Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Izzy rubbed her head, trying to make sense of the irrational thoughts that were pounding in her mind, thumping noisily like a herd of elephants.

  So Simone Dupuis had also gone to Bordeaux on that fateful day. What did that mean? Had Madam Dupuis also driven to the town for shopping, or had she been on the same morning train as her friend, Cecile Vidal?

  Izzy sat down heavily on the bed and placed her head in her hands as thoughts whirled around and blurred her vision. She felt very sick, as though she’d spent ten minutes on an out-of-control carousel at high speed. What on earth was she going to do with this wretched receipt? To accuse yet another of the villagers would arouse even more suspicion about her own motives, surely? The detectives wouldn’t believe that Madam Dupuis could possibly be involved, especially not after her recent acts of kindness to Isobel. They might think that the receipt belonged to Izzy; after all, both the bag and dress were now in her possession.

  Rational thinking was needed and at that moment, Isobel was incapable of making the right decision. There was only one thing for it, she decided; she must watch and wait. If Simone really was somehow involved in her best friend’s murder, then her true colours would eventually show and she would slip up, somehow, somewhere. Izzy just prayed that the whole truth would emerge before she became the target of yet more of Inspector Mallery’s misguided speculation.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN – GOODBYE TO CECILE

  White roses adorned the small wooden casket as it was carried into the Gothic-inspired village church. Father Claude walked solemnly ahead of the procession with his shoulders stooped in silent prayer, a string of rosary beads hanging limply between his fingers. Heads turned, eager to catch a glimpse of Cecile Vidal’s coffin as it made the final journey to her resting place. Murmurs of respect hummed through the stone building, echoing off the walls and gathering in volume as they came to rest in the vaulted roof.

  Maurice and Telo Fabron stood silently in the front pew, side by side with Hubert Vidal and his mourning children. Madam Paradis, the Vidal’s housekeeper, dabbed her face with a lace handkerchief as her employer’s body went past, her husband standing stiffly beside her, holding his wife’s hand. A row behind, Simone Dupuis, Gaston Lauder and Dominique Fabre linked arms in unity, faces ashen and black clothes stark against pale skin.

  Soft leather shoes clicked upon the stone floor as six men from the Saint Margaux vineyard bore the weight of their beloved employer, each pallbearer still unable to come to terms with the loss of a woman who had been so dear to them all. The workers had begged Hubert to allow them to carry his wife into the church, every one of them believing that it would show their utmost respect to Madam Vidal and ease the pain of losing such a revered member of the community, a woman who had gone out of her way to welcome the staff as though they were part of the family.

  Arriving just as the last of the mourners entered the church, Inspector Mallery and Detective Hobbs slipped into the back of the church, noting the sheer volume of people packed into the house of worship.

  ‘Any sign of Isobel Green?’ Mallery whispered, straining his neck to look through the crowded benches and spotting Madam Dupuis’ slender neck adorned in creamy white pearls.

  ‘I can’t see her,’ Jack replied, looking furtively around, ‘but it seems as though every other Saint Margaux resident is here. There must be nearly three hundred people.’

  Max shuddered. Despite the intense summer heat outside, the church itself was as cool as a refrigerator, causing him to rub the sleeves of his thin cotton shirt.

  A couple of people turned to look sharply at the detectives, wondering whether they had shown up in a professional capacity, or as a mark of respect to the victim whose killer they had, as yet, failed to catch.

  Eyes fell upon the intricately carved casket, on top of which a coloured photograph of its occupant was standing upright for all to see. Cecile Vidal looked happy and carefree in the picture, a woman without anxiety, young for her years in both looks and health. There was a sob as one of the children gasped in grief, unable to accept the enormity of losing their mother in such horrific circumstances.

  Father Claude coughed politely, an indication that the service would start.

  Isobel Green stood looking at her thin figure and gaunt face in the bedroom mirror. She was clothed in black trousers and a short-sleeved black blouse, despite Maurice’s insistence that it would be best if she didn’t show her face at Cecile’s funeral. It would be ‘insensitive’, he’d told her, given the current circumstances.

  The village residents were still on edge, he had explained, not ready to forgive until Madam Vidal’s murderer was brought to justice. Izzy had conceded that her boss was probably right, yet the longer she thought about it, the more she was convinced that her absence at the service would reflect her guilt. If she had nothing to hide, surely the villagers would expect her to be there.

  Maurice Fabron hadn’t stayed long that morning, as he’d been in a rush to assist Simone with the floral tributes and ensure that preparations were perfect for the wake afterwards. He had, however, stipulated that Isobel should rest, a comment so sincere that she felt grateful for it. Yet, how could she rest until her name had been cleared?

  The previous night, Isobel’s horrific nightmares had returned. This time, Martin Freeman taunted her with the threat of life imprisonment. He wielded the hunting knife wildly before slipping it into his girlfriend’s hand, urging Izzy to stab him. Freeman’s laughter rang so loudly in her ears that Isobel had woken up drenched in sweat and full of belief that the dead man had returned to haunt her. There had been long hours of silent reflection and unleashed tears, until finally, daylight had broken in through the cracks in the shutters.

  As a melodic sound floated across the square from the direction of the church, confirmation that the congregation were giving praise and sending Cecile’s soul on its way, Isobel Green slipped out through the back door of the boulangerie.

  Max Mallery gently edged out of his seat, gesturing for Hobbs to stay put. He desperately needed a cigarette and also wanted to see if there was anyone else hanging around the graveyard. He closed the enormous oak door and leaned against it to light up, causing a cloud of smoke to drift up towards the stained-glass windows. As a child, Mallery had been so fascinated with the inscriptions etched upon each tombstone, especially the ancient ones that were now almost illegible and grey with age, that he’d kept a notebook for the purpose of writing down the names of the dead. A morbid pastime, his mother had complained, yet it kept him from under her feet and she allowed the boy’s strange obsession to continue.

  Stepping carefully around a newer plot, Max edged towards the perimeter where large epitaphs leaned like fallen soldiers, shoulder to shoulder against the thick stone wall. Crouching down, he read the inscription, calculating that the occupant of the grave had lived for over ninety years.

  ‘Inspector,’ a woman’s voice said quietly, scaring the life out of the detective as he bent over the grave. Max straightened up and looked hastily around.

  ‘Mademoiselle Green.’ He frowned. ‘You are the last person I expected to see today.’

  The Inspector noticed the woman’s black attire and wondered if he should advise her against going inside the church.

  Almost as though she had read his thoughts, Isobel said stiffly, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not here to attend the service. I just wanted to pay my respects from out here.’

  ‘And what if someone should see you?’

  The woman stooped to pick a dandelion from the grass, twirling the stem between slender fingers. ‘I won’t stay long. I promise.’

  Max watched the Englishwoman plucking at the petals and noticed a faraway gaze in her eyes. She looked exhausted, as though she hadn’t slept a wink.

  ‘Mademoiselle Green,’ he urged, ‘go home. The mourners will soon be coming out and I fear your presence may stir up some heated emotions.’

  Izzy nodded. ‘Okay. You’re right, I shouldn’t have come.’
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br />   ‘Before you go,’ Mallery added, curious as to what Isobel had planned, ‘when you leave Saint Margaux, where will you go?’

  There was a grin, wide and almost cat-like. ‘Leave, Inspector? Why I have absolutely no intention of leaving.’

  Isobel turned on her heel, the soft leather pumps making no sound as she walked quickly back down the street to the boulangerie.

  Mallery watched, confused. A trickle of perspiration ran down the back of his shirt and disappeared into the fold of his waistband. The policeman was unsure if the sudden wetness had been sweat from the warmth of the summer sun, or the fear that he felt on seeing Isobel Green’s sardonic smile.

  Maurice delivered the eulogy with a hard lump in his throat, eyes straying towards the two motherless children who sobbed uncontrollably. The words had been chosen to reflect the baker’s own personal feelings towards his sister-in-law and the hole that her demise had left in the lives of him and the rest of the family. It was hard to believe that Cecile would no longer be popping into the boulangerie to indulge in her favourite treats. Nor would she be there guiding Telo, a calming influence that Maurice had been glad of since the loss of his own dear wife. As he sat back down, Simone Dupuis leaned forward and placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder, proud that he hadn’t cracked, relieved that the service was nearly over.

  As the procession was led outside to the Vidal’s very grand family tomb, Jack Hobbs stepped lightly to one side in order to meet up with the Inspector.

  ‘Alright, sir?’ he asked, noting the unusual pallor of his boss’s face.

  ‘Do you remember what you said to me about killers having a strange need to turn up at their victims’ funerals?’

  Hobbs nodded. ‘I do. Why?’

  ‘Isobel Green was just here, Jacques.’

  The younger man’s eyes widened. ‘You’re kidding!’

  Max lowered his voice, ‘No, she was right here, acting as though it were normal to come and pay her respects.’

  ‘I don’t think the rest of the mourners would have been impressed if they’d seen her. Where’s she gone now?’

  Mallery jerked a thumb towards the village. ‘Back to the boulangerie, I presume. The foolish woman just can’t keep out of trouble.’

  ‘Guilty conscience?’ Jack pondered.

  ‘My thoughts, exactly.’

  Gabriella Dupont got out of the car and stretched just as Isobel Green appeared around the corner. The women exchanged glances, a glimmer of recollection dawning on Izzy’s face. She’d seen the woman somewhere before, minus the straw hat and dark sunglasses, but where exactly was a mystery. Noting the confused look on Izzy’s face, the detective ducked out of sight, pretending to tie a lace on her running shoes.

  ‘Shit,’ she muttered into her two-way radio. ‘Thierry, where are you? We need to move.’

  The signal crackled into life as her partner’s voice responded. ‘Round the back of the boulangerie, checking if the Beetle’s been driven lately.’

  ‘Get out of there now, Green’s on her way back.’

  Thierry thrust both hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and sauntered around the corner of the bakery, narrowly avoiding bumping into the returning Englishwoman.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Izzy asked, her question automatic, in English and abrupt.

  ‘Pardonnez-moi,’ Thierry quipped, proud of his natural ability to think quickly, ‘I wanted to buy a loaf of bread.’

  ‘The boulangerie is closed,’ Isobel replied curtly. ‘It will be open tomorrow.’

  She watched the strongly-built dark man walk towards the parked car and greet the familiar woman. The couple then drove away, but not before making a witless mistake. As they passed detectives Mallery and Hobbs leaving the church, the man in the car raised a hand in acknowledgement, which was returned with two waves, one from each policeman.

  Izzy stood in awe. Now she knew for certain that they had been watching her.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, having me followed?’ Isobel spat, her cheeks reddening in anger as she ran back towards the detectives.

  Max Mallery, unfazed as ever, caught her elbow and steered the woman away from the church walls, mindful of the congregation gathering in the graveyard.

  ‘Mademoiselle Green, please lower your voice. We are completely within our rights, as you are not yet eliminated from our enquiry.’

  ‘And I have rights, too,’ she continued, hesitating to look at Jack Hobbs who stood sheepishly at his boss’s side.

  The Inspector shrugged, a carefree gesture that he hoped would conclude the altercation before any of the grieving villagers noticed, and then he let go of her arm.

  ‘As I said, we are just doing our job, Mademoiselle Green.’

  ‘Did you even bother to follow-up on what I told you?’ Izzy hissed. ‘About the blood on Gaston’s shirt and Telo using my car?’

  Max sighed. ‘Yes, we did, and both men had reasonable explanations. It appears your accusations were without foundation.’

  ‘That’s impossible! I know what I saw!’

  Jack stepped closer to the ranting woman, trying desperately to neutralise the negative energy. ‘Miss Green, today is not the day to start getting fired up about the situation. If you wish to talk to us tomorrow…’

  Izzy caught on to the detective’s meaning instantly and looked over to where Father Claude was speaking next to the Vidal family tomb.

  ‘Until I have my passport back and this whole situation is over, I won’t rest.’

  Hobbs nodded. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’

  Max coughed. ‘Perhaps now you will go back to your apartment, out of sight, if only to let these good people mourn their friend in peace.’

  Isobel sat smoking a cigarette at the window and failed to notice the falling ash that dropped silently to the carpet. She was certain that nobody could see her, so close to the wall was her chair, yet her angle afforded a good view of the departing cars as they headed out of the village towards the Saint Margaux vineyard.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ Hubert Vidal announced, tapping the side of his glass with a silver spoon, ‘it is much appreciated. Cecile would have been glad to see so many of you wishing her farewell. Thank you very much.’

  The group raised their drinks in a toast to the winemaker’s wife and quiet respectful chatter soon continued as Hubert made his way over to Maurice.

  ‘Your eulogy was perfect,’ he whispered, embracing the baker tightly. ‘I don’t know what the children and I would have done without you this week.’

  ‘Hubert, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,’ Monsieur Fabron confessed, pulling his brother-in-law to one side. ‘Can we go into your study, away from the guests?’

  ‘Of course. After you.’

  Simone Dupuis watched intently as the two men exited the sitting room, wondering what the topic of conversation could be that warranted them leaving the group of mourners. She tapped Gaston on the arm and pointed.

  ‘Where are those two going?’

  The artist feigned disinterest. ‘I have absolutely no idea. Maybe they just want to talk about the funeral in private.’

  Simone was unconvinced, her curious nature pushing to the fore. ‘Surely not?’

  Hubert’s desk was littered with scraps of paperwork and unopened letters, suggesting to Maurice that the widower hadn’t been focussed on his business of late and wondered if he might be able to offer some assistance. However, it wasn’t help that was bothering him at that moment and Maurice set down his glass on the ornate mantelpiece.

  ‘What is it?’ Hubert asked. ‘Is this about Cecile? You look worried.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure,’ the other man began, ‘But there’s a matter that’s been bothering me constantly since the day of her death. I’m puzzled about the robbery… well actually, the crime that didn’t happen, when your safe was found open. Don’t you think it a strange coincidence that Cecile was murdered just three days after someone broke
in?’

  ‘Ah, Maurice, I’ve thought of nothing else. Both you and I are aware of the contents of those documents, yet I can see no reason at all for someone else to be interested in them. Besides, nothing was taken, so how on earth could a person benefit from reading such a thing?’

  The baker ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. ‘I really have no idea, Hubert, yet I’m worried that it might be connected.’

  Hubert sipped at his wine, thoughtful and tired. ‘Presuming that there is some kind of connection, who would be curious to know what we had agreed? Only my children or Telo, correct? Anyone outside of the family has nothing to gain from knowing that you now own Cecile and Valerie’s family home outright.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ Maurice concluded, ‘but I still have a strange feeling about it. Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not going to let it bother me any longer, and neither should you. The most important thing now is for the police to catch Cecile’s killer. Come, Maurice, let’s return to the lounge. There are many people wishing to offer us their condolences.’

  Back at the police station in Bordeaux, Max Mallery was on the warpath.

  ‘You two have to be the worst undercover detectives I’ve ever met in my life!’ he thundered, pointing a finger at Gabriella and then slowly turning it on Thierry.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the young police officers said in unison, embarrassed to be brought to task in front of Jack and Luc.

  ‘I mean, what on earth were you thinking, sneaking around the back of the boulangerie in broad daylight? No, don’t answer that,’ he snapped, as Thierry made to open his mouth in protest. ‘Foolish, that’s what it was!’

  Ever the peacemaker, Jack Hobbs attempted to calm his boss down. ‘There’s no harm done, sir. At least Isobel Green is unlikely to make a run for it.’