Martha settled down to read on her Kindle but although her eyes slid over the words, they didn’t absorb their meaning. She turned the device and the lights off and lay back on the pillows with a sigh, resigned to a sleepless night. However, she drifted off within minutes.
Chapter 12
Martha couldn’t believe it when she woke at five and realised she’d slept solidly, and, thank goodness, dreamlessly, until then. That sort of good night’s sleep just never happened. But she felt decidedly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a result. Maybe she’d got her theory about bedtime drinks all wrong.
She logged on to Facebook to see if Lily was there to chat, but found a string of messages from Jared. ‘Angxious’ messages, as Mark would have described them, being a mixture of concern-induced anger and anxiety.
‘Gilles told Loic who told Antoine who told me that you found a dead body in a hay bale in the field yesterday ?!?!?!!? Why u not say anything!?!!?’
‘R U OK?’
‘Blandine says I should come down and stay with u for time being. I can pull sickie.’
‘Mum, plz msg me when u get this.’
Martha sighed. Which Gilles would have got the rumour mill going? She sifted through her memories of his local friends with whom he’d gone to primary and then secondary school. Oh yes, Gilles Tardivaux. His was a farming family, although on the other side of Bousseix. Still, that was no distance when it came to spreading gossip. She messaged back telling Jared firmly to stay put, that she was at Lottie’s who, along with Roger and Philippe, was keeping a careful eye on her, and that she was also taking very good care of herself. She reminded him that his mother was a tough old bird and not generally prone to doing stupid things.
Lily’s latest message said she was about to set off to go walkabout in the bush with a group of friends so Martha enviously, but also slightly anxiously – envanxiously? – left her to enjoy that in peace.
She heard sounds and smelt the evidence of coffee preparation underway in the kitchen shortly after six, so wrapped the white towelling dressing gown that came with the room around her and padded downstairs in the matching white slippers. She wandered into the kitchen and then stopped dead. A total stranger was standing over the percolator, deeply inhaling the fumes so as to extract every molecule of caffeine vapour that might escape. Who was this? A passing caffeine addict, drawn in by the smell? No, she seemed far too at home, and anyway, she was wearing one of those old lady, blue nylon housecoats. She can’t have travelled far in that, surely?
The woman turned round and fixed Martha with a steely stare. Martha wondered momentarily about screaming and waking the household, or at least interrogating this putative intruder, but then her inherent if deeply-buried Britishness suddenly surfaced and she smiled and pretended that everything was perfectly normal. It wouldn’t do to make a fuss or be nosey.
“Good morning,” she said politely, but in a slightly higher-pitched tone than normal. Her eyes swept the room and landed on the knife rack, which was equidistant from them both. If the woman made a dive for it, then so would she, and being younger and of a lighter build Martha was certain she’d get there first.
The woman continued to stare.
“I just came down to get some breakfast,” Martha blustered on. “I, er, stayed overnight.” That explanation was unnecessary, given how she was attired, and the hour.
“Madame didn’t say there would be visitors,” sniffed the woman.
Martha felt guilty at being here without this forbidding being’s permission. Maybe she should get dressed and quietly leave. But she was starving. And anyway, it was Lottie’s house and Lottie had said she could stay. But this woman was giving off unfriendly vibes. Martha dithered pathetically.
“What do you want to eat?” demanded the woman at last. She’d been quietly assessing Martha and had categorised her as a non-threat. She can’t have known of her recent brushes with violent death.
“Croissant and coffee would be nice.” Martha would have preferred muesli and a nice cup of tea, but it seemed wise to go for a French breakfast.
“Sit,” commanded the woman, and with body language expressing inconvenience and exploitation, she turned away and began assembling the required crockery, cutlery and food items.
Martha slunk to the far end of the grey-clothed table.
“Well, look at you!” smiled Lottie sweeping in and seeing her fresh-faced if nervous friend lurking and trying to appear inconspicuous. “And good morning, Madame Bouvier.”
So the kitchen squatter had a name.
“Your usual, madame?”
“Please,” replied Lottie, then sat down next to Martha. “No need to ask if you slept well.”
“Like a log,” Martha gushed with relief at having company. “Must have been that hot chocolate.”
“More likely the sleeping pill I slipped into it,” confessed Lottie, but smugly.
Martha stared at her, aghast. “You… you drugged me?”
“In your own best interests, my dear. You looked ghastly, all pale with black eye bags.” Lottie sat down next to her as Madame Bouvier busied herself retrieving tiny espresso cups from a stainless steel cupboard.
Martha bristled. “You can’t go around slipping people pills just because you don’t like the way they look,” she grumbled.
Lottie arched an eyebrow. “But it’s done you good, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, but I could have been allergic to one of the ingredients. I could have gone into anaphylactic shock. You really shouldn’t stuff pharmaceuticals into someone.”
Lottie snorted. “You’re not the allergic sort, and anyway, you’ve got the constitution of an ox. No, an elephant. Admit it, you feel much better this morning.”
Martha pouted. “Okay, okay, I do feel better. But please don’t do it again.”
“I won’t,” promised Lottie glibly. “Ah, here’s coffee,” she added as Madame Bouvier placed steaming espressos in front of her and Martha.
Both women thanked their waitress.
Martha frowned at the miniscule cup. “I shall need about ten of these,” she remarked, once Madame Bouvier had turned away.
“I think you’ll find two will do,” smiled Lottie. “Roger’s discovered this new torrefactor who has a market stall at St Suplice. His coffee is so strong it blows your socks off. You’ll see.”
Martha shot her a disbelieving look, but felt guilty about doing so after a couple of sips. Holy mackerel, this stuff was powerful. A full cup and she’d be invincible.
“Who’s she?” Martha whispered, nodding towards Madame Bouvier’s back.
“Madame Bouvier,” shrugged Lottie.
“I get that bit,” Martha hissed impatiently. “I mean, what is she doing here?”
“Getting our breakfast,” said Lottie vaguely, and annoyingly.
“Why?” Martha persisted.
“I pay her to. She’s my daily. Well, three-mornings-a-weekly. Cleaner, cook and general factotum.”
“And she comes on a Saturday?” Surely the poor woman should get her weekends to herself.
“And Sunday. Don’t look at me like that,” she added quickly, seeing the disapproval on Martha’s face. “When I appointed her I asked her to come any three days apart from Saturday and Sunday. Something got lost in translation obviously as she started coming at the weekends and on Tuesdays.”
“Why didn’t you do something about it?” asked Martha. “Tell her not to come those days?”
“Would you?”
They looked again at the broad back of the French woman, who was muttering menacingly as she assembled breakfast items on plates. She was intimidating, there was no question about it.
“I get your point,” conceded Martha.
They went quiet as Madame Bouvier bustled over with their breakfasts, her blue nylon housecoat swishing against her nylon skirt. Given the static-charged nylon stockings too, Martha imagined she must create quite a light show in the dark.
Lottie tucked into natural yogurt
and prunes with less than enthusiasm, but Martha genuinely enjoyed her two croissants and apricot jam, no doubt thanks to their much higher fat and sugar content. Much as Martha envied Lottie’s svelte figure, there were limits.
Roger joined them, and the taciturn, severe Madame Bouvier suddenly became all smiles and jollity.
“I sometimes wonder if she’s after my husband,” murmured Lottie, only half-joking, as Roger and Madame laughed heartily over a lame joke he’d cracked.
“I think you’re safe. She’s got more facial hair than he has.” Martha couldn’t stop the uncharitable but true remark slipping out.
Lottie sniggered.
“Rog adores you. I expect the poor old dear just enjoys a bit of male company. Oh, I’m assuming there isn’t a Monsieur Bouvier.” She’d blithely decided the woman was a widow, presumably on the basis of this lady being happy to desert her own household at the crack of dawn to look after someone else’s.
“She’s been on her own more than twenty years. No children, and I’ve never heard her mention other relatives.”
She might be mentioning them all the time, Martha thought to herself, but Lottie was missing it. If they’d managed to confuse what days the housekeeper was meant to come then there were clearly some communication issues.
Despite glares from Lottie, seeing what was on Martha’s plate Roger asked for croissants and jam too. He was using their visitor as an excuse to have what he actually wanted for breakfast for a change. He joined them at the table, a little guiltily, and they chatted pleasantly together. Well, it was more Roger good-naturedly listening and agreeing to a series of instructions from Lottie, but it was the sort of contented family mealtime interaction that Martha missed so much each day it made her ache.
Duly fortified, the two friends and their dogs were on the road for Martha’s by eight, and all the farm duties done by nine. Lottie had gone for a stroll, keeping well away from the possibility of being made dirty during proceedings. She was dressed impractically in a pale beige linen suit today. Martha’s last job had been to put the eggs in the incubator on lockdown, as there were just two days to go. Lockdown meant switching off the rocking mechanism that turned the eggs, topping up the water reserve so that humidity was around 75%, dropping the temperature by half a degree, and then doing what the word suggested – not opening the machine up until all the chicks had hatched.
Martha changed into fresh tee-shirt and shorts. She almost felt tempted to put on a dress to look smarter, but neither of the two she possessed would match her friend’s sartorial elegance so she decided she might as well continue slumming it in her preferred outfit.
“Where shall we go for our walk, then?” Lottie asked, once Martha had done a final check, locked up and clambered into the front passenger seat of the Range Rover. Lottie was looking in the rear-view mirror at the reflection of the dogs.
“Are you asking me or them?” teased Martha.
“Them mainly, but I’ll take your suggestions into consideration,” Lottie replied with a smile.
“How about the wood at La Croix Verte?” proposed Martha. “That’s got a good, wide path all the way through. That was the only sort of path for which Lottie was dressed. The trousers of her suit had wide legs. In most woods those would sweep up dirt and snag tips of brambles. It did annoy Martha that her friend dressed so impractically at times.
“I was thinking the same thing,” nodded Lottie. “I can call by the Sauniers on the way.”
“But I thought the viewing of their mother’s old place wasn’t until this afternoon?”
“It isn’t, but I’ve just remembered about the stinky old sofa in the living room. It reeks, seriously, and I’m sure I saw a mouse poke its head out of a hole in it. That sort of thing doesn’t help to sell a house. I asked the pair of them to get rid of it, and I want to make sure they did. If they haven’t, then there’s still time to put them to work. I’ve got a good feeling about today’s viewing and I don’t want it scuppered by them being lazy.”
“But Lottie, they’re ancient and both really frail,” pointed out Martha in the old men’s defence. “You can’t really expect them to lug heavy furniture around.”
“I can and I do,” said Lottie firmly. “I suggested they sawed it into bits first. See, I’m not quite as mean as everyone thinks!”
“I never said you were mean,” Martha defended herself.
“No, but you thought it,” Lottie replied insightfully.
“Maybe just a little bit,” admitted Martha with a shrug.
Five minutes later they pulled onto what passed as a parking area in front of the old house. A car-sized patch in a sea of waist-high grass had been strimmed relatively short but it was doing its best to regain its former towering glory. A further bit of strimming had created a vague path to the front door. Lottie strode along this and entered the house, leaving Martha in the car. She marched back moments later, frowning.
“Wretched thing’s still there,” she grumbled. “Come on, give me a hand. Let’s see if we can shift it ourselves.”
On laying eyes on the piece of furniture Martha now regretted her defence of the two old boys. They should indeed have dealt with it themselves. It was a huge, ancient thing, all worn hide, horsehair and solid wood. As Lottie had said, it definitely ponged but what of she preferred to remain ignorant. She and Lottie struggled bravely but barely managed to move it an inch.
“Drat, I’ve broken a nail,” Lottie moaned, inspecting her left hand.
Oh dear, the Saunier brothers were really in trouble now, thought Martha.
They drove back onto the road and round to the farm, rather than take a shortcut on foot. This would have meant pushing their way through the undergrowth. Lottie wasn’t dressed for that, and, with her bare legs, neither was Martha. This was the height of the tick season, after all. Not many things grossed Martha out, but ticks were one of them. They were ghastly, ghoulish little beasties. Despite her parasite repellent collar, Flossie still picked them up. Every evening, with a pained expression, Martha would feel through the dog’s long coat to locate any embedded ticks she found in the skin. She then unscrewed them, folded a bit of tissue around them and promptly squished them. All except the hideous and huge, flabby grey ones that she and the kids had nicknamed elephant ticks. Those were too big to squash so she just dropped those into the depths of the bin bag.
Even as they were driving into the farmyard they could hear the noisy mooing of the small dairy herd the brothers owned. When Lottie turned off the engine it was deafening, and off the scale when they opened the car doors.
“What’s going on?” Lottie shouted to Martha.
Marth shrugged overdramatically to indicate she had no idea. “I’ll go and see,” she bellowed back.
Lottie was quite happy to let her go alone. She was secretly scared stiff of large farm animals. Even Martha’s alpacas made her shudder.
The fields and milking parlour were behind the farmhouse. Martha trotted round to the back and then stopped. The small herd was gathered at the gate, lowing fit to bust. One glance at their udders revealed that they hadn’t been milked, and that fact was causing them a lot of distress. Martha glanced at her watch. It was gone ten. Milking was usually over by six, or so Bruno always told her. The only reason for it not happening this morning that she allowed herself to entertain was that something had gone wrong with the milking equipment. Maybe there’d been a power cut. She got enough small ones at home. The supply to rural areas along wires more or less held up by ancient poles was dicey at the best of times. Stray bullets during hunts could slice through wires, and strong winds, not to mention the overenthusiastic wielding of hay or hedge cutting implements felled poles like ninepins.
She hurried to the back door of the house and banged on it, hoping one of the brothers would answer it and tell her that the electricity board were on the case, but there was no response. So next she headed into the milking parlour. As she passed them, the cows fixed pleading eyes on her and upped the
decibel level of their piteous bellows considerably.
“Hang in there, girls!” she roared back.
The milking parlour was dark, still and silent. True, the cacophonous background continued unabated outside but within the parlour walls nothing stirred.
“Not good, not good,” muttered Martha, suddenly all tension. She could feel the hairs rising all over her body and a sickening feeling settling in her stomach. “Remy? Bruno?” she called out in a shaky voice. No reply.
She stopped. Should she go and get Lottie before she investigated further? Or Flossie? Or both? And the Labradors?
“No. Pull yourself together. Nothing is wrong,” she told herself firmly. Just because she’d come across a couple of corpses this week didn’t mean it was going to become the norm. “You’re being ridiculous.”
The brothers probably weren’t even here. Most likely it was a mechanical malfunction rather than an electricity failure and they’d gone to get another farmer to come and help them repair the machinery. Oh, but hadn’t she seen their car outside the house? Well, maybe that wouldn’t start, since it was almost as old as they were. So they’d walked. Yes, that was it.
Her attempt at convincing herself that all was well was failing dismally. She began to move again, slowly, hesitantly. Her eyes were gradually adjusting to the gloom. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to her until now to look for a light switch but she was worried that if she started to head back towards the door to find one, she’d just keep walking. Maybe even start running. Something felt wrong, menacing.
Two rows of milking machines stretched before her with a walkway between them. The modern high-tech look of the various tubes, bars and gizmos was at total odds with the ramshackle exterior of the shed. There seemed to be a pillar towards the end of the walkway, which struck her as bizarre. It wasn’t regularly shaped. It vaguely resembled a weirdly shaped stalactite, one that started off thin, rope thin, before blooming into a long, bumpy bulge that met with a lumpy stalagmite beneath it. Her brain just could not interpret this image into any kind of logical format for her. She frowned and took another few steps forward. It was then that she heard a groan and suddenly her synapses clicked into action. All at once she could decipher the stalactite. It was a body dangling from a rope. A slumped one on the floor made up the stalagmite.
Hate Bale Page 13