“Lecerf’s farm is isolated, like so many round here,” Martha reminded her. Including her own, she realised. “There weren’t any passers-by and anyway, he did the baling in the dark. This time of year no one takes any notice of farm machinery operating into the early hours. It’s a busy time.”
“They should never have put headlights on tractors,” Lottie announced. “That way people couldn’t get away with doing dodgy stuff with balers at night.”
“I don’t suppose anyone foresaw such nefarious night-time deeds,” Roger said.
“And then the murderer delivered the bales to the gateways of the closest farms,” Martha concluded her story. “Which unfortunately included mine. And again, no one saw or heard anything.” She didn’t mention how the police had since come up with a theory that the dumped bales might be the equivalent of the mafia’s horses’ heads: that they were specific warnings. She was trying not to dwell on that part.
They were all silent, contemplating this well-planned and gruesomely polished crime.
There was a bing from the kitchen oven.
“Lasagne’s ready,” announced Roger, getting up.
“Thank goodness, I’m starving. Just let me go and change.” Lottie rose and hurried upstairs.
Martha stared into her empty wineglass, her head swimming very slightly. She appeared to be the only one of them with absolutely no appetite but then she’d been the only one of them to find some of the bits of Martial Lecerf. However, the meal smelt so delicious and looked so appetising, accompanied by a tossed salad, that she managed a few mouthfuls. Roger was an excellent chef.
Martha half listened as Lottie and Roger discussed the murders. They had all sorts of theories concerning past slights and insults, family feuds, or lovers’ quarrels from decades ago. Martha herself suspected it was something less personal: non-specific hatred with a good dollop of evil. If the hate bales really were warnings, then she could think of nothing she’d done to upset anyone. She wasn’t even a proper farmer, merely a smallholder. She looked after her animals very well and gave them the best quality of life she could. True, some of her charges were destined to have short lives but they were despatched humanely and instantly. It was far better, in her opinion, to eat an animal that had had a brief but happy existence in the open air with plenty of space, and living as nature intended, than some intensively-farmed, factory-bound creature that never saw the light of day. Out of sight, out of mind was the order of the day for too many people, in her opinion. They just hypocritically closed their minds to the pitiful conditions much of their meat grew up in. They were the sort to buy cheap battery-hen-laid eggs too, she thought bitterly. Poor old chickens, stuffed in tiny cages. She thought about her happy, free-ranging flock, covering miles every day as they pottered contentedly around the farm in the fresh air, laying waste to any insect foolish enough to cross their paths. No. Nobody had any business to hate her for the way she raised her animals.
She was suddenly aware it had gone quiet, and blinking her eyes back into focus she saw that Roger and Lottie were both looking at her expectantly. Goodness, she’d completely zoned out there for a while.
“Um, yes?” she ventured, using the English version of a French phrase to which she had frequent recourse when conversations turned baffling.
Lottie laughed. “I was telling Roger our plans for tomorrow, and checking you were okay with them.”
Which ‘us’ did that ‘our’ relate to? Lottie and Roger, or Lottie and Martha?
“Could you, er, just run through them again?” prevaricated Martha.
“Of course, but don’t start daydreaming again. Rog is out all day tomorrow playing bowls—”
“And petanque,” cut in her husband. “I want Martha to appreciate how multi-talented I am.” He smiled.
“I never doubted it for a second,” Martha assured him.
“Our bowls club have a yearly contest with the village’s petanque club. We spend the morning in a bowls match, and then after a light lunch—”
“For which read five courses each accompanied by a different type of wine,” Lottie interpreted.
“—we have a petanque contest. Ridiculous game, lobbing balls in the air, but the old Frogs think our bowls is just as crazy.”
“Darling, you really mustn’t call French people ‘Frogs’,” Lottie chided him.
“Hmmph. Don’t see why not,” shrugged Roger, “since they call us Roast Lamb but I’ll try and remember.”
“Not lamb, sweetie, beef. French people call us Rosbifs.”
With another “Hmmph,” Roger poured himself another large glass of wine. He could certainly put it away, Martha thought. Very unlike Mark. Just as she wasn’t, he’d never been much of a drinker and half a glass of wine or half a pint of beer was his limit for an evening, apart from at the odd social occasion when he might indulge a little more freely. The pair of them used to make a bottle of wine last a week between them. Her alcohol intake had risen quite steeply after his death. She was now down to just the one large glass each day, but knew that was probably still too much. But for goodness sake, she lived in France. Wine-drinking was compulsory.
“As I was saying, or at least trying to, Roger will be out all day so here’s what I propose you and I do.”
Martha blinked. She’d assumed she’d just be taking herself home first thing and returning in the evening, but evidently not.
“I’ll run you home so you can do your farmy things, then I thought we could take the dogs for a lovely long walk and grab some lunch out. I’ve got clients at two — a youngish couple, very pleasant but totally idealistic. They’re looking for a smallholding so I intend bringing you along so you can talk pigs and chickens with them; give them a more realistic view of trying to be self-sufficient. They seem to be under the impression it’s all lambs skipping around in the sunshine, self-picking fruit, and non-stinging bees filling honey jars themselves, that sort of thing. They’re completely clueless. But don’t put them off,” she warned sharply. “I’ve had this one wretched millstone around my neck for ages and I want to offload it on them.”
“Which millstone is that?” asked Martha.
“It’s at Les Pierres Blanches.”
“What, the Sauniers’ place?” exclaimed Martha. That was the only dwelling there in that tiny lieu-dit, or townland. Bruno and Remy Saunier were two elderly brothers and ran a smallish dairy farm there. They were clients of hers. They’d never mentioned anything about moving. However, Martha wouldn’t be that sorry to lose their business. They were the most disorganised of her handful of farming clients, all of whom were free spirits when it came to keeping accounts and none of whom possessed in-trays let alone filing cabinets. All her clients presented her every three months with a grubby plastic bag, or occasionally a dusty shoebox, of crumpled receipts and invoices for her to sort through and type up. She’d taken possession of the most recent batch just a few days ago. Once she’d worked her magic, her clients handed the new, sanitised version of their financial inflow and outflow over to their local centre de gestion agréé. The CGA took over where Martha left off and jumped through the necessary hoops to submit the farmers’ tax returns and deal with VAT and so on. Martha’s legwork was essential. It saved the CGA staff from getting their hands dirty, literally, since the paperwork Martha handled was generally even grubbier than the bag containing it and smeared with goodness knew what, as well as saving them time, and thus it also saved the farmers money. Martha was cheaper than even the subsidised CGA.
“Not the farm, no,” Lottie answered. “There’s a decent sized cottage tucked down the lane that runs beside the farm. Their mother used to live in it.”
“Oh, I’ve caught glimpses of it,” nodded Martha. “I thought it was just another ruin.” It distinctly gave that impression.
“Well, it needs some work doing to it,” said Lottie carefully.
Roger chuckled. “That means it’s practically falling down!”
Lottie ignored him. “Bit of tarting
up, decorating… new roof, that sort of thing,” she went on quickly.
Martha and Roger exchanged a glance.
“But the building itself is solid as a rock. Good for a few more centuries. And anyway, with their tiny budget my clients aren’t going to get much else. The brothers have allocated ten hectares of their land to the cottage, so it’s perfect for their starry-eyed plans.”
“Oh dear, I guess the brothers are struggling to make ends meet if they’re having to sell off land,” said Martha sadly.
“Surely you know how they’re off financially?” demanded Lottie.
“No. I only get to see their bills and receipts,” Martha explained.
Lottie shrugged vaguely. “So, anyway, after the viewing, back to your place for you to tuck your animals up for the night and then back here.” Lottie completed their itinerary for the day.
Martha felt trapped. She was grateful to be staying with them tonight, and maybe tomorrow night too, but she didn’t need to spend all day in Lottie’s company. She enjoyed being with her friend, absolutely, but she liked time to herself as well. She and Mark had never socialised a great deal, being perfectly content with each other’s company, and since his death she’d grown to become perfectly content with her own. Besides, she was already fretting at leaving the animals to their own unsupervised devices. The pig fence was pulsing at full whack and the eggs still had a couple more days to go until hatching, and everyone else had ample food and water supplies. But who knew what might happen while she wasn’t there. Alpaca rustlers might swoop. Well okay, they’d have to catch her two first and that was nigh on impossible, but it could happen. Stray dogs could appear and harry her sheep. Somehow or other a fox or pine marten might get into the highly-fortified poultry shed and destroy her little flock. Not so little flock, actually. The incubator might catch fire. The house might catch fire…
She reined in that catastrophic line of thinking to a firm halt. She was being silly. But all the same, she didn’t like not being on-site at all times.
“Then on Sunday,” Martha managed not to groan, “we’ll hand you over to your policeman for safekeeping during the day.”
Ah, so they’d been plotting this together. Philippe must have had a quiet word with Lottie and asked her to keep her gimlet eye on Martha until he could take over. She was touched by her friends’ loyalty, but also exasperated by it.
“He’s not my—” she began to object, but Lottie cut her short.
“Not your policeman, I know, I know!” Lottie smiled smugly and disbelievingly.
Martha mentally rolled her eyes.
“Well, whoever he is,” Lottie went on, “he and I are not letting you out of our collective sight until this homicidal maniac, whose path you keep crossing, is under lock and key.”
That silenced Martha’s objections for a moment. Two close brushes with one murderer wasn’t funny. Or was it one brush each with two murderers? Which was worse? No, the two deaths had to be linked. Those hate messages in different formats surely only came from one person. She’d have to ask Philippe about any fingerprint findings. She’d presumably have plenty of opportunity if he was insisting on babysitting her on Sunday.
“But I have to fit some cycling in!” she exclaimed, as recollection of her bike race hit her. “Lots. And every day.”
“You are not going cycling off anywhere on your own,” declared Lottie firmly. “But why the sudden interest in it?”
Martha filled her in on the race, and tartly reminded her friend that she’d always enjoyed cycling. She just hadn’t done that much lately, that was all.
“Well, you can do your cycle training here,” Roger told her.
“What?” frowned Martha. “Up and down your road? It’s a bit flat. I need some hills to get fully fit.”
“No, in Lottie’s fitness room.”
“You have a fitness room?” Martha looked at her friend, astonished.
“Yes she does,” grinned Roger, “although I think she’s forgotten about its existence.”
“I haven’t,” bristled Lottie. “I’m just rushed off my feet these days.”
Roger gave her an indulgent yet sceptical smile.
“Come and see,” she invited Martha, getting up.
“Can you remember the way?” Roger couldn’t resist throwing in.
Lottie snorted, but there was a twinkle in her eye. She could appreciate her husband’s wit even if it was directed against her.
The fitness room was upstairs, at the far end of the corridor to the right. It contained a rowing machine, an exercise bike, a set of small weights, a padded mat and something that resembled the inside bits of a helicopter cockpit, or at least what Martha imagined they might look like if you peeled the outer shell of the machine away. There was a seat surrounded by pulleys and levers and topped off with rotor-like extensions. She didn’t have time to scrutinise it further as Lottie took her arm and marched her to the exercise bike. She pressed a button and the touchscreen mounted centrally on the handlebars lit up.
“It’s just like being on a real bike,” Lottie enthused, although Martha wondered how truthful she was being since her statement implied she’d actually been on the latter. “You program in the sort of ride you want to go on — you know, hilly, flat, how long, what average gradient, what average speed you want to achieve,” she carried on with her explanation, somewhat vaguely. “It’s even got some real Tour de France stages programmed in. Some of the famous ones, like Alpe Huge and Mont Ventolin.”
“Alpe d’Huez and Mont Ventoux,” Martha murmured her correction, but Lottie was too busy stabbing at the screen to listen.
“Do you want do either of those?” she demanded.
Martha opened her mouth to say “Are you trying to kill me?” but realised that was tactless in the extreme, given recent murderous events. She amended her reply to, “I think they might be a bit much. It’s only a twenty-kilometre fun race I’m going in for.”
“No such thing as a fun race,” retorted Lottie. “Everyone’s in it to win it.”
Martha wasn’t but she didn’t bother pointing that out to her competitive friend.
Lottie jabbed a few more times then sighed as ‘Illegal command’ came up on the screen. She hit the off button. “You’ll work it out,” she said, flapping a dismissive hand. “And if not, Roger knows how it works so he’ll run you through the settings. Oh, and these,” she indicated two red cables with clips at the end, “go on your earlobes and monitor your heartrate.” She pursed her lips. “My dear husband initially told me they go on your nipples, and fool that I was, I believed him!”
“Oh, you didn’t!” Martha exclaimed, and, despite trying hard not to, collapsed into a fit of giggles. “How long for?”
Lottie snorted at the merriment at her expense but a smile tugged at her lips. “A fortnight,” she confessed.
“You’re too trusting,” Martha told her, once she regained self-control.
“That’s one word for it,” shrugged Lottie.
“Well, it’s a great machine, thank you,” Martha said briskly.
This machine, which probably cost more than her car was worth, was undoubtedly impressive but she couldn’t see herself enjoying it. She’d far rather be out in the fresh air cycling along a real road, not pedalling indoors gazing down at a computer simulation of scenery. However, if she wasn’t going to be allowed out and about on her bike then this would be much better than nothing. She had to build her stamina and speed up over the next couple of days.
After she and Lottie walked the dogs along the green lane that ran adjacent to the house, and then down others to make a road-free circuit, Martha spent the rest of the evening studying the instruction manual for the exercise bike. It seemed hopelessly complicated. Martha had become lazy technology-wise over the years. Any new electronic gizmo that needed setting up she’d always promptly handed over to Mark or then to the kids to sort out for her. She never bothered battling her way through the perplexing Chinglish instructions herself.
This manual only had the occasional baffling sentence, such as ‘When the unexpected picture the nonresponse happening, please turn on
again the machine off’ and ‘the power source parameter should be squared up with which
indicated or the machine will work improperly and feeble easily and even be ruined’ but she still couldn’t figure anything out. She’d postpone turning on again the machine off and squaring up the power source until tomorrow. She could barely keep her eyes open.
When she said to Lottie she was ready to turn in, her friend insisted on filling her up with a huge mug of hot chocolate complete with a pile of cream and marshmallows. It was lovely, but Martha knew she’d be trotting to and from the loo half the night. She tended not to drink anything after about seven for that very reason. Still, she’d hardly have an undisturbed night anyway, not after today.
The guest room she’d been allocated was straight out of the pages of ‘Houses To Make You Feel Inferior Magazine’. It was completely white: white ceiling, walls and floor, white rugs, white curtains, white bed linen and quilt, small white sofa and white wardrobe. There was a white flannel and white towel in the white-tiled bathroom, which also sported a white bath mat as well as all the fixtures and fittings you’d expect, in white of course. Martha hovered in the doorway after Lottie closed it behind her. She didn’t dare move as she knew she’d soil this vista of whiteness that lay before her. She was bound to leave behind a grey dusty footmark, or allow a brown hair to drift to the floor. She did seem to be losing hair at an alarming rate at present. In her lilac tee-shirt and dove-grey shorts she was aware of destroying the monochrome scene. She felt like she was wearing jarring, fluorescent shades rather than tastefully muted ones.
The whole of Lottie’s house was over the top, like this room. It was beautiful to look at but Martha found it intimidating to be in. The kitchen was all clinical steel and concrete grey, the living room shabby chic with a heavy hint, not surprisingly, of rural France, and the glimpses she’d snatched of the master bedroom revealed it to be retro porn film, all red and black. For someone with such impeccable if exclusive dress sense, and especially given her profession, Lottie showed a bizarre lack of taste and co-ordination when it came to house decoration.
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