Colours of the South

by Leah Hope

  “Details about what?” asked Bridget, who was by now almost falling off her chair in anticipation.

  “She can recall some sort of a scandal, many years ago when Bernard Sellier’s father was still alive. There was a family who went away, but she can’t remember any more. She says her memory of events is very dim.”

  “Does she connect this with the murder?” asked Gil.

  “She couldn’t or maybe wouldn’t say,” said Helen, “but I think from the tone of her voice and body language that she clearly thinks it does. She says she’s very tired now so I think it’s best if I take her home.”

  She held out her arm to Béatrice who took it and rose slowly to her feet, and holding out her hand to Gil and Bridget she bid them both, “Au revoir.”

  “Well that’s a turn up,” said Doug after Helen and Béatrice had left. “She must really have taken to you two, I’ve rarely known her speak so openly to strangers.”

  “Maybe she needed to get something off her chest,” said Bridget perceptively.

  “Do you know something, I think you could be right,” said Doug.

  Helen returned fifteen minutes later, looking rather pale.

  “I’ve settled Béatrice upstairs with a warm drink, she was very tired and a bit agitated. She kept muttering something to herself but I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. I thought it best not to question her anymore.”

  “Oh dear,” said Bridget, looking concerned, “I hope my stupid questions haven’t upset her. Me and my big mouth, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be right as rain after a good night’s sleep,” said Helen reassuringly. “But I’ll pop in first thing tomorrow to make sure she’s ok.”

  “Oh, I do hope so,” replied Bridget.

  “We were just talking about what Béatrice had to say, what do you make of it?” Doug said to his wife.

  “I really don’t know, she clearly believes the reason for Sellier’s murder is linked in some way to something that happened in the past,” Helen replied. “She’s just annoyed with herself that her memory keeps letting her down, poor thing.”

  “That’s exactly what I said, isn’t it Gil? I mean that she thinks the past could hold the key to solving this,” Bridget said. “I wonder if there’s any way we can find out more about the family that Béatrice mentioned, is there anyone else in the village who could go back that far?”

  “The trouble is, we don’t know when this ‘scandal’ took place so it’s difficult to know who to speak to or what to ask them,” said Doug. “Although we’ve been here a good number of years, we’re still very much outsiders to a lot of the people in the village and some will never accept us, we know that. What I’m trying to say is that we need to be a bit careful as we don’t want to cause offence by going around asking sensitive questions about a man who’s just been murdered,” he continued.

  “I think we’ve got more to worry about than causing offence,” said Bridget seriously, “we could be putting ourselves in danger.”

  “That’s a bit melodramatic isn’t it, how do you come to that conclusion?” Gil asked.

  “Just think about it, Béatrice believes that Bernard Sellier was murdered for something that happened in his past and I’m inclined to agree with her. If we find out what that something was, then maybe one of us could be next!” said Bridget, amazed that she had to spell things out so clearly to her brother.

  “Well for one thing, Béatrice hasn’t actually said anything at all so I think you’re making a bit of a quantum leap, based on no more than the confused ramblings of a very old woman.”

  “Gil, I think that’s very unfair,” said Bridget leaping to Béatrice’s defence.

  Gil ignored his sister and carried on, “I reckon it’s far more likely that Sellier was killed by someone he had upset by refusing them planning permission or whatever, and from what I’ve heard about him, that narrows it down to about half the village. What do you think Doug, you know these people better than we do?”

  Unusually for Doug, his face had taken on a serious air. “I think we should leave it to the experts, the local Gendarmerie seems to be doing a very professional and thorough job from what I can gather. I’m not inclined to start poking my nose about in things that don’t directly concern us.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Gil, glaring at Bridget.

  “But I am with Bridget on one thing,” said Doug, “whatever the reason for this murder is, we need to tread very carefully indeed.”

  *

  As they made their way home, Gil pondered on what Béatrice and Doug had to say. If he were honest, Doug’s last remarks had unsettled him a bit and for the first time, Gil felt himself becoming a little uneasy about what might be going on in Saint-Rémy. He didn’t dare admit it to Bridget though, for fear of frightening her. Unusually for him, Gil suddenly felt an urgent need for a drink.

  “Do you fancy a quick one at Chez Mimi before we go home? It’s still early, we could grab a bite to eat as well if you fancy it?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t eat another thing, but a cool drink outside might be nice.”

  They made their way across the square and sat down at one of the little tables that spilled out onto the pavement in front of the café. Bridget surprised herself by admitting that she could manage ‘a little something’ after all. Gil ordered two croques monsieurs, with a portion of frites on the side for him, a beer and a glass of white wine for Bridget. Sitting quietly back in their seats, their peace was shattered by the unmistakeable tones of Pete McNally.

  “So, deserted me tonight have you?” Pete said, but seeing Gil’s obvious discomfort he added, “only kidding mate, they do some decent stuff here, if you like that sort of thing. I just popped over to get some change, we’re clean out over there.”

  “We just called in on our way home, we’ve had a lovely tea with Doug and Helen,” said Bridget.

  “Don’t tell me, you had those dinky little sarnies with the crusts cut off, no wonder you wanted some decent grub! Been there all afternoon I expect?” said Pete.

  Bridget nodded.

  “Then you won’t have heard the latest.” Seeing the blank looks on Gil and Bridget’s faces, Pete pulled up a chair from a nearby table and sat on it the wrong way around, his tanned arms resting on its wooden back.

  “Jean-Paul Janot has been arrested!” he said, clearly delighted to be the bearer of important news. “Seems the murder weapon belonged to him.”

  “How did they trace it to him so quickly?” Gil asked.

  “Well,” Pete continued, “I think the initials ‘J-P J’ carved on the stock were a bit of a give-away, even Inspector Clouseau couldn’t have missed that! Anyway, the Gendarmes called at his house this morning and he admitted straight away that it was his but he denied having anything to do with any murder. He said the gun went missing a few weeks ago but he didn’t report it because he thought it would turn up somewhere eventually.”

  “That’s a bit of a cavalier attitude to take,” said Bridget, “a child could have found it and anything could have happened.” She paused for a moment and then went on, “I wonder if Janot realises how much trouble he’s in after that very public row with Bernard Sellier. After all he did threaten to kill him, half the village heard it, or heard about it. Whatever his disagreement with Sellier was about he clearly felt aggrieved, very aggrieved. Maybe to the extent that it gave him one of the oldest motives for murder.”

  “What’s that?” Gil asked.

  “Revenge of course,” Bridget answered.

  “Strewth!” said Pete, his eyes suddenly widening. “I’d forgotten all about that set-to they had.”

  “I doubt the police have,” Bridget replied.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bridget was on the phone to Helen before breakfast the next day to enquire after Béatrice. She was ashamed to admit it, but part of the reason for her ringing was to ask if she and Doug had heard about Jean-Paul Janot’s arrest.

  “Good morning Hel
en, I’m just ringing to thank you for the lovely tea yesterday, it was a very civilised way to spend an afternoon! Have you seen Béatrice this morning?”

  “I’m glad you both enjoyed tea, one must keep up the traditions of the old country!” Helen replied in a mock colonial tone. “I went around to see Béatrice first thing this morning, like many older people she’s an early riser, always up with the lark. She’s fine, she was tucking in to her pain au chocolat, so no need to worry. She did say though that she hadn’t slept very well, the talk about Bernard Sellier kept going around in her head all night, poor thing. She did however give me a few more snippets of information, I’m not sure if they’re relevant or not so maybe we can meet up and have a chat, I’d be interested in what you and Gil think.”

  “Yes, we’d like to do that, when do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve seen the posters up at the Mirabeau advertising a ‘fish and chip night’ tomorrow, the locals love them apparently, as well as all the Brits of course. Doug and I haven’t had them in ages so we thought we would go along as it sounds like fun, do you fancy joining us?”

  “Yes we’d love to, are Tony and Heather going?”

  “Doug did mention it to them but you know how things are with them, financially I mean, and they keep the shop open quite late these days. We offered to treat them but they wouldn’t hear of it, so it’ll be just us four, but Max and Genevieve may come along if they’re back from Paris in time. Genni wants to look at wedding dresses and Max is meeting up and old friend from university who runs a book shop in the Latin Quarter.”

  “Oh it all sounds very romantic,” said Bridget, “but I didn’t know they had set a date for the wedding.”

  “They haven’t, I think Genni just wants an excuse to shop and Max is looking forward to some boys’ talk with his friends.”

  “Well I hope they both enjoy themselves. By the way, have you heard about the latest arrest? Pete NcNally told us last night.” Bridget just stopped herself in time from letting on that she and Gil had stopped for something to eat on the way home.

  “Yes, we’ve just heard, Monique told us when she arrived this morning. I really can’t believe Jean-Paul Janot has anything to do with this. He’s such a nice man, very quiet, always polite, but Doug said that the row with Bernard Sellier got quite nasty, so maybe there’s another side to him. They say it’s always the quiet ones you have to watch.”

  “Indeed,” said Bridget but any further remarks were cut short.

  “Sorry Bridget, I’ll have to dash, I think there’s someone at the door,” Helen interjected, “as usual Doug’s never around when he’s needed and Monique’s got the vacuum on upstairs. See you about 7.30ish on Friday at the Mirabeau?”

  “Look forward to it, see you then,” said Bridget and put the phone down.

  “What are we looking forward to now?” asked Gil who had just arrived back from the village with fresh bread and croissants.

  “Helen’s got some more information from Béatrice, she’s fine by the way, she doesn’t know if it’s useful but wants us all to meet up at the Mirabeau on Friday evening, they’re having a fish and chip night, so I said we’d go. You’re ok with that, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose so but I hope you haven’t committed us to any more events, I’m beginning to feel that life’s becoming a bit of social whirl, we are meant to be on holiday you know!”

  “No need to be sarcastic, anyway, you love fish and chips!”

  “That’s not the point, I just need a bit of free time to sort the car out, I’m still not sure if the tracking’s out or not or if I’m just imagining it.”

  “Well you’ll be pleased to hear then that Mr Honeyman’s diary is completely free for the rest of the day!”

  “Relieved to hear it! I’m going to take the car out for a quick spin and if it’s not right I’m going to have to take it to a garage. I don’t want to risk going to one of those little back street places so I’ll need to find a Mercedes garage. The nearest one is about an hour away, according to Doug, so I won’t be back for a bit, do you want to come?”

  “Hanging around a dirty old garage isn’t what I had in mind for today, so I’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind.”

  “So what are your plans?”

  “Nothing much really, I think I’m just going to put my feet up in the garden, my book’s just getting to the good bit and I think I know who dunnit!”

  “Ok then, see you later, don’t bother with any lunch for me, I’ll get a sandwich or something when I’m out.” As he was about to close the front door behind him, he added, “You will be careful won’t you?”

  *

  After Gil had left, Bridget settled herself down on the sun lounger in the shade of her umbrella and the impact of Gil’s parting words suddenly hit her. Although she knew he cared for her deeply, as she did for him, he had never been one to fuss over her. In fact, the only time he had come close was when she had a bad bout of flu a few years ago and even Gil had been concerned at how ill she was. Since Sylvia’s death Bridget had, unintentionally, taken over her mother’s mantle. She thought it was understandable to some extent that Gil looked on her more as a mother than a sister, even though there was only two years between them in age. The only time in his life that Gil had had to fend for himself was, paradoxically, when he was married. Poor, spoiled little Pammie, she couldn’t even boil an egg and made no attempt to learn. Gil would often come home after a tiring day at the garage to find that there was yet again no supper waiting for him and the fridge empty. Her excuses got more and more lame, “My nails are still wet,” was a favourite or, “I’ve had such a tiring days shopping, you don’t mind if I have a lie down do you?” At the beginning, Gil thought it endearing that his wife was so useless in the kitchen, after all he hadn’t married her for her culinary skills. He almost got to enjoy rustling up a spaghetti Bolognese or driving them both into town for a pizza. Bridget used to tell him that Pamela was taking advantage, but Gil couldn’t, or rather wouldn’t, see it. As time wore on, Pamela’s string of excuses began to wear thin and the arguments, that would eventually give her an excuse to find refuge in the arms of another man, began. The last Gil heard about Pamela was that she and husband number three, an ex-professional footballer from one of the lower divisions, had opened a bar on the Costa del Sol. “I bet she still can’t boil an egg,” Bridget had said rather sniffly at the time.

  Gil had always been the one who was cared for, rather than the one who did the caring. Which is why his sudden concern troubled Bridget now. He knew how afraid she had been when they first learned of the murder and later, when they were having tea at Doug and Helen’s, he had been sceptical, almost mocking. So what had changed? Maybe it was Doug’s cautionary words or was it something in the tone of his voice when he said them? Bridget had been a bit unnerved herself at the time at the unusual seriousness of Doug’s manner. He was a “glass half full” man she had always thought, and it took a lot to rattle him. Strangely now though, and for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she was no longer afraid. She was grateful for Gil’s sudden concern, but there was no need for it, she would be fine. Bridget picked up her book and placed the bookmark down on the little table next to the lounger. She would have a blissful few hours all by herself until Gil got back.

  Her peace didn’t last long though as no sooner had she found her place when a pair of muddy paws deposited an old bone on the empty lounger next to her.

  “Oh not you again, get down, you naughty boy,” she shouted to Sultan, throwing the bone down on the grass. Sultan looked up at her with mournful big brown eyes. I’ve brought you my favourite treasure and you’ve just thrown it away, he seemed to say. “Oh come on then!” said Bridget, softening at his hurt expression. “I shouldn’t be ungrateful that you’ve brought me a present should I?” Consoled that the morning’s efforts had not been entirely in vain, Sultan settled himself down at the side of the lounger while Bridget idly stroked the top of his head and sil
ky soft ears.

  Later, as Bridget was making a cheese omelette for her lunch, Gil rang to tell her that he wouldn’t be back for some time as the mechanic he needed to see had just gone for lunch. She returned to the garden with her own lunch on a tray only to see Sultan digging frantically away at the top of the garden, just beyond the cherry trees. “This has got to stop!” she said firmly as she marched to the top of the garden. “You naughty dog,” she shouted, “look at all these holes, go on, go on home!” and clapped her hands. Sultan was wise enough to know when he had met his match and immediately sloped off in the direction of the farm. “And don’t you come back here again!” Bridget shouted after him.

  Gil arrived home just after 4.00pm.

  “That’s good timing, I was just going to make a cup of tea, do you want one?” Bridget said, walking around to the front of the house when she heard the car pull up.

  “I’d love one, any cake to go with it?” Gil said, as he bounded up the front steps of the house and into the kitchen to wash his hands.

  “Is the car ok?” Bridget asked, ignoring Gil’s request for cake.

  “Yes, its fine, the tracking was out a bit, so I’m glad I had it seen to,” said Gil, looking relieved.

  “Come on then,” said Bridget, “dry your hands and we’ll have our tea in the garden, and you can tell me all about it,” she said more out of a sense of sisterly duty to a subject that was very close to her brother’s heart rather than any pressing desire she had to hear about the car’s problems.

  “Do you fancy a barbecue tonight, I’ll cook?” Gil asked a bit later. “I fancy those steaks we bought the other day.”

  “Lovely,” said Bridget, “that means I can finish my book.”