered feet, but instead, read his owner’s body language.

  “Such as?”

  She paused. “It’s a woman, that’s for sure. Saying I had to tell the police I’d seen a man assault that doctor’s son.” She fixed Delphine with a look of incredulity. “A man who she said seized a fifteen-year-old boy like a savage.”

  Another chill reached Delphine’s skin.

  “And did you contact the police?”

  Ursula Villedin leaned forwards. Her gaze unblinking as Oscar sat up. “What do you think? I’m not ready to die just yet. But I saw everything that night with my own eyes. And, God willing, I’m biding my time.”

  “Were you given this man’s name?”

  “No.”

  “So, what really happened?”

  “I can’t say.”

  Lise Confrère has proof he’s still alive…

  “Did the boy survive?” Delphine almost whispered, “Any sign of him afterwards?”

  The old woman covered her lips with a forefinger.

  “Please,” urged Delphine, then, in desperation, added a white lie. “My father’s just been given three months to live, and before he dies, wants this victim’s attacker brought to justice.”

  “They all say that.”

  “Who?”

  “Those who have most to hide. And the answer to your question is no. Not a sign.”

  *

  At that, Delphine could have made her excuses and left, but the simple, wooden chair she occupied seemed to magnetise her to its unforgiving seat. Like the icy rain on the window.

  “What did this attacker look like? Surely, if it was dark…”

  “Mademoiselle, this has been my homeland since after the war,” the inscrutable old woman replied. “I was raised here, and I’ll rot in its very earth. Also, because it’s the land of the hunter and hunted, I trained myself to see in the dark.” She peered at Delphine across the table. “Can you understand that?”

  “Of course. Even our hamlet’s named after St. Eustache…”

  “Exactly.”

  Those eyes had become alive, focussing for a second on Delphine’s bruised cheek. “I was my parents’ eyes and ears. They trusted me, especially when we’d had to hide in the Vosges for a month when the Hun rolled in. So, yes, I saw him clearly. Supple, tallish, dark hair, and wearing the bleu de travail, and boots. Very strong, that was my impression, and if you’re wondering why I didn’t intervene, I was already at risk of a miscarriage.”

  She lowered her head, causing stray, grey strands of hair to fall from their clasp. “I lost the child anyway, so there were no winners.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  The old woman crossed herself.

  “This man,” Delphine persisted after a decent interval. “Would you recognise him again?”

  “I doubt it, after thirty-five years, but there’s not many with such big hands. Such a defined jaw line…” She began to rise. Oscar too. Delphine took the hint but had two more questions.

  “Where was the boy’s father?”

  “I never saw him from after dinner until next morning when he paid. He was in a terrible state. Could hardly get the banknotes out of his wallet.”

  “He didn’t stay on to keep searching?”

  “No. He’d received too many urgent calls from his patients in Paris, and once he’d phoned the gendarmerie in Labradelle, he left.”

  Odd, thought Delphine, with yet another query.

  “Back to those various callers you mentioned. Did a female gendarme ever come here?”

  “What a strange question.” Yet a half-smile crept along her mouth, and although Delphine sensed the answer, part of it was a surprise. “Yes. Lise. A pretty blonde. She’d first come with her father. A Lieutenant Colonel. Very driven, obsessed with the case. They were obviously close. After he died, she visited me several times, as an Aspirant, then sous-lieutenant and very quickly, a proper Lieutenant at Labradelle. But I’ve not seen her for quite a while. Do you know her?”

  Delphine hesitated.

  “I’ve heard she’s good at her job.”

  Silence.

  To change the subject and move things on, she pulled that same print-out from her bag and passed it over. “Was this the boy?”

  Ursula Villedin scanned his features several times, then shook her head.

  “I can’t be sure. But someone did turn up here about ten years ago, at the end of November, driving a silver BMW I noticed. He was a bit older than what the lad might look like now, come to think of it, even with darkish hair. But he had the strangest eyes. Yes,” she tapped that part of the photo. “The strangest eyes…”

  “Anything else?”

  “He stayed in the car, just staring at the house in a rather menacing way. He seemed smartly dressed, like a city gent…” Here she stopped herself. “I’ve said too much already. And if you so much as breathe a word about any of this, you too could be in danger.”

  The room had become an ice box, as the old girl patted Oscar’s head. “Even you wouldn’t be able to protect me.”

  “Why not move away?”

  “Because my beloved parents and my child lie here.” She paused as if something else had occurred to her. Something she was trying to resist expressing.

  “What is it?”

  “I can’t go to my grave without speaking the truth, and the more I think about that night by the wild river, the more I’m convinced the boy started things off…”

  Before Delphine could respond, Oscar suddenly growled again. A much deeper warning than Julie’s. He bounded over to the window and stood on his quivering back legs which splayed out on the slippery tiled floor. The fur on his neck almost vertical as he barked at the sleet-blurred glass, and Delphine was just in time to see a man’s face angled towards them. The same she’d seen only that morning in that big, green Nissan in Cousteaux’s Rue des Bergers. As the old woman had said, an unmistakeably older version of that portrait.

  “It’s him again!” Delphine cried out. “My God. That’s four times already!”

  Then seconds later, with Ursula Villedin alongside, and Oscar madly barking, she heard, the determined roar of a powerful car engine fading beyond the outskirts of the forest.

  24.

  11.35 hrs.

  ‘…such big hands. Such a defined jaw line.’

  With that unnervingly clear description banging away in her brain, Delphine left the Auberge de l’Aube to rejoin her car. But not before glancing back at Oscar and his owner watching from an upstairs window. Fear in her eyes.

  She fervently hoped they’d both stay safe but knew as she checked around for another possible sighting of that uninvited snooper, there’d be no such sanctuary for herself.

  Voilà!

  She’d spotted four noticeably fresh, deeper tyre tracks in the dark brown mud where whatever sizeable vehicle had been used, had quickly turned away towards the open gate. Despite the stinging rain, she focussed on the distinctive treads, noticing that the marking on the near front tyre was more sharply defined than the rest.

  Having decided against exploring the patchy, grassed area leading down to the river Sarthe, thereby adding to Ursula Villedin’s anxieties, she drove away from that mournful yet significant place before pulling into a layby allocated to wide loads. A risk, but she had to call Lise Confrère for any update on Basma and the Spaniard. Also, to find out what she knew about the woman’s previous, hidden life and the loss of what might have been her baby daughter. But when Captain Valon picked up, all that evaporated.

  “I think that man whom I’d seen come from room 45 in the Hôtel les Palmiers on Monday morning, might be Lucius Seghers. Still alive after his attack on 30th November 1968,” she said, without drawing b
reath. “Which, by the way, he may have instigated.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “By using my spade, Captain. And I’m also convinced he’s driving that green Nissan 4x4 which now has a new bull bar.”

  Once several huge vehicles had swept by, engulfing her 2CV in filth, she added, “I can’t say any more over the phone, so would you mind me calling in at Labradelle?”

  In the pause that followed, Delphine realised she might have come over as being mad or pushy, or both. But what the Hell? It was time for somebody able to act, to take notice. Ten years or no ten years…

  “13.00 hours is best. Just for ten minutes,” he said, in a thankfully non-judgemental voice. “Lieutenant Confrère’s due back then as well, and there are some developments which you should be aware of.”

  “The baby’s Post-Mortem?”

  “Later.”

  Once she’d thanked him, he added, “by the way, Mademoiselle, do you have any news yet as to why your parents might have been receiving threats?”

  Think…

  “It’s been too tricky at home for me to ask,” she said, as a troupe of black-clad cyclists fizzled by at a ferocious speed. “But I can’t stop thinking how their dates coincide with that attack in 1968.”

  Her reply had come from a mouth as dry as dust, as did three of Ursula Villedin’s very specific observations. “Very strong. Big hands. Such a defined jaw line…”

  “Who are you talking about, Mademoiselle? Are you alright?”

  “Fine. Sorry, Captain Valon. I’ll be there at one.”

  *

  “The more I think about that night by the river, the more I’m convinced that boy started things off…”

  From the moment she’d shoved her phone back into her bag, Delphine knew that the next forty minutes could destroy her troubled little family for ever. What a terrible thing for at least a half-believing Catholic to have done, she thought. Especially a man with so little time left to live, and a wife who’d only lived half a life since that eerily glorious June day in the Limousin almost sixty years ago.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered to whoever might be listening up there, then took the turning for St. Eustache, seeing that tilting shrine in a completely different light.