‘This coffee is cold,’ Gaston commented, pointing at the cup of coffee that he’d prepared for Simone on her return to the flower shop. ‘Shall I make you another?’
‘What? Oh, I’m sorry, Gaston, my mind was elsewhere. Thank you but no, I might close early today and have something stronger.’
‘Are you sure?’ he fussed, reaching to put his muscular arms around the tiny woman’s shoulders, to comfort her. ‘A hard day?’
‘Oh, it’s just Isobel.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t make out whether that woman is very stupid or incredibly clever.’
‘What do you mean?’ The artist stood back, a frown appearing on his forehead.
‘She’s telling everyone how innocent she is, yet Inspector Mallery hinted to Maurice that there’s something she’s been keeping from him. Perhaps a dark past, and I know that doesn’t make her a murderer, but we have to face facts. The knife that was used to kill Cecile was found in Isobel’s car.’
Gaston remained thoughtful, before confessing his own instincts. ‘I don’t trust the woman. After all, she was the one that told the police about the stains on my shirt. I mean how far-fetched is that? I think she was trying to frame me?’
‘You know, Gaston, you could be right,’ Simone gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth as she contemplated his words.
‘Well, in any case, I think we should tread carefully.’
‘I agree. Gaston, thank you for being here, I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
The handsome young man shrugged, planting a kiss on his landlady’s cheek. ‘Well, you will have to do without me for the rest of the afternoon as I need to finish my painting. See you later.’
As Simone watched the artist duck out through the low doorway and head next-door to her cottage, where he would work for the remainder of the day, thoughts of Isobel’s accusation were at the forefront of her mind.
Alone in her apartment above the boulangerie, Isobel Green stepped into the hot shower, hoping that the teeming water and rising steam could wash away the sensation of dirt and sweat that she’d constantly felt since the day of her arrest. The small cubicle also gave her time for contemplation, on how much she should confess to Monsieur Fabron and which fragments of her past to keep under wraps. She had no idea how much detectives Mallery and Hobbs had told him about who she really was, but she felt certain that it wouldn’t have been part of their protocol to reveal much, unless she was formally charged. Izzy closed her eyes, incredulous at how far removed she felt from the Isobel Gilyard that had arrived in Saint Margaux just ten days earlier.
Fresher, more awake and with a slight renewal of determination, Izzy wrapped herself in a fluffy towelling dressing-gown and switched on the television set. Local news reported a herd of errant cows blocking a country lane into one of the small hamlets nearby, a postmaster retiring after forty years of service and then, unsurprisingly, a few words about the Bordeaux police’s inability to capture the killer of Cecile Vidal yet. Isobel felt a shudder run up her spine as she strained to make out the few words she could translate from French; something to do with the release of a suspect?
Later, having slightly recovered her composure and a willingness to talk to Maurice, Izzy styled her hair, put a layer of foundation on her pale skin and pulled out some clothes. A pair of cropped jeans and a white blouse suited her purpose, as she wanted to seem neither over-confident nor boastful about her return, then Isobel descended the stairs just as Maurice Fabron pushed the last bolt across on the bakery door.
‘Is Telo still here?’ Izzy ventured, looking around the empty café area, half expecting the youngster to pop up from behind the counter.
‘No, Telo has gone home already,’ Maurice confirmed, sensing that the woman wanted to avoid his son. ‘Please, sit down.’
Isobel pulled out a chair and let her palms fall upon the table-top, remembering the way in which the psychiatric unit counsellor had showed her how to mimic gestures of openness and honesty, although she was unsure whether the baker had actually noticed.
‘I’ve made a pot of English Breakfast tea,’ Monsieur Fabron was saying, ‘Gaston brought it from a shop he sometimes visits in Paris. We thought it might be a nice treat for you. And custard cream biscuits, too.’
‘That’s very kind. Please thank… Gaston… for me.’
Maurice noticed how difficult it was for Isobel to say the artist’s name. He was wondering whether she now felt some guilt at trying to place Gaston at the scene of Cecile’s death with her errant belief that his shirt bore smudges of blood.
‘You can tell him yourself, Izzy. We are a small community and must therefore bear each other’s faults with tolerance.’
Isobel was not sure if he was hinting at her faults or someone else’s but dared not ask for fear of a disagreeable response.
The tall baker busied himself with pouring tea, head down and focussed on the task, as though waiting for something… some word or apology.
Izzy took the bait and began her prepared speech.
‘Maurice, I’m very grateful to you for allowing me to come back here, and for believing in me. It means such a lot.’
The baker’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Believing in you? You think I do?’
‘Oh, I just presumed…’ Isobel was taken aback, the cup in her hand beginning to shake slightly.
‘Detective Mallery gave me very little choice,’ Maurice explained, holding the woman’s gaze. ‘As you cannot leave France without your passport, which he needs to hold for now, it was natural that you should stay here. Besides, I am still in need of an assistant and your skills are such to be proud of.’
Izzy sat mystified, unsure of where the conversation was heading.
‘However,’ Maurice continued, getting into his stride with renewed vigour, ‘There are many questions that remain unanswered. I would prefer that, if you have anything to tell me, you do so now, so that we can begin, how do you say, a clean page?’
Isobel carefully put down the cup, spilling a little tea in the china saucer, swallowed hard and wondered how on earth to begin.
‘My name is not Gilyard, it’s Isobel Green.’
‘Go on,’ the baker urged, clasping his hands over his stomach and leaning back in the chair, ‘I’m listening.’
And so, for the next half hour, the story came tumbling out. Tears mingled with anger and dissolved into grief as Izzy spoke frankly about the events in her life that had led her to change her identity. Maurice listened intently, uttering not one single sound until the tale was spent, only then lifting his eyes to the ceiling and exhaling loudly.
‘Merci,’ he said automatically, the French foremost on his lips. ‘Thank you.’
‘And now?’ Isobel asked, feeling her soul laid bare to the man in front of her. ‘Do you want me to leave?’
‘Leave? No. You have shared your darkest moments with me,’ Maurice said, sighing. ‘For that, I am grateful. It is a lot to take in, everything you have told me is quite a shock, but I am inclined to believe that you did what you did in order to save yourself. It doesn’t mean that you were involved in Cecile’s murder.’
Isobel traced every line on the baker’s face with her eyes, wanting to reach out and take his hand in hers, so grateful was she for the words he offered.
‘Now, get some rest.’ Maurice ordered, collecting up the cups, ‘On Wednesday you may resume your work here. Okay? But for the moment, it may be better that you work in the back kitchen preparing the cakes, as the residents of Saint Margaux are still a little overwhelmed by your arrest.’
With a sigh of relief, Izzy ventured, ‘That’s fair enough. I completely understand how they might feel about me. Why don’t I start tomorrow?’
The boulangerie owner lowered his eyes and replied with a heavy heart, ‘Because tomorrow we are closed. The village will say farewell to Cecile at her funeral service.’
Feeling that once again she had ended the conversation on a negative thought, Izzy rose to leave, uttering only a last word o
f thanks as she retreated upstairs.
A knocking on the front door aroused Simone Dupuis from her kitchen where she sat listening to a classical radio channel and sipping a glass of cognac.
‘Bonsoir, Maurice,’ she said with a smile, kissing the man tenderly on his cheek.
The baker entered the cosy cottage eagerly, keen to share his knowledge of Isobel’s past with his oldest friend. They sat opposite each other at the circular table, Simone listening intently as Maurice explained, careful not to miss a single detail.
‘Well,’ Madam Dupuis gasped as soon as the retelling was over, ‘no wonder Isobel was coy. Who would ever have guessed that she’d murdered someone?’
‘Now, let’s not get carried away,’ Maurice countered, placing a hand on his dear friend’s arm, ‘This revelation does not mean that Izzy was involved in Cecile’s death. I can fully understand how she acted in self-defence, and it’s not something to be proud of, so I can see why she’d create a new identity.’
Simone clucked her tongue, incredulous at Maurice’s forgiving nature. ‘What about the way she has tried to implicate Telo and Gaston? You seem to have forgotten the trouble and stress that woman has caused.’
‘I know, Simone,’ the baker acknowledged. ‘But now that we know the truth, can we not show her a little compassion?’
‘Maurice, you know me better than anyone,’ Madam Dupuis replied, getting up to refill their empty glasses, ‘I am willing to give everyone a chance, but we have to be careful of those around us, our families and friends.’
Monsieur Fabron contemplated a reply, leaving his cognac untouched. ‘Believe me, if there is any hint of Isobel trying to pin this on our loved ones, I will be the first to call Inspector Mallery. However, it is better to have Izzy where we can see her, don’t you agree?’
Simone saw sense in her friend’s statement and chinked her glass with his. ‘Yes, I do. You’re a clever man, Maurice Fabron.’
In the tiny art studio adjoining Madam Dupuis’ cottage, Gaston was chatting with Telo. The pair had a unique bond, enjoying similar tastes in music and electronic games, despite the nearly ten-year age gap between them. A game of chess sat untouched on the board between them. They conversed in French, keeping their voices low in order to hide opinions from their host in the kitchen next-door.
‘Isobel Gilyard is back,’ Telo stated, his arms folded defensively across a bony chest.
‘Yes, Simone collected her from the police station.’
‘Simone? Why would she do that?’
Gaston nudged the younger man with his elbow, prompting a faint smile. ‘Because someone had to, and your father was busy.’
‘I don’t see why she has to come back here at all. She doesn’t belong here.’
‘Well, she can’t go back to England until the police return her passport. Besides, if they have released her it means she didn’t… you know… do that terrible thing to your Aunt Cecile.’
‘Murder.’ Telo scowled. ‘Murder.’
Gaston rose, prepared to appease the baker’s son should he get over-anxious. ‘That’s right, it was murder. But they’ll find who did it soon, I’m sure of that.’
‘I don’t like her, Gaston.’
The artist shrugged. ‘I’m not sure that I do, either, but we have to say nothing about it. You understand that, don’t you, Telo?’
‘But the knife was in her car!’ the youngster cried, raising his voice. ‘I saw it!’
Gaston had to agree. ‘I know, but that still doesn’t prove anything. You remember reading about Inspector Poirot don’t you, Telo?’
A look of recognition crossed Telo’s face. ‘The detective stories?’
‘That’s right. Well, just like Poirot, Inspector Mallery has to find evidence that a person is guilty before he can arrest them. Like fingerprints, for example.’
Telo frowned, his forehead lined with doubt. ‘But Poirot always catches the bad guy, so that means Inspector Mallery isn’t as clever. Right?’
Gaston held up his hands, unable to argue with the lad’s reasoning. ‘I suppose so, Telo. You could be right.’
The pair laughed, settling down to begin their board-game.
If only real-life was as easy to predict as a whodunnit, Gaston mused.
Maurice Fabron tapped at the door of the art studio to tell Telo to be home for supper at eight, before crossing the square to his home.
‘Bonsoir, Maurice,’ a voice called, followed by the appearance of a jolly-faced woman wearing a bright orange dress that hugged her voluptuous curves.
‘Bonsoir, Dominique,’ he replied. ‘How is business at the gift shop?’
The woman smiled widely, ‘Very good today actually, a lot of new customers. Are you alright, Maurice?’
‘Just a little tired, that’s all. Why do you ask?’
Dominique wrung her hands together as though squeezing water from a cloth. ‘Well, it’s with Madam Gilyard returning. It must be a strain on you.’
So, now we get to the truth of the matter, Maurice thought silently, cursing that he’d chosen that exact moment to return home.
‘Well, Dominique, the police did not charge Isobel and so yes, she is back.’
The woman’s eyes fluttered across to the boulangerie and then back to the man in front of her. ‘But do you think she did it?’
‘Dominique, if you don’t mind, I really need to go home. I still have to finish my eulogy for Cecile tomorrow.’
‘Oh, of course!’ the shop owner gasped, moving to one side. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you. See you in church.’
Pushing the front door closed, Maurice looked up at the rectangle of light illuminating the window above his boulangerie. The woman inside was nowhere to be seen, a beneficial fact Maurice thought as he retreated inside. Once behind the façade of his house, the baker paused to reflect upon his brief conversation with Dominique Fabre.
Why had he not defended Izzy when the woman had asked his opinion? Maurice knew that Dominique was probably the source of most of Saint Margaux’s rumours and leaked secrets, yet he’d been unable to give a definitive answer about his English employee. There was so much he still didn’t know about Isobel Gilyard, or Green. She was such a complex woman with an even more complicated past.
Izzy’s revelation about her ten-year imprisonment had come as a complete and utter shock to Monsieur Fabron, a man who had lived a pure and simple life, and he was unsure what to do with such a weighted burden. The knowledge of his employee’s sentence was starting to cause him a great deal of stress. Maurice could already feel the tension inside him, stretching like a piece of elastic, taut and ready to snap.
Isobel Green felt incomplete without her shoebox of secrets, yet promised herself that every paper document, photograph and folder would be used to start Saint Margaux’s biggest bonfire as soon as they were returned to her. There was no point in keeping those reminders now. The past was as startlingly real as if the events had happened yesterday.
Izzy wondered if there was an option of retreating to somewhere new; of doing exactly as she had here and venturing to another country in search of employment and a fresh start at life. But where would she go?
Although relieved that Maurice Fabron appeared to be on her side, the great fear of being arrested again weighed heavily on her that night as she busied herself in the apartment. Izzy was afraid to just sit, alone with her thoughts, and had found a noisy war film to fill the silent hours as she flitted around dusting and polishing. It was as though she needed to scrub her home and rid it of the evil that she felt was looming in every corner. It didn’t matter how many hours it took. She was prepared to stay up all night, as long as the place was cleansed. In every object, she saw Inspector Mallery’s invasive searching, his overturning of her personal possessions, the thumbing of her books.
Had the men known what they were looking for, she pondered, or had it been pure chance that they’d stumbled across her box of treasures? If only she’d had the foresight to get rid of everythin
g, instead of dragging it here to France, where her misdemeanours had been laid bare for all to see. Isobel needed to get her box back, for her own sanity. The contents had to be destroyed before the whole village found out what was inside.
After half an hour of cleaning the living room, Isobel moved through into her bedroom, gathering clothes from the laundry basket and putting shoes back into the closet. Straightening the bed, she spied a bag of dirty clothes leaning against the bedside cabinet, the ones that had been hurriedly pushed in there at the police station earlier. As she tipped the bundle out onto the bed, a paper receipt came fluttering out of the bag. Izzy picked it up with interest. The heading showed the words, ETIENNE BOUTIQUE, BORDEAUX.
Isobel screwed it up, presuming that it belonged to Simone and had simply been left in the bag. But then she stopped, remembering her own visit to the chic store the previous week and, with curiosity, she unfolded the receipt and looked closely at the amount. After all, what if Madam Dupuis changed her mind about the item and decided to change it? She would need some proof of purchase.
It was for ninety Euros for a linen dress. An expensive item by Izzy’s standards.
Isobel looked over to the padded chair by the window. The lilac shift that Simone had kindly lent her earlier lay folded neatly over the seat-cushion, ready for laundering. Surely Simone wouldn’t have given her a brand-new dress that she’d only just purchased?
Izzy was puzzled. Something wasn’t right, yet she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Staring at the flimsy piece of paper in her hand, the Englishwoman searched for something to trigger a response in her brain – anything to give her a clue as to why Madam Dupuis would want to get rid of that beautiful new lilac dress.
And then she saw it. The receipt was dated last Wednesday.
Isobel raced to check the kitchen calendar to be sure, running her thumb over the numbers, but she was right; the garment had been purchased on the day of Cecile Vidal’s murder.
Isobel Page 17
