Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  ‘A lot of names,’ he commented gruffly. ‘Some very familiar ones, too.’

  Hobbs agreed. Most of the Saint Margaux residents that he’d met so far had purchased a quantity of the striped candy, including Cecile Vidal and Isobel. He noticed that Madam Fabre had written the Englishwoman’s surname as ‘Green’ which suggested that she was already privy to the sordid details of the newcomer’s past.

  ‘Madam Fabre, you were a good friend of Cecile Vidal, were you not?’ Max asked, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘Why, yes, we were very close,’ Dominque acknowledged, pulling out a cotton handkerchief in anticipation of the few tears that might fall.

  ‘And when was the last time you saw her?’

  The woman bobbed her head, sniffling. ‘We had coffee the day before she died. Cecile was so excited, chatting about collecting a gift for Hubert’s birthday. If only she hadn’t gone to Bordeaux…’

  A fat, round tear rolled down Dominique’s cheek.

  ‘Merci, Madame,’ the Inspector acknowledged, turning to leave, ‘I am so sorry to have upset you. Jacques, do you wish to make a purchase before we go?’

  ‘Erm, no, I don’t think…’ Hobbs stammered, looking around bemused.

  ‘I think your wife might appreciate…’

  ‘Oh, yes, she would!’ Jack agreed, picking up an ornate jewellery box and examining the price tag. ‘Thanks.’

  Max lifted Dominique’s neatly written list from the younger man’s fingers and made to leave, aware now that Hobbs was slightly embarrassed that his new boss had picked up on the heated conversation on his phone as they’d exited the car. It occurred to the young detective that Mallery knew the mystical mind of a woman better than he did.

  Madam Fabre’s eyes followed the Inspector intently as he opened the door.

  ‘Is he single?’ she whispered, wrapping an auburn curl around an index finger, the damp handkerchief still clutched in her other hand.

  ‘What? Oh no, he’s very happily married with six children,’ Jack blurted, catching on to the not so subtle hint.

  Dominique’s round shoulders visibly sagged as she took in the response. ‘Oh, what a pity. He is such a handsome man.’

  As Hobbs stepped outside with his expertly wrapped purchase, Max was poised with his cigarette lighter in hand.

  ‘Okay, Jacques?’ He smiled, looking at the gift bag. ‘I may have saved you from some trouble tonight, oui?’

  ‘Hah, we’re quits now!’ Hobbs laughed, jerking his head towards the

  shop. ‘I just saved you, too!’

  ‘Eh? From what?’

  Jack shook his head, aware of Madam Fabre peeping at them through the layers of bunting in the window display. ‘Never mind, sir, I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘Well, okay. Put that in the car, I think we might as well visit Monsieur Fabron while we’re in the village. I’ve just thought of something.’

  ‘Bonjour, Inspector Mallery, Detective Hobbs,’ Maurice greeted the men as they stepped into the boulangerie and inhaled the incredible aroma of warm bread.

  ‘Is it convenient to ask you a couple of questions?’ Max asked, already pulling out a chair and eagerly eyeing the coffee machine.

  ‘Of course. Coffee?’ the baker offered, automatically picking up three cups.

  The detectives dipped their heads in unison, both rapidly building up a thirst for the excellent cappuccinos that they knew would be forthcoming.

  Seated at the table, after first checking that Telo was on hand to help out should any customers need service, Monsieur Fabron splayed his fingers. A dusting of fresh white flour was caught in the cuticles, evidence of the baker’s passion for his work. ‘What brings you to Saint Margaux again, so soon?’

  Jack Hobbs looked expectantly at Max, wondering what it was that had urged his boss to come over to the boulangerie. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  ‘As you know, Monsieur Fabron, the murder weapon used to kill Cecile Vidal was from your kitchen. So, I want you to be absolutely certain about the last time you saw it.’

  Maurice rubbed his chin, deep in thought. ‘Well, Inspector, let me think. As I told you previously, it must have been on the Sunday of last week. It’s difficult to remember exactly.’

  ‘Right. So that means it was before Madam Vidal was murdered. Correct? Please think very carefully, Monsieur. Is it possible that the knife went missing some days before?’

  The baker looked down into his cup, as though searching for clues, and then suddenly perked up as the answer came to him.

  ‘No, definitely not! You see, as I told you before, I remember having to ask Gaston to come over here on Wednesday night to get a knife from the back kitchen as mine was missing. Isobel got one for him. We were having a simple supper of bread and cheese.’

  Max clasped his hands on the table. ‘Now, please be sure. Could it have gone missing on the Saturday and not the Sunday?’

  Maurice pondered for a while, allowing the detectives to enjoy their coffees. ‘No, it must have been the Sunday. Yes, definitely, it was. Isobel arrived on the Saturday and I invited her to dinner on Sunday evening. I used it to cut the loaf that we ate with our meal. I have no doubt in my mind that Sunday evening was the last time I saw it.’

  Mallery and Hobbs looked at each other as the boulangerie owner spoke, each feeling frustrated.

  ‘Monsieur, was Telo also at home on Sunday night?’ Jack clarified.

  ‘Yes, yes he was. Telo wasn’t happy about Isobel coming over, but we all ate together.’

  ‘Just the three of you?’ Max jumped in, beginning to join the dots in his head. ‘Now please, this is most important. Do you remember seeing the knife after the meal that night?’

  The boulangerie owner seemed clear in his mind now and said confidently, ‘Do you know, Inspector, I don’t remember seeing it at all after that!’

  ‘Monsieur Fabron, is Isobel working today?’ Jack asked, casting a glance at the doorway leading to the back kitchen.

  Maurice let out an audible sigh. ‘No. Sadly, she is no longer employed here.’

  Max shifted in his seat. ‘I see. Do you mind telling us why that is?’

  The baker raised his coffee cup to drain the last dregs. ‘Because I fear that you were right in arresting her, Inspector. Isobel Green is nothing but trouble.’

  Having established that Isobel Green was no longer working at the boulangerie, but that Monsieur Fabron had agreed to let her stay in the apartment until she could find an alternative arrangement, Mallery and Hobbs stood at the rear door of the bakery. There was no response to their urgent knocking and Max’s patience was beginning to wear thin.

  ‘Do you think Monsieur Fabron could be mistaken at all?’ Jack ventured.

  Mallery puckered up his lips. ‘No, he seems pretty certain. Although unless Isobel Green tells us the same, it could put both Telo and Maurice in the frame for murder.’

  ‘You’re joking! No way would either of them have murdered Madam Vidal.’

  Max turned a beady eye on his colleague. ‘And why is that, Jacques?’

  ‘Maurice just seems really straight, and Telo is the sort of chap that couldn’t tell a lie without giving himself away. Cecile Vidal was his aunt, after all.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Max agreed, ‘I can’t see him attacking anyone, either, but nobody in Saint Margaux is innocent until we have the murderer behind bars, right?’

  Hobbs was of the same mind. ‘Yep, you have a point. I wonder if Isobel Green will be able to shed any light on what Maurice Fabron told us just now? We have to find her.’

  ‘The car is still here,’ Mallery pointed out, gesturing to the battered VW Beetle, ‘So she can’t be far away, unless she caught a train, of course.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s just gone for a walk,’ Jack replied. ‘Why don’t you drive down towards the river and I’ll ask around here. Maybe someone’s seen her.’

  ‘Okay, why don’t I meet you back here in half an hour, Jacques?’

  Detective Ho
bbs exited the small courtyard behind the boulangerie and stood with his back to the wall of the building, watching his boss return to his expensive car, and contemplated where to go first. He didn’t fancy another grilling about Mallery’s love-life by the voluptuous Dominique Fabre, so he decided to work his way clockwise around the square, the opposite direction to the gift shop.

  His first port of call was to the flower shop next-door, where he at least felt confident in being able to communicate easily in English with Simone Dupuis.

  The lady in question was tying together an extravagant bouquet of white lilies and pink roses, fussing with a length of ribbon until it reached perfection. Jack watched from the open doorway until the florist gave a satisfied grunt and placed the display in an oversized green bucket.

  ‘Madame Dupuis?’ he called. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘Oh, how long have you been there?’ Simone gasped, placing a slender hand at her throat. ‘You frightened me, detective.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, it’s just that I could see you were busy.’

  The woman flipped a hand at Jack and beckoned him inside. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just tired. Please come in. Is it a bunch of flowers that you need?’

  Hobbs began to shake his head but stopped mid-way, instead darting his eyes to the pretty floral bouquet that had just been completed.

  ‘Well, no, I came to ask a question actually, but perhaps you have a point, my wife might like some flowers.’

  The florist followed Jack’s eyes to the lilies and gave a delighted chuckle. ‘Yes, I think she would love those. You have a very lucky wife, Detective Hobbs.’

  Reaching into his wallet for a debit card, Hobbs felt the familiar embarrassment as he struggled to ask for the price, a seemingly delicate matter when making purchases for his beloved. Simone righted the matter there and then.

  ‘Forty Euros,’ she said with a smile, taking the card deftly and inserting it into a machine.

  Jack gulped. This was turning into a very expensive day.

  As the transaction was concluded, the detective donned his proverbial professional cap and got to the point of his visit. ‘Madame Dupuis, did you happen to see Isobel Green at all today?’

  It was as though the gates of hell opened up then, with the florist embarking on an incensed rant about her altercation with Izzy that morning. Jack stood riveted. The news of Isobel’s accusation was startling, and he began to wonder whether the Englishwoman had completely lost the plot.

  ‘Do you recall what started the argument?’ he pressed. ‘Why she accused you of the crime? Did something trigger it?’

  Simone looked sternly at him, her eyes shining with intense anger. ‘Detective Hobbs, that woman is completely mad. Not only has she accused me, but also Gaston and Telo. I tell you, she needs locking up! None of us are safe until she is in a high-security prison.’

  Armed with the fabulous, but what he considered to be a staggeringly expensive, bouquet in one hand and his police identity card in the other, Jack Hobbs strode around the square, calling in at several more of the street’s premises, yet each time being met with a negative response. None of the Saint Margaux residents had seen the Englishwoman for several hours and, judging by the air of hostility, they were all glad that she wasn’t hanging around the village. At the bistro, Hobbs was offered a discount card and promised to bring his wife for lunch when time allowed. Yet all the time, Isobel Green remained elusive.

  While the detectives searched for their main suspect, Isobel Green lay alongside Gaston Lauder on the riverbank, unaware of her name being bandied about the village like a common criminal. For an hour, she had been able to push recent events to the back of her mind and, instead of worrying about the future, Isobel was making general conversation with the Parisian artist.

  ‘Why do you come to Saint Margaux every year?’ she murmured, enjoying the sensation of the warm grass against her bare legs.

  ‘Why not?’ Gaston replied, plucking a poppy and tucking it in the woman’s hair. ‘This area is so beautiful. It gives me a lot of inspiration to paint.’

  ‘Do you only work on landscapes? Or do you sometimes paint people?’

  The artist studied Isobel’s face carefully, unsure as to whether their minds were on the same track. She hadn’t flinched, her eyes were still closed, her lips puckered.

  ‘Would you like me to paint you?’ he ventured.

  The Englishwoman opened one eye and considered her response. ‘Maybe.’

  There was something dangerous, yet seductive in the way that Isobel looked at the man. It caused blood to rush to his private parts and he turned away quickly. It hadn’t escaped Gaston’s notice that Mademoiselle Green was incredibly attractive in a boyish way, her cropped hair perfectly suited to the elfish facial features. Yet, he told himself, the woman had served ten years for murder. Not only did that one fact place doubt in his mind about her willingness to be kissed, but it also cast a shadow on any intention he might have to become intimate with her. After all, did anyone know the whole truth about Isobel Green?

  Cruising over the humpbacked bridge at a much slower speed than the sporty BMW was comfortable with, Max Mallery rested an elbow on the ledge of the open window and gazed out across the poppy-strewn riverbank. There, almost out of sight where the water disappeared around a natural curve, he caught a flash of yellow and then something white. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d seen, but it was enough to spark the detective’s interest and he pulled the car into a farm gateway a little further along, before striding across the lush long grass.

  ‘Inspector Mallery?’ Gaston called out, squinting in the sunlight.

  Isobel followed the artist’s gaze and groaned at the sight of the tall policeman. ‘Oh, shit. Not him again! What now?’

  ‘Bonjour.’ Max raised a hand and walked closer to the reclining couple, eager to know what had brought them together at this location. He noted the way in which the man’s body was angled towards the female at his side. There was a heavy bulge in the artist’s shorts which he quickly covered with one hand on noticing the Inspector’s wandering eye. The woman, however, seemed oblivious.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Gaston replied, now pulling his knees up to his chest.

  ‘What do you want?’ Izzy sighed, shuffling up onto her elbows.

  Gaston tapped her leg with his paint-smudged fingertips, frowning. ‘Be polite, Izzy. Maybe the Inspector is here with good news.’

  Isobel ignored the comment and pushed herself into a sitting position, ‘Well?’

  ‘Just a few questions,’ Mallery said steadily, crouching down to get the irate woman in his line of vision, ‘if you don’t mind.’

  ‘And if I do? Are you going to ask anyway?’

  Max ignored the retort and continued, ‘Did you happen to purchase some pink striped strawberry candies from Madame Fabre last week, Isobel?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe,’ Izzy snapped, rubbing a hand through her short hair ‘Is it a crime to buy a few sweets these days? Oh, don’t tell me. Not only am I a murderer, I’m being accused of stealing now!’

  ‘Not at all,’ Mallery replied, his gaze unwavering. ‘Please just think, did you?’

  Gaston tilted his head, waiting for Izzy to respond.

  ‘Alright, yes, I did. I didn’t eat them though, they were disgustingly sugary.’

  The Inspector gave a satisfied nod. ‘I see. And just one more thing, Mademoiselle Green. Do you recall seeing a bread knife in Monsieur Fabron’s kitchen when you went there for dinner on Sunday of last week?’

  Isobel scrambled to her feet, sweat beading across her forehead. ‘What?’

  ‘Mademoiselle, answer the question, please.’

  Izzy bit her lip, as she always did when feeling under pressure, a thousand thoughts racing through her mind. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to work out the best response. If she said yes, would she be arrested again? But if she said no, would Maurice testify that she had seen the knife?

  ‘Isobel?’ Gaston u
rged, squeezing her arm gently.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ she answered quietly, afraid that lying would cause a tangle of knots in the already complex case against her.

  ‘Where did you see it?’ the policeman pressed. ‘Think carefully, Mademoiselle.’

  Izzy closed her eyes, feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. She replayed the moment when she’d entered Monsieur Fabron’s elegant kitchen and tried her best to recall the item. She had seen it, she was sure. It was one of those old-fashioned serrated knives with a carved wooden handle.

  ‘It was on the side, on top of the wooden board. I remember now. Maurice asked me to take the loaf into the dining room and I remember it being there then. I didn’t touch it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  Max stood, eager to see the expression on Isobel’s face clearly. He was sure that he could identify if she was lying, after all their hours of questioning the weekend before. However, he was certain that right now, she was telling the truth.

  ‘You’re absolutely sure it was there, in the kitchen, on that Sunday?’

  Izzy seemed resolute. ‘Yes, Inspector. I’m sure. If you don’t believe me, ask Simone Dupuis. She must have seen it as well.’

  Mallery squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them rapidly. ‘Madame Dupuis was there for dinner, too?’ He cursed silently. Why hadn’t Maurice Fabron mentioned the florist?

  The Englishwoman folded her arms, now suddenly forthcoming with information. ‘No, she didn’t stay for dinner, but she was at Maurice’s house when I arrived. It looked like she’d been there for a while. They were drinking wine in the kitchen, but she left, saying she had to prepare things because Gaston would be arriving.’

  Max let the words sink in slowly, turning them over in his mind.

  ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Green. It’s possible that I may need to speak with you again, so please don’t leave the village. Sorry to have disturbed you.’

  Isobel spat out her final words as Mallery turned to leave, the colour rising in her already flushed cheeks. ‘Well, I can’t, can I? Somebody has my bloody passport!’