Colours of the South

by Leah Hope

  “She’s alive Gil, I’ve just seen her move! Where’s that ambulance? Come on, we’ve got to get her out of there!” she said, clawing frantically at the door and padlock.

  “Leave it Bridget, it’s probably best not to move her,” said Gil, ending the phone call, “she could be injured. The police and ambulance will be here any minute, they’ll soon have her out.”

  Bridget had never been so relieved in all her life to hear the sound of the sirens which came mercifully quickly. Four police patrol cars, two ambulances and a fire engine came hurtling at breakneck speed into the car-park and over the grass to the hut. Gil and Bridget watched anxiously as in no time, a fireman had leapt down from the cab of the fire-engine and broke through the padlock with a bolt cutter like a knife through butter. He stood back to allow two paramedics to squeeze into the tiny space.

  “Come on, let’s stand over here, let them do their job,” said Gil, leading his sister away. They leaned against one of the police cars as they watched the rescue services work expertly and methodically just a few yards away.

  “I hope we were in time Gil,” said Bridget, trying to hold back tears.

  As Gil and Bridget watched on anxiously, they spotted a familiar face. It was the Gendarme who had come to the house to tell them about the Rolex. Seeing the sign of recognition in their eyes, the officer walked over to where they were standing.

  “So, it is you two again, could you tell me please what happen here?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Bridget. But just as she was wondering where on earth to begin, two paramedics started to carefully manoeuvre their way through the door of the little hut, carrying Agnès on a stretcher. She had a neck brace and an oxygen mask on and was motionless. Bridget let out a little cry.

  “It’s probably just a precaution Bridge, you know, until they can get her checked out at hospital,” Gil said, seeing the anxious look on his sister’s face.

  “Do you know if she’s alright?” Bridget asked the Gendarme anxiously.

  “I will try to find out,” he said and spoke briefly to one of the paramedics before returning. “She has been hit very bad on the head and she does not have the water, so she is very weak, but they think she will be ok.”

  “Oh, thank god,” said Bridget, sinking to her knees.

  As the paramedics were lifting the stretcher into the ambulance, Bridget craned her neck to get a closer look, needing to see with her own eyes that Agnès was indeed alive. She looked down at the woman in the now dirty and torn coral dress lying on the stretcher, she was very pale but her eyes slowly fluttered open. Catching sight of Bridget, Agnès raised a finger to beckon her rescuer nearer. She took Bridget’s hand in hers and whispered, “Thank you, thank you so much,” before letting her hand fall limply back to her side.

  *

  It was close to midnight when Gil and Bridget were finally allowed to leave the Gendarmerie at Chateau-Clermont, after making lengthy statements. Although they were weary beyond measure, they both knew that sleep would elude them, at least for now. Gil poured them both a large cognac and slumped onto the big sofa where Bridget was already curled up.

  “I still can’t believe it Gil,” Bridget said, welcoming the warming effect of the cognac as it flowed through her body. “I can’t believe that something like this happened to us, and here of all places.”

  “Well it’s all down to you Bridge, you saved that woman’s life, she’s got a lot to thank you for.”

  “But we still don’t know who Agnès is, and how she fits in with everything. That’s one bit of the jigsaw puzzle I haven’t been able to work out. Maybe the police will tell us when they’ve had chance to question her properly.”

  “What I want to know, is how you worked out that Nick Webster was Bernard Sellier’s son, and we still don’t know for certain that he is.”

  “He’s Sellier’s son alright, that’s why he killed him. Of course, what first triggered my suspicions of him was when I realised that it was his voice I had overheard that morning in Chez Mimi’s. But it was only when I thought of that picture of Bernard Sellier in the local paper, you know the one that Agnès asked to borrow, that I was sure. If you darkened the hair a bit it could have been Nick’s face staring up at me, the resemblance was unmistakeable, I’m surprised no-one else noticed it.”

  “I don’t suppose they were looking for it.”

  “You’re probably right. I think the other voice I heard at Chez Mimi’s was probably Aurelie’s. You know what a romantic old fool I can be at times and when I saw their heads pressed so closely together I imagined they were lovers plotting a secret tryst, maybe they were even planning to elope. They were plotting alright, plotting their next murderous move.”

  “So you think Aurelie was in on it too?”

  “Well she must have been to some extent, Nick would have had to have given her some explanation why he couldn’t speak French to her in public.”

  “I wonder if she’s with him now, stupid girl, if she’s got any sense she’ll turn herself in.”

  “Yes, you’re right but I can’t see Nick giving himself up that easily. He’s killed two people and almost killed a third.”

  “He’s only making it worse for himself the longer he’s on the run. I wonder what his poor parents make of all of this.”

  “I doubt they know anything, unless the police have been in touch with them to see if he’s gone there. But they’ll have to trace them first, Pete might have a number for them of course. What an awful thing for them to find out about their son.”

  “Nick’s not Alan’s son, don’t forget, just Marguerite’s.”

  “Well I doubt that makes much difference, the poor chap’s brought him up since he was a baby, or at least since he was quite small. Remember what Pete said about Nick’s stories of his childhood in London? He’ll be just as devastated as if he was his own son.” Gil got up to poor himself another cognac and raised his glass inquiringly towards Bridget.

  “No thanks, I think I’m going to go up soon, although lord knows if I’ll get any sleep.”

  “You know the more I think about this whole business, the more I realise how clever you’ve been in working it all out. I’ll admit I was sceptical from the beginning, I was convinced it was Jean-Paul Janot but you stuck to your guns, if you pardon the pun. What made you think that there was more to this than met the eye?”

  “I can’t claim much credit,” said Bridget modestly. “It was Béatrice Blanchard that started me thinking. She’d lived in Saint-Rémy all her life and although her memory was failing her, her gut instinct told her that all this had something to do with events in the past. I wish I’d had the sense to have trusted her judgement and not allowed myself to be side-tracked when you and Helen said she was confused. If I had, maybe poor Martha Clifford might still be alive.”

  “Come on Bridge, you can’t blame yourself for that!”

  “It’s a fact Gil, I still feel bad about it.”

  “Well I don’t think you have any reason to beat yourself up about this, you’ve succeeded where the police failed. Don’t forget you saved Agnès’ life, she could be dead now if it wasn’t for your quick thinking. Going back to Martha Clifford though, I still can’t see what she had to do with it, I mean how does she fit in?”

  “I don’t think she fits in at all Gil. My guess is that she heard Nick speaking French, probably to Aurelie, but that unlike me, she saw his face.”

  “So Nick killed her, just for that?”

  “I think so. He was so desperate to avoid anyone knowing his secret. The tragic thing is, I doubt Martha Clifford would have done anything about it. She probably thought it was odd, but she wouldn’t have had any reason to believe there was anything sinister about it. Pete said she kept herself to herself remember so I doubt she would have told a soul.”

  “Ok, ok, that makes sense, but what I still don’t understand at all is why Nick killed his real father.”

  “Do you mind if that waits until tomorrow Gil? I’m fe
eling very tired all of a sudden. It’s going to be quite a long story.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Much to his annoyance, Gil woke at seven the following morning. He had forgotten to close the shutters the night before and brilliant sunlight was streaming in through his bedroom window. By eight he had showered and had eaten two pieces of toast and was on his third cup of fresh coffee. While he waited for Bridget to wake, he rang Pete at the Mirabeau to bring him up to date with the events of last night. Pete hadn’t heard anything from the police so Gil thought it best not to mention Bridget’s theory that his barman was the killer, after all, it was still only a theory.

  Gil heard Bridget moving about upstairs shortly afterwards. “I’m bringing you breakfast in bed,” he shouted, “so stay where you are please, that’s an order!”

  “Oh Gil, there was no need to do this,” Bridget said as her brother handed her a tray on which he had placed a boiled egg, complete with soldiers, a mug of coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice.

  “There’s every need,” he said, “yesterday took it out of both of us and I think you put in more, what’s the word, ‘emotional energy’, or whatever the shrinks would call it, than me. Take your time, have a hot bath and we can talk when you come down.”

  Bridget came downstairs an hour later, still in her dressing gown.

  “I hope you didn’t have any plans for today, I don’t think I’m up to doing anything much.”

  “The only plan I’ve got is to cook something special for you this evening, unless you would prefer to eat out?”

  “Oh no, I don’t think I could face going out, I’d rather we ate here, if that’s all right with you? What have you got in mind?”

  “Spag Bol, I know it’s one of your favourites.”

  “That would be lovely” said Bridget, “I wouldn’t mind another coffee if there’s one going.”

  Gil re-filled Bridget’s cup and sat on the sofa next to her.

  “You were going to tell me why you think Nick killed his father, are you up to it yet?”

  “Yes of course, I’m fine. It was just the shock of finding Agnès tied up like that that got to me last night. I can’t help thinking she might not have lasted much longer if we hadn’t found her. It’s all so sad isn’t it, how could such a nice boy as Nick do such a thing, not only to his own father but to a harmless old woman too, and then to Agnès? The world can be such a cruel place. Of course it was an act of cruelty that started this whole business off many years ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you remember what Béatrice said about a scandal years ago involving a baby and money? Her loathing of Bernard Sellier was obvious and that got me thinking that the reason why he was murdered was buried in the past. I thought that maybe he had been the father of a baby born to someone in the family that Béatrice mentioned, probably to a young girl or maybe to a married woman. But then I thought there must be more to it than that, illegitimacy isn’t the scandal it once was. There had to be another reason that forced a family to leave their home for ever.”

  “You say that illegitimacy isn’t the scandal it once was, but we don’t know when the all of this happened. It would certainly have been a scandal fifty or sixty years ago.”

  “Think about it Gil, the papers said that Bernard Sellier was fifty-five when he died. He could have fathered a child any time from his mid-teens on but I think it was probably when he was a bit older when he was in a position of power of some sort over his victim.”

  “Victim?”

  “Yes, I think that’s probably what she was, now where was I? Ah yes, so I reckon he was at least twenty, but he could have been older of course, when the baby was born, which would make the child no more than thirty-five.”

  “Yes, but if the family moved away, they could be anywhere in the world.”

  “That’s true, but I was convinced that it had something to do with the child. And that child returned to Saint-Rémy.”

  “But there must be dozens of thirty-something’s in the village and the surrounding area, it would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Yes, that was my problem. I was hoping that Béatrice would have come up with name, she did mention Marguerite and Colette but she didn’t seem that certain so I sort of gave up at that point. We could hardly go around questioning everyone who looked like they might be the right age! What I didn’t have of course was a clear picture in my mind of what Bernard Sellier looked like, I’d seen him from a distance a few times but not close up. And I made the mistake of assuming that the child would be French so I never even gave Nick Webster a second thought. It sounds silly now but I even thought that the baby might be Genevieve, do you remember she said she was adopted?”

  “Genevieve, you can’t seriously have thought she was a murderer?”

  “Well I was certainly hoping she wasn’t. But look at how charming Nick was, nobody even remotely suspected him, we were all taken in.”

  “Well I think it was pretty clever of you to recognise his voice, thanks to your radio plays.”

  “Yes, I think I must have subconsciously trained my ears over the years to pick out voices, I’m just annoyed it took me so long to realise who it was I’d been listening to in the café that day.”

  “Well one thing’s for sure, I’ll never moan about those radio plays again! One thing does surprise me though, why didn’t you have Tony and Heather on your list of suspects, after all, they’re both about the right age? I know I tried to play it down at the time, I just couldn’t accept that they had anything to do with all of this, but that business with the watch did seem a bit dodgy. I was so relieved when it all turned out to be completely innocent.”

  “I think I was so blinkered into thinking that the child would be French that I never suspected for a moment that either of them had any involvement with the murders.” After a pause, Bridget added, “You’re wrong about the watch though.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’d rather not say any more at the moment, if you don’t mind. I need to speak to someone else first.”

  “Well that’s got me guessing, but I won’t press you until you’re ready,” said Gil as he got up and went into the kitchen. “I don’t know about you but I’m starving, I had my breakfast at half past seven,” he said as he rummaged around in the fridge. “There’s some of that nice cheese left, do you want some?”

  Bridget declined but joined her brother outside on the terrace and watched as he finished off the cheese and the rest of the bread. The sun was high in the sky and Bridget lay back on a lounger, taking advantage of the shade provided by the yellow umbrella on the little table. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to half drift off to sleep. She was still conscious of Gil however and could hear him as he sliced through the crusty bread and later when he got up to fetch a beer from the fridge. When she opened her eyes half an hour later, Gil was asleep on a lounger. It was Bridget’s turn to feel hungry and as there was no bread left, she made do with some fruit. When Gil woke up an hour later, hunger had overtaken her again and she was cutting herself a slice of a Victoria sponge.

  “I hope you aren’t going to spoil your appetite,” Gil said as he walked into the kitchen, “you’ve got my Spag Bol to look forward to tonight don’t forget!”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve left plenty of room!” Bridget said as she wiped some of the jam filling from her mouth. She was just about to return to the garden when there was a loud knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” she shouted to Gil, who had just gone upstairs to fetch his sun hat.

  Bridget opened the door to find two Gendarmes on the doorstep, one of whom was the officer who had told them about the watch and who they had run into again at the lake after they had rescued Agnès.

  “Come in, please,” said Bridget holding the door open wide, “please sit down.”

  Both officers sat down but got up again when Gil came downstairs and joined Bridget on the little sofa.
<
br />   “We have some news for you, Monsieur, Madame. We have this morning arrested Monsieur Nicolas Webster at an auberge in the Pyrénées.”

  “So it was Nick who attacked Agnès, how did you find him?” asked Bridget eagerly.

  “In the night, we have the phone call from a Mademoiselle Aurelie Marchal.”

  “Aurelie,” Bridget gasped, “so she was involved!”

  “She say to us that she run away from the auberge where she leave Monsieur Webster asleep. We telephone to the local Gendarmerie and they arrest him at eight o’clock this morning.”

  “So will he be charged, with murder I mean?” asked Gil.

  “He is on his way to Chateau-Clermont where we will question him later. But at the moment all I can tell you is that he is under arrest for the murder of Bernard Sellier and Martha Clifford and for the kidnapping of his mother.”

  “His mother, but Marguerite is in the UK, how on earth did he manage that?”

  “Marguerite?” the Gendarme continued. “I do not know who is Marguerite. No, you are mistaken Madame, the mother of Monsieur Webster is the woman you rescued at the lake yesterday, Madame Agnès Dubreuil.”

  “Agnès is Nick’s mother? I can’t believe it!” said an incredulous Bridget, shaking her head. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes Madame, Madame Dubreuil herself tell it to us.”

  “But why did he attack her, his own mother?”

  “The doctors let us speak to Madame Dubreuil for just a little minute, she has the, er, I do not know the word,” said the Gendarme, pointing to his head.

  “Concussion?” said Bridget.

  “Yes, that is it. She speak only for a little minute but she tell us that Nicolas does not hit her. She fell when he take her to the old caisse near the lake and she hit her head.”

  “Well, that’s something I suppose,” said Gil. “But he is under arrest for kidnap?”