Colours of the South

by Leah Hope

  “But doesn’t that make you wonder if someone had deliberately planned to do it then, it was almost impossible to hear yourself think with all those rockets and bangers going off, they would have been perfect cover for a gunshot,” Bridget said.

  “Yes, but that still doesn’t rule out Janot,” said Doug. “All he had to do was tell his wife and friends that he was going to the sports ground, to get a better look at the fireworks or something, nip round to the back of the Mairie and wait for Sellier to turn up. Remember that Sellier’s deputy said that he mentioned having some business to attend to. What if the business he referred to was a meeting with Janot?”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense at all Doug,” said Helen, “you said that Janot would have killed Sellier that day in the market if he hadn’t been pulled off him. Surely Sellier wouldn’t be stupid enough to agree to meet the man who had recently threatened him on his own?”

  “Yes, that’s a good point,” said Doug, “but maybe Sellier thought he could get his own back on Janot. Sellier was quite a big man and he might have fancied his chances.”

  “Yes and I doubt he would have expected Janot to turn up with a rifle,” said Gil, “so he wouldn’t have had any reason to feel his life was in danger.” He paused for a moment then continued, “Janot, or whoever the killer was would of course have run the risk of being seen, as you said Doug, there were still crowds of people milling around until quite late on.”

  “Yes, but most people would have been in the square or in the sports ground watching the fireworks. I think anyone could have gone around the back of the Mairie that night completely unnoticed,” said Bridget.

  After a slight pause, she continued, “I don’t think this was a random killing or a mugging gone wrong. I think whoever did this was very clever and had it planned for some time, waiting for the right moment. Jean-Paul Janot’s row with the Mayor played right into their hands. All they had to do was to steal the poor man’s gun and then set him up as the killer, wait for the fireworks to start and pull the trigger. All we have to do is find the real motive and we’ll have found the murderer!”

  Just as everyone was mulling over Bridget’s words, there was an almighty crash of plates a few tables away. The hapless Nick Webster had collided with one of the waitresses and dropped a tray that had been piled high with dirty crockery and glasses.

  “That boy’s in trouble again,” said Doug as he watched Nick, who was by now down on all fours hurriedly trying to pick up the mess.

  “Yes, I’m glad he wasn’t on our table tonight!” said Helen.

  “Well I don’t know about everyone else,” said Gil, relieved that Nick had provided a welcome distraction, “but I think we should make a move before the storm breaks, I don’t like the look of those clouds.”

  “Yes, I don’t think we should hang about. Look Bridget, I think you’ve made some very good points,” said Doug, “but I think we should leave well alone and let the police do what they’re paid for. Like I said the other night, I don’t think we should get involved. Saint-Rémy is a very small place and if we start sticking our noses into something that isn’t our business, it’ll soon get around.”

  “That sounds like sensible advice to me,” said Gil, “don’t you agree Bridget?”

  Bridget didn’t agree but she knew when she was beaten. “Yes, you’re probably right,” she said lamely.

  “Hooray,” said Gil, “now perhaps we can enjoy the rest of our holiday in peace.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bridget found sleep almost impossible. She tossed and turned as the latest tantalising snippets from Béatrice danced around and around in her head. However, by the time the thunderstorm eventually struck in the early hours, she had worn herself out and didn’t hear a thing. Gil, on the other hand, was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, thanks to the large cognac he had poured himself when they got back from the Mirabeau. He looked at his bedside clock as an enormous clap of thunder seemed to burst right over his head, followed by torrential rain. He looked at the clock every half hour afterwards until the storm finally abated at dawn.

  It was almost ten before either Gil or Bridget woke the next day. The storm had cleared the air and the following morning saw the return of bright blue skies and warm sunshine. Humidity levels had dropped and the air had a fresher feel.

  “I don’t feel very hungry this morning, I think I’ll just make some toast from yesterday’s bread,” said Bridget.

  “Me neither, but I can’t say I’m surprised after what we ate, toast will be fine for me,” said Gil. “I’ll make the coffee.”

  Bridget went into the back garden and began wiping the night’s rain off the table and chairs, relieved that she had brought the cushions from the loungers inside before she went to bed. She breathed in the welcome fresh air deeply and wandered around the garden looking for any signs of damage from the storm. The pots of geraniums had come off worst and Bridget bent down to lift up the heads of the bright red flowers which now hung limp and forlorn on the sodden compost. I hope they pick up when they’ve had a bit of sun, she thought to herself. She wandered back to the kitchen to make the toast only to find that Gil was already placing four thick slices in the toast rack. Putting everything on to a tray, he walked out in to the garden, taking deep breaths of fresh air, as Bridget had done.

  “Make sure the chairs are dry before you sit down,” Bridget shouted.

  “Don’t worry, they’re fine,” said Gil, “come and have your breakfast before it gets cold.”

  Bridget sat down and buttered one of the thick slices of toast. “What do you fancy doing today?”

  “I don’t mind, we could have a run out and find somewhere for lunch if you like.”

  “I don’t think I could do lunch justice today, I think I’d rather just stay here, I’ve got a new book I want to start.”

  “That’s fine by me, I fancy a quiet day too.”

  Unfortunately for Gil and Bridget, their new canine friend had other plans.

  “Oh no,” Bridget shouted, suddenly looking up, “it’s that blasted dog again and he’s covered in mud too.”

  “Go on, shoo, go on!” Gil shouted as he stood up waving his arms at Sultan.

  To his annoyance, the dog completely ignored Gil’s shouts and demands that he should go home. Instead he stood straight in front of him, tail wagging profusely, his latest offering dangling out of his mouth.

  “What’s he brought us this time?” Gil said as Sultan proudly dropped what he had been carrying at his feet. Gil picked it up and examined it. In his hands, he held a roll of thick plastic about six inches long with a couple of rubber bands at either end. He pulled off the bands and began to unwrap the plastic wrapping. Inside was a thinner, plastic bag. Bridget watched over Gil’s shoulder as he turned the bag upside down onto the table, carefully tipping out the contents which clanked on to the surface. He picked up a shiny, silver object that had almost fallen on the grass and looked at it closely, letting out a low whistle.

  “It’s a watch, a Rolex by the look of it. Oh, good heavens Gil, do you think it could be the Mayor’s watch?” Bridget gasped.

  Gil turned the watch over in his hand, looking for any sort of engraving which might reveal the owner, but there was none.

  “It could be, but we’d better take it to the police so they can examine it,” said Gil, wishing he hadn’t left quite so many fingerprints on it. There had been quite a heavy police presence in Saint-Rémy since the murder but after Jean-Paul Janot’s arrest, this had dwindled to one patrol car and two officers. “Come on, we’ll try and catch the Gendarmes in the village before they go to lunch.”

  Bridget stood up to follow her brother inside but suddenly sat down hard again in her chair.

  “Gil, I’ve just had a terrible thought, you don’t think this is what Tony was burying in his garden the other night do you? Everything that Sultan has brought us up to now came from our garden or Tony’s, so maybe he found this there too.”

 
Gil, who had been stood just yards away in the kitchen washing up the breakfast things, looked at her incredulously.

  “You’ve got to be kidding, what on earth would Tony be doing with Bernard Sellier’s watch?”

  “You tell me, but you must admit it looks very suspicious, he did have a grudge against Sellier didn’t he and…”

  But before she could finish the sentence, Gil threw the tea towel down onto the draining board and spoke very firmly and quietly, “You can’t seriously believe that Tony and Heather had anything to do with the Mayor’s murder?”

  “I’m not saying that, of course not!”

  “Well what are you saying exactly?”

  “I don’t know, maybe the murderer dropped the watch or even threw it away and Tony just happened to come across it, quite innocently.”

  “But if anyone had come across it by accident, surely they would take it straight to the police, not bury the damn thing in their own back garden, it sounds mad to me. Besides, we don’t even know that it was buried in their garden, the dog could have dug it up from anywhere.”

  “That’s why we’ve got to find out Gil. I’m going over there now to have a look.”

  “I don’t like it Bridget, I’ve already made it clear that the thought of us snooping around a friend’s garden when they’re out is not right.” But knowing that his sister wouldn’t rest until she had examined their neighbours' garden once more, he reluctantly agreed to keep watch, on the basis that this was marginally preferable to having to explain Bridget’s actions to Tony and Heather if she got caught. “I’ll keep an eye on the front while you have a look around the back. But for goodness sake, be quick about it.”

  “Look, I don’t like doing this any more than you. I’m really hoping I don’t find anything. The last thing I want is for Tony and Heather to be are mixed up in this business somehow. Come on let’s get going.”

  Bridget slipped on a pair of moccasins and went out through the front door, Gil followed closely behind. They walked the few yards down the lane to the little side gate that led into the back garden of Les Volets Bleus. Without saying a word, Bridget opened the gate and made her way to the rough patch of ground she had examined the day before. Gil stood, rather self-consciously, a few yards further down the lane, hands in pockets, pretending to take an interested in some wild flowers that were growing nearby. After a few minutes, Bridget returned.

  “Well,” said Gil anxiously, “did you see anything?”

  “There’s a hole right in the middle of the rough patch, obviously made by a dog. It wasn’t there yesterday, I’m sure of it.”

  “It still doesn’t prove anything though, does it? Sultan’s probably dug up half of Saint-Rémy this morning, the watch could have come from anywhere. Come on, let’s get back to the house, I need a coffee.”

  Seated once more at the little table on the terrace, Gil and Bridget silently pondered on the morning’s events, uncertain what to do next.

  “We’ve got to take it to the police, it could be vital evidence,” Bridget said after a few minutes.

  “You’re right, of course, but we’ll just say that the watch was dug up by a dog but we don’t know where he got it from. That’s not a lie as we genuinely don’t know. I’m not in favour of deliberately landing Tony and Heather in trouble.

  “Ok, I’ll go along with that, I just hope we don’t get accused of covering something up, you can get into serious trouble for that.”

  Half an hour later, Gil and Bridget were in the back of a police car, complete with flashing blue light, on their way to the nearest Gendarmerie ten miles away at Chateau-Clermont. Gil could sense his sister’s anxiety and held on to her hand for the fifteen-minute journey.

  When they arrived at the Gendarmerie, they were shown into a tiny office by the same Gendarme who had driven the police car. He told them, in broken English, that someone would be with them soon. There was no offer of refreshments. The little room was stifling in the midday heat and Gil asked his sister if he should switch on the electric fan which stood on the floor on the other side of the desk from which they were sitting. Bridget looked horrified and told him not to touch anything. They both gazed in silence around the little room which was bare apart from the desk and chairs and a small filing cabinet. A small frosted glass window to their left gave no indication of what lay on the other side. The pale green walls were adorned with maps of the local area, and, which Gil thought rather odd, one of Paris. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and aftershave.

  After an agonising wait of twenty minutes, the door behind them opened suddenly and a tall, imposing man in uniform entered the room. Bridget suddenly felt the nerves in her stomach do an almighty somersault. The man walked in silence to the far side of the desk, sat down and switched on the fan. As he methodically thumbed through the bundle of papers he had brought with him, Bridget quickly studied the man sitting opposite her. She guessed that he was about forty, forty-five maybe, a smoker, by the look of the nicotine stained fingers of his right hand and, Bridget observed with a chill, possessed the coldest eyes she had ever come across.

  Bridget jumped as the man looked up from his papers and started to speak, his piercing eyes staring straight at her and which seemed to shout, “Don’t even think about lying to me.”

  “Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Capitaine Paul Giraud and I am working under the direction of the Juge D’Instruction who is leading the investigation into the murder of Monsieur Bernard Sellier,” he began in perfect English. “So,” he continued, “you have found a watch. Tell me how this came about.”

  Gil nervously began to relate the story of how Sultan had been in the habit of bringing them items he had dug up and how this morning he had brought them the watch. From his pocket, Capitaine Giraud took out the watch and the wrappings and rubber bands, which had now been placed inside a plastic evidence bag.

  “Is this the watch?” he asked them both.

  “Yes it is,” Gil and Bridget replied in unison.

  “And you have no idea where the dog got it from?” Giraud continued.

  “None at all,” Gil replied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he lied. He knows, he knows, he thought to himself and wondered if Bridget was thinking the same. He cleared his throat ready for the next question.

  “So it could have been buried in your own garden?” Giraud asked.

  Gil could sense Bridget shuffling uneasily in her chair under the fixed gaze of their interrogator.

  “Well, er, yes I suppose it could, but we’ve no idea how it could have got there,” Gil said. “We’ve only been at the house for a few of weeks, it could have been buried there for ages,” he added, suddenly feeling the need to defend himself.

  “I don’t think so, the wrappings look very new” said Giraud. He stared at them both intensely, his cold grey eyes darting back and forth rapidly between the two.

  Bridget gulped and was suddenly aware that her mouth had gone very dry. She tried not to fidget in her seat. Oh dear, she thought to herself, I hope I don’t have to speak, I’m sure I’ll sound guilty!

  “Bon,” said Giraud, his intense gaze suddenly relaxing a little, “I will get one of my officers to take a statement from you both, please stay seated.”

  “What happens then?” Gil asked.

  “We will show the watch to Madame Sellier to see if it does indeed belong to her husband, and to check it for any fingerprints. We will also need to take both your fingerprints too as you have touched the watch. Good day to you both and thank you for bringing the watch to us. I very much hope it will help us to solve this crime.” With that, Capitaine Giraud shook their hands and left the room.

  “Phew,” said Bridget, mopping her forehead with a tissue, “I’m glad that’s over, for a few seconds I was beginning to feel as if we were under suspicion.”

  “Oh, I think we still are,” said Gil.

  Their statements and fingerprints taken, Gil and Bridget were driven home by a young, female Gendarme.


  “Well I don’t know about you, but I need a drink,” said Gil as he opened the front door of Les Cerisiers. He poured himself a large cognac while Bridget put her faith in the restorative qualities of a cup of strong tea.

  “I hope that’s the end of the matter,” she said as she slumped onto the sofa, “I’ve never felt so guilty in all my life. I don’t know how real criminals stand up to being grilled like that, they must have nerves of steel.”

  “Practice I expect,” said Gil, knocking back his cognac. “I wonder if they’ll let us know when they’ve spoken to Madame Sellier.”

  “I hope they do, we are part of the investigation now aren’t we, so we should be kept informed.” Then after a pause, Bridget said, “You do think we’ve done the right thing Gil, don’t you? I mean about not letting on where we think Sultan got the watch from?”

  “Yes I do, we’ve got no evidence that it came from Tony and Heather’s garden so let’s just leave the police to get on with it.”

  “Do you think we should mention to anyone that we’ve found the watch?”

  “No, I think we should keep it to ourselves for now, so I’d rather we didn’t say anything, especially to Tony and Heather, not until we’ve heard from the police, then we can decide what we’re going to do.”

  Gil put his glass in the sink and headed for the stairs. “I hope you don’t mind but I’m going for a lie down, I’ve got a bit of a headache.”

  Bridget didn’t mind at all, in fact she was quite glad of the chance to be on her own and to reflect on the day’s events. She was ashamed to admit it, even to herself, that she found it quite exciting to be part of a murder enquiry. Was it because it made her feel important? After all, she had never felt important in her entire life. But was it more than that? If it was, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was there all the same. And then it came to her, the feeling she had wasn’t excitement, it was an overwhelming desire to see whoever had carried out this murder brought to justice. Bernard Sellier may not have been the most likeable of human beings but he didn’t deserve to die like that. Her thoughts turned to his wife and how she must be suffering and then, from nowhere, vivid images of her own mother in the aftermath of her father’s death flooded into her mind, replacing those of Madame Sellier. She hadn’t been able to get justice for her father but maybe this was why it mattered so much to her now to get justice for this man, this stranger really, and for his widow. No, exciting was the wrong word altogether.