‘Why, of course, dear.’
‘Let me introduce you to the others. Then I’ll be off to pump some milk. If you notice anything suspicious, let me know.’
‘A murder?’ Luc sighed, hands clasped to his head. ‘How is that even possible? You’ve been here less than a day and someone’s been killed already!’
‘Heavens, you make it sound like I’m the culprit. It’s a coincidence, Luc, nothing else.’
The party was now complete, Magali and Chloé settling into their room while Sophie rocked a perfectly healthy Dorian in her arms. ‘What did you do? Give him a bottle of Tylenol?’
‘Ha, ha. My natural calming influence.’
‘Bastard,’ she said, delivering a mock punch. Behind the jocularity, though, she couldn’t help thinking it was true: proof that she was a bad, jumpy, stressed, unsettling mother. She watched him set up the cot and arrange plastic bathtub, formula milk, breast milk, sterilising pills, bottles, nappies, wipes, skin cream, sun cream, medicine, thermometer, rattles, fur toys, towels, talc and monitor. How on earth did they manage in the olden days? Arranging, organising, tidying – Luc was the undisputed ace of spick and span. Everything in its place, just so. Sophie was quite sure she would have forgotten half of it.
‘Right. But it just seems...’ Another shake of his head. The one thing he couldn’t keep in place was Sophie. ‘I hope it doesn’t mean what I’m afraid it means. You’re not going to –’
‘Of course not. It’s a matter for the gendarmes.’
‘Good. Let’s keep it that way, shall we? You’re here for a rest.’ He passed the back of his hand over his forehead; the perspiration disappeared but not the worry.
Sophie was troubled – for Luc to worry was the last thing she wanted. Honestly, though, does he really have to worry so much? ‘A rest. Got it. Roger that.’
‘You’re quite right,’ said Magali when Luc went out to make another trip to the car. ‘It’s a criminal case, nothing to do with us at all.’ She left a beat. ‘On the other hand, we are private investigators...’
‘It’s only natural to be curious.’
‘To notice things. Observe.’
‘To speculate.’
‘Without, of course, interfering in any way.’
‘Just on our own.’
‘Unobtrusively.’
Sophie grinned – this was Magali all over. Luc says you shouldn’t investigate? So investigate! Not that she sought to stir up trouble between them; nothing could be further from her mind. But she’d been married for twenty-six years to a jackass of a husband, and now, belatedly, was a feminist. Not by reason, but instinct – she never used the label herself, but was quick to counter any tendency of Luc’s to exert control. He, of course, was a million miles from Dickhead – Magali did her best not to use that name in front of Luc – but that was perhaps the one jackass trait that he’d inherited. Without the insufferable condescension, but let’s face it, worrying was the same, only more insidious. Magali didn’t look kindly on men expecting women to fall into line.
Wasn’t it also insidious, though, to encourage her like this? Because Magali had an agenda too, of which she made no secret. Back in Sentabour, she’d turned her garage into an office and even had an employee (to whom she gave all the boring work), but now that she herself was all but retired, she was pinning her hopes on Sophie. ‘Would you like to be my designated successor?’ Sophie at times was confused: why did people have such a need to point her this way or that? Luc one way, Magali another... Why, one could almost conclude that the best advice of all was Tatty Fur’s: Life is a prairie, my dear. So roam where the fancy takes you. Amen to that! A free spirit, borne on the wings of desire, soaring over the hills with -
Just at that moment, Dorian started to cry.
Chapter 8 House Arrest
‘Ooh! I like that!’ Having put a stop to the endless, unwarranted fussing over her brother, Chloé was now in Sophie’s arms, the perfect height from which to enthuse over Adeline’s paintings. ‘It’s pretty!’
‘And you, my dear, are heavy,’ said Sophie, putting her down. ‘Papa will hold you if you want, let me swap you for Dorian.’
Chloé had been excited at the prospect of a baby brother, touching her mother’s belly as if it contained a magnificent toy; now the only fun she seemed to derive was in pinching him. But there came no squeal of protest: she’d had her dose of attention, and Papa’s arms were just as good in any case. ‘That one’s pretty.’ She jabbed a finger at a mass of writhing foliage that without showing anything explicit, strongly suggested human limbs entwined in passionate embrace. ‘And that one. And that one. And that one.’
Sophie agreed; it wasn’t the word she’d have chosen herself, but then Chloé’s vocabulary didn’t yet extend to ‘voluptuous’ or ‘luxuriant.’
‘Not that one.’ As they reached the bottom, Chloé pointed to one tucked away in the alcove where the printer was installed. ‘That’s yukky.’
‘A little severe there, Chloé. Could be a masterpiece.’ Visibly, it wasn’t Adeline’s: much older and frankly, rather dreary. ‘Though on the whole, I agree.’
‘Good lord, is it a Granet?’ Magali went closer. ‘Amazing!’
‘No idea.’ The name was familiar of course – the Granet Museum in Aix. But when you went there, it was to see a blockbuster exhibition of Picasso or Cézanne, not the plodding, forgotten works of Granet himself.
To be fair, looking at it closer, this one had something going for it. A painting of a painter at his easel, it was to be sure unexciting, technically accomplished but static; the interest lay in the light that streamed through the window, dazzling in its intensity, while the artist himself was shrouded in darkness, insignificant. Perhaps that was the message: the true subject is light; the artist always comes second.
But it wasn’t the light that drew Magali’s interest. It was the fact that an almost identical picture held pride of place in the sitting room of Dickhead’s parents. The Borellys belonged to a social class which announced itself in every facet of their being – their perfect manners, their circle of friends, their unreserved disdain of their daughter-in-law – but most visibly, to anyone privileged enough to be admitted beyond the gates, in the opulence of their house. The only time Sophie had been there was for the reception they held after her wedding, and she’d been so busy trying to commit no gaffes that she had no memory of the painting. But Magali had seen it many times and she knew the story attached to it.
There’d been a to-do because they’d offered to lend it to the Granet Museum for an exhibition, but after some hesitation, the curator regretfully informed them that in her opinion, it wasn’t authentic. The Borellys were incensed – they’d bought it from a dealer in Paris and the documents that came with it showed that it had belonged to a private collection in Munich. Prior to that, its history was unknown; it may have been stolen during the war but no one had put in a claim for it. The museum still expressing doubts, the Borellys hid their anger beneath an icy contempt. They certainly weren’t going to get on their knees and beg. And Self-Portrait of the Artist in his Studio by François Marius Granet, the most expensive painting they’d ever bought, went back to its place above the mantelpiece. Whenever Magali visited, she made a point of studying it with exaggerated concern, as if it was a three-legged dog rescued from charity.
‘I wonder what the story behind this one is,’ she said. ‘It’s not signed. Very intriguing.’
‘Maybe a first attempt he wasn’t happy with?’
‘Could be. Or just a copy. You know, I think I’ll conduct my own little enquiry into this. With a bit of luck, I can get to the truth of the matter.’
‘What if you discover theirs is worthless?’
‘I’ll go round to break the news in person. And take great pleasure in watching them go through the roof.’
‘I thought you said you’d done a PhD.’
‘Doing. It’s not finished. Not really started yet.’
The leisure r
oom conversation had moved on. In the absence of Gareth’s workshop, Eddy was now conscripting Lyle to reveal to him the ingredients of a bestseller. Momentarily, Lyle was saved from answering by the newcomers’ noisy entrance, Tatty rising to greet them with such gusto that you’d think she hadn’t seen them for twenty years. This expressed itself in volume more than duration. After half a minute of Dorian in her arms, she was looking round for someone to come to her rescue. Surprisingly, the volunteer was Maya, who hit it off instantly by pulling funny faces and tickling his belly. Claire, meanwhile, stared at all this activity, frowning as if she was in the presence of some exotic, incomprehensible ritual, before returning to her perusal of Art Press.
‘But you’ve studied this, right?’ Eddy persisted. ‘So you must know something.’
‘My topic is characterisation.’
‘So? All novels have characters. What’s the problem?’
‘And ambiguity. Ambiguous characters. Unreliable narrators, different points of view, that sort of stuff. Who can we trust? I haven’t studied bestsellers. They’re a different genre.’
‘Oh, I get it. Yours is the snooty genre. Proust and all that crap.’
‘Give it a rest, Eddy,’ Maya intervened; then appealing to all: ‘What did I tell you? He’s a philistine.’
Eddy clearly relished the label, but didn’t have a chance to go further because at that moment the door flew open and a young gendarme appeared, minus jacket and képi, but otherwise impeccable (apart from the sweat at his armpits). For a moment he stayed in the doorway without saying a word, lips pursed, a puzzled frown wrinkling his brow. Then he crossed the room and stood with his back to the fireplace as if this was the thick of winter and he was seeking warmth from the roaring sunflowers. Features settling into stony disapproval, he gazed at each of them in turn, raised his heels from the ground, lowered them again, and pressed his shoulders back, his chest forward. The desired effect thus achieved, he cleared his throat and spoke.
‘I am Lieutenant Bondy from the gendarmerie in Moudiret. At 8:23 this morning, I received a call from your neighbour, Thibault Seibel, informing me that his father had been killed. I in turn informed the appropriate authorities in Aix en Provence and proceeded with my colleagues to Venturi Gardens, where we are now securing the crime scene and undertaking preliminary steps in what is, without a doubt, a murder investigation. As part of these measures I must ask you to remain indoors until further notice, and to cooperate fully with any member of our team who requires your assistance.’ He pressed his lips into a mirthless smile. ‘Is everything clear?’
‘Indoors?’ Claire Bourane was the first to speak. ‘You mean we can’t even go to the swimming pool?’
‘Not until we give the word. It won’t be long.’
‘But the crime was next door,’ said Eddy. ‘Why are you putting us under house arrest?’
‘Let’s not be dramatic here.’ Bondy held out a hand to quell a potential uprising. ‘The immediate scene is next door, yes. Venturi Gardens, Venturi View – separate premises. But we’re examining the various means of access, one of which is through the garden here. Once that’s been secured, you’ll be able to move freely everywhere else, though you are requested not to leave the premises themselves until given permission. Again, that shouldn’t be long.’ His instructions delivered, Lieutenant Bondy returned to the door, where he turned and added, ‘My colleague in charge of the investigation will be here shortly to provide you with further information.’
The timing was so perfect that you might have thought he’d been listening at the door. Because no sooner had Bondy finished than it swung slowly open to reveal the familiar figure of Cyril Eveno.
Chapter 9 Adeline Forster
May 25th 2019
‘Rumour confirmed, don’t you think?’ Adeline poked her fork at a piece of veal swimming in an indeterminate sauce. ‘Definitely gone downhill.’
‘Mmm. Maybe just an off night.’
‘Right.’ She pushed her plate aside. ‘Speaking of which, I called Bumble. She agreed.’
Gareth continued to chew, expressionless. Eventually, he said, ‘Fine. That’s settled then.’
‘I don’t think we could find anyone else. Not at such short notice.’
‘Yes,’ he said tersely. ‘Fine.’
They were in L’Ophrys, only their second visit, two years after the first. Plenty of time for a restaurant to go downhill. And cooks, as they had learnt, were unreliable. ‘She’s very good, you know. I mean, you do know. You’ve said so yourself.’
‘Yes, I’m not –’ He sighed, summoning patience. ‘Don’t worry about it. I told you I have no objection. What do you expect me to do? Veto it?’
‘You could. You have the right. I promised, after all.’
‘How long will she stay?’
‘Just the week. Well, she’ll need a week to prepare. A fortnight in all.’
‘Fine,’ he said again, through clenched teeth. ‘I’m very happy she’ll be here.’
But there’s a gulf between what we say and what we think; she knew it wasn’t fine, simply that the true emotions lay buried beneath a dozen layers of niceness. So English. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it, really. And I’m confident it will be a great success.’
He smiled, nodded, and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Venturi View.’
Was it her idea or Bumble’s? She didn’t rightly recall now – a mixture of both no doubt, pushing each other ever further in the dream. A blissful future in Provence. The house itself was a folly – the upkeep alone would be ruinous – but after visiting, they’d gone back to their hotel in Aix and discussed different ways to make it work. Seminars, bed and breakfast, restaurant, and then – yes, it was Bumble who said, ‘Courses! We run art courses, Dilly. I do the cooking, you take care of the course. Provence, Cézanne, food and wine, the pool – it can’t fail!’ Adeline nodded, seeing it too, everything coming together to make the dream a reality. Everything, that is, except for one detail. ‘And Gareth?’
Two days later, responding to her enthusiasm, he’d flown out to see for himself, whereupon (with Bumble prudently absent) she’d set about convincing him. He was a writer, wasn’t he? So he could teach budding writers how to write. Naturally, it took some doing to bring him round to it. The place was way too big for their needs and besides, he said, who would pay for a course with Gareth and Adeline Forster? They weren’t exactly household names.
But they had credentials, she said. She’d been to Art School, exhibited, and he had two excellent novels to his name. Besides, no one was looking for famous artists, it would be too daunting. They wanted people to help them find their path, people who know the right words.
‘Those who can, do,’ Gareth had answered glumly. ‘Those who can’t, teach.’
You wouldn’t think, the way he talked, that he’d made so much money. He ought to be more confident, more brash. That wasn’t Englishness, it was something in Gareth himself. Never quite able to cope with not living up to expectations. But he came round in the end: the house, the course, Bumble – everything. She knew he would. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to forgive him.
And yet as the date approached, she found herself beset by the very same doubts, and here in L’Ophrys, with the pictures of Maya Ferrucci on the walls, the foolishness became clear. Impostors. Biting off more than we can chew. She didn’t say it to Gareth, but what could she possibly hope to teach an artist like that? She’d been expecting rubbish; Maya’s husband was friendly with the owner, Gino Escarola, and that, she’d assumed, was why the paintings were there – a personal favour to Eddy. How wrong could you be? It wasn’t just the scope and beauty of the work (her own now stuck in mediocrity), but the fact that, as the leaflet proudly proclaimed, this woman was self-taught. Why on earth had she even signed up for the course?
Boldness, that was the key. Let it all spill out, the pent up rage, the anguish. She’d always been too timid, never found a style of her own, never dared let go. ‘It�
�ll come, don’t worry,’ her teacher at Kingston had said, but it never did, and looking back now, she blamed it on her visits to Kew Gardens. Oh, the Marianne North Gallery! The accuracy of the colours, so careful and contained, and the way the plants led you into their intricacy and perfection, pulling her back to childhood, the walks she took with her father, the sound of his voice enveloping her, explaining. Here were those same flowers in the work of Marianne North – the rhododendrons of India, the orchids of Chile – and she was in awe, unable to get away, not just from the gallery, to which she returned again and again, but from the spell she’d been put under, preventing her even now from finding a path of her own.
‘Everything to your satisfaction?’ The young man at their table was Escarola’s son, and the reason, so they’d heard, for the restaurant’s decline.
‘Fine,’ said Gareth. ‘Perfect.’ The Englishness again – don’t make a scene, brush it under the carpet. Lift up Gareth’s carpet and you’d find a whole swarm of avoided scenes, scurrying away from the light like so many termites. I’m happy she’ll be here. Everything fine and dandy. Scene deleted.
Escarola Junior dredged up a smile and moved on, while Gareth, as if to prove his sincerity, applied himself to the food with renewed gusto. He hadn’t wanted to come, fearing they might bump into Gino himself. Their first visit had been by way of appeasement – the owners of Venturi View had been on the point of signing with Escarola, who clearly wasn’t to be appeased that easily, because although he’d greeted them politely, he took an evident delight in making them wait an hour before sending out his son to take their order. For all they knew, he’d added a dose of spittle to the sauce. But time had passed, and as Adeline pointed out, Maya’s paintings gave them a perfectly good excuse to be there.
Painter Palaver Page 6
