Death in Saint-Chartier

by Ivo Fornesa

  Luckily he repressed his impulses and started up a friendly conversation with her husband, while she brewed a concoction of exotic herbs whose emanations led Laurent to wonder if they weren’t narcotic.

  Back on the sofa, she began constantly winking and grinning and making various faces at him behind her husband’s back, adding an occasional foot caress under the table. Laurent was completely overwhelmed. Perhaps taking pity on him, Claude Monatti got straight to the point.

  ‘And what can we do for you, Laurent? We got your note, but we figured that not responding would be the best way to get you to come.’ They both burst out laughing, slapping their thighs, as if this confession were a hilarious punchline.

  Laurent decided on a broad, polite Cheshire grin, while calculating how much wax he’d need to make voodoo figurines of them both.

  ‘I guess I was worth the wait,’ he replied.

  Monsieur Monatti gave him a mistrustful look.

  ‘Worth the wait … What’s that supposed to mean? Are you trying to make fools of us by showing us that you’re a man of the world? Or are you trying to impress my wife so you can seduce her?’ This unexpected reaction plunged Laurent in total confusion.

  ‘I assure you, you’ve misunderstood me. It’s just a saying, and—’

  The Monattis laughed again, clutching their sides.

  ‘My God, Laurent!’ Monsieur Monatti exclaimed, choking with laughter. ‘Can’t you tell we’re joking? I can’t believe you fell for that!’

  ‘Yes, we like to tease our new friends,’ said his wife. ‘But I think we should let Monsieur de Rodergues talk.’

  ‘Of course, love. Forgive us and tell us what you’d like,’ said her husband, noisily blowing his nose. Trying to regain what was left of his composure, Laurent began telling them of his curiosity about the way Shennan had died.

  ‘Since you didn’t go to the party, there’s no harm in talking about it,’ he remarked, but his words were interrupted by Madame Monatti.

  ‘But we did go to the party.’

  ‘You two are incorrigible,’ laughed Laurent, thinking this was another of their jokes. ‘Anyway, as I was saying—’

  ‘No, I’m not joking,’ she cut in again. ‘We were at the party when Shennan died.’

  ‘But your names weren’t on the guest list, and I didn’t see you anywhere,’ countered Laurent, a bit irked.

  The Monattis gave each other a knowing look and laughed again. Laurent felt a strong desire to give these two imbeciles a thrashing. Finally Monsieur Monatti spoke.

  ‘We weren’t invited, it’s true, and in fact we’d even distributed fliers denouncing Shennan, but we snuck into the cemetery to have a look. If you climb up onto the stones against the wall of the château garden, the view is phenomenal. Once there, we caught a whiff of the roast lamb, and saw the wine and beer, and we told ourselves that for all of our consciousness-raising efforts we deserved a drink and a bite to eat.’

  ‘That’s right. Once inside we had a delightful time, and though you didn’t see us, we saw you, several times,’ Madame Monatti said in a mysterious tone that unsettled Laurent.

  Her husband took over.

  ‘The thing is, you caught my wife’s eye. We’re a free-thinking couple, and she wanted to meet you. We were following you for a bit, until at one point you jumped behind a tree to hide, and we had to do the same thing, behind a large bush. Then we saw Carlos Shennan go to the little arched terrace with a very beautiful girl. We saw her start shouting at him and give him a wallop he wouldn’t soon forget, and then finally leave in tears. The look of distress on Monsieur Shennan’s face was something else, but if you’d seen the look on your face …’

  Laurent couldn’t believe his ears. ‘But why didn’t you say anything to the police?’

  ‘Laurent, please. We’re hippies, not idiots. The whole town was covered in fliers denouncing Shennan with our newsletter’s name on them. We were always attacking him, we’d crashed his party, and to top it all off he turns up dead. As you can imagine, we had a panic attack.’

  ‘Yes, I can see why you wouldn’t have wanted to have to explain yourselves. But why did you hate him so much?’

  ‘We didn’t hate him at all,’ explained Madame Monatti, pouring more tea into Laurent’s cup. ‘But he was a very convenient character for our publication: a capitalist who brought foreign workers into town, cancelled an important musical event, chased women … Shennan was our little gold mine. Thanks to him, we made a lot of money with our articles, and most of all, he helped us make ourselves known and get more work. Remember, we make instruments. Maybe we’re not as famous or professional as that duo in Saint-Chartier, but we have a significant client base thanks to our newsletter. Believe us, Shennan’s death has been a disaster for us: now we have to look for another scapegoat.’

  ‘I suppose that makes sense,’ Laurent conceded, ‘but how did you slip through the security checkpoint?’

  ‘We left before the commotion started. After seeing Shennan get slapped, we went off to try the beer and empanadas, and jumped over the cemetery wall again, though it took more effort, because on the garden side there aren’t any tombstones.’

  Laurent had trouble imagining them clambering up the wall, bellies full of lamb, empanadas and alfajores. He’d dug up all that he could, and wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. Getting to his feet, he said, ‘Once again, thanks for this interesting little talk, but I’m afraid I must be on my way back to Saint-Chartier, or I’ll be late for my next meeting.’

  ‘Not at all, Laurent.’ The unexpectedly nimble Madame Monatti was now at his side, grabbing his arm with one hand and holding up a pencil and sheet of paper in the other. ‘Don’t worry, Claude, I’ll walk him out. But first I’m sure Monsieur de Rodergues will be kind enough to give us his address, isn’t that right?’

  ‘With … pleasure.’ Laurent grimaced, knowing that this could lead nowhere good.

  On the way out, when her husband wasn’t looking, Madame Monatti whispered, ‘I’ll write to you, Laurent, and we’ll meet as soon as possible. You’ve got me going mad. Off you go, or I won’t be able to contain myself.’

  Once outside, Laurent fled at a good clip in search of his car. The Monattis almost certainly had nothing to do with Shennan’s death, but his visit had raised two new causes for concern:

  What if the police found out what took place between Yael and Shennan?

  What if Jeannette Monatti really did show up one day at the vicarage?

  His soul shaken by this second possibility, he started his car, telling himself that only in La Cocadrille could he find the peace and tranquillity he so desperately needed.

  TAVERN OR TABERNACLE

  On his way back to La Cocadrille, Laurent started thinking about the information he’d uncovered in his investigation, which was becoming more and more labyrinthine. The Monattis had crashed the party, watched Shennan get slapped, seen him hiding behind a tree: none of this comforted him. He just wanted to get to the tavern. Stepping inside would be like submerging himself in one of those ritual baths, a sort of purifying font where he could wash away the sin and scourges of the world

  When he arrived, he saw half a dozen horses tied to the fence outside, as though La Cocadrille were a Wild West saloon. One of them he immediately recognised as Calypso, the horse Caroline de Flalois rode. He then recalled that on weekdays she often hosted groups from Paris, and one of her routes de balade came through Saint-Chartier.

  As soon as he entered his temple of tranquillity, he practically collided with Le Juanch, who greeted him with an embrace.

  ‘Laurent, you haven’t been coming by lately. I hope you’re not cheating on us at other restaurants. No one else is going to treat you like we do.’

  ‘I know, Gaston, and I’d never so much as think of being unfaithful. It’s just that I’ve been working a bit. Get me a beer and something to eat. I need to relax my spirits,’ Laurent pleaded.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Le Juanch,
taking him by the arm to a table.

  ‘Do you know Madame Monatti?’

  ‘Oh God, say no more. That woman could break sea ice in Antarctica. I’ll get you a Carterius right away, and some stuffed pig’s trotters au gratin with a garlic mousseline that will lift your spirits,’ said Le Juanch, running off to the kitchen. ‘On the house.’

  Laurent took a seat, reflecting on the importance of camaraderie and solidarity among men. Suddenly a strong, feminine hand touched him on the shoulder.

  ‘Laurent, you don’t even say hello any more?’ It was Caroline, decked out like an Amazon, in black riding boots instead of the gaiters she usually wore, possibly to match the Parisians. ‘Don’t you want to sit with us? We’re a table full of beautiful women.’

  ‘I appreciate the invitation, but I have to leave soon,’ he replied. ‘Do you remember Thierry, the forester? I’m going to go see him in Lignières. Besides, Gaston is bringing me some pig’s trotters au gratin, and I’m afraid that the spectacle of me wolfing them down would scare off your friends.’ After this excuse he added, ‘By the way, Caroline, have you heard from Yael?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you the same question.’ She frowned. ‘I haven’t seen her since the day of the party in the château, and that was a long time ago. She hasn’t even called. Though I assumed you two would have stayed in contact. Anyway, why do you want to see Thierry? I didn’t know you were friends.’

  Laurent shrugged. ‘Actually we barely know each other, we just crossed paths two or three times at the Shennans’ house. But I wanted to ask him something about Carlos, something that’s got me puzzled.’

  Caroline looked at him slowly, gauging what he knew or didn’t know, then gave him a warning.

  ‘Be careful, Shennan’s a touchy subject for Thierry. To be honest, I never understood how he could work for him after what happened.’

  ‘I don’t follow. What do you mean?’

  ‘I thought you knew,’ whispered Caroline, looking around to make sure no one else could hear. ‘Do you remember the day you met Yael, when we talked about the scandal with Shennan and the woman from Lignières, whose husband committed suicide?’

  ‘I remember perfectly, but I don’t see what it has to do with Thierry.’

  ‘Her husband was Thierry’s brother.’ Just then a gorgeous woman walked over, also in riding gear, but wearing a spectacular pistachio tweed jacket, leather vest and white silk blouse with matching bow tie.

  ‘Caroline, your food’s here. Are you coming?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. This is Laurent de Rodergues, an old friend and excellent rider.’

  Laurent stood up politely to greet her. The Parisian quickly assessed him, then smiled and said, ‘Enchantée, Laurent. I hope the next time we’re out here you can join us.’

  Caroline gave Laurent a wink goodbye. ‘I’ll try to convince him. See you later, Laurent.’

  With a polite nod in response, Laurent collapsed into his chair. The news Caroline had just delivered had knocked him for a loop.

  Fortunately, Le Juanch was on his way over with a glass of beer in one hand and a steaming tray in the other. Before plunging into the whirlwind of his preoccupations, he needed to restore his strength.

  THIERRY CHANTEAU

  The road to Lignières was practically empty, and Laurent arrived early for his afternoon meeting with Thierry, but he didn’t mind. It was a pretty town with plenty of charm. First he decided to take a stroll through the centre, and then couldn’t decide whether to get a coffee at the bistro next to the château or to give in to gluttony and dive headlong into the Breton crêperie. Luckily, the crêperie was closed.

  The cafe in the plaza was itself nothing special, but Laurent liked to go once in a while. All kinds of ultramontane royalists from all over Europe would converge on the cafe to call on His Royal Highness Sixtus Henry of Bourbon-Parma, the ageing son of a pretender to the Spanish throne. He was known as ‘the Standard-Bearer of Tradition’, though on one occasion Laurent had heard the more pompous title of ‘Rightful Heir in Exile’, which no doubt had more dramatic force. Laurent loved to sit at the bar and listen to conversations that took place there, because, politics aside, they had an elegant, nineteenth-century tone worthy of the noblest aristocrats. The place never disappointed, and that day he happened upon a group of Corsican traditionalists and a duo from Albania who supported the return of the monarchy with the son of the late Crown Prince Leka as king.

  After he left, he ventured over to the palace of Prince Sixtus Henry; if he had visitors, the outer gate would no doubt be open, and he could walk along the moat, enjoying the view of the unkempt gardens, neglected for years. Arriving at the area behind the church, he heard chanting in Latin, and he thought of Father Gérard, who’d mentioned he had met Shennan in this very château, and it occurred to him he could visit him to talk about the story with the baker. He checked his watch, and seeing that it was almost time for his appointment, went back toward his car the way he’d come.

  The racecourse in Lignières not only put on horse races and sulky races, it also hosted the equestrian fair and had a stable for raising and mating horses. Camped out temporarily on its grounds was the Cirque Bidon, on holiday from its exhausting summer tours. They spent the off season repairing rickety caravans, checking over tools of their trade and the sets for their shows, and rehearsing new tricks and routines.

  Laurent walked through the circus camp, admiring the dozen old-fashioned painted caravans and the Percheron horses that stood nearby, tethered to wooden stakes hammered into the ground. He saw artists painting their juggling pins or repairing their equipment, and he could tell from the way they dressed and behaved they had an undeniable attachment to the past. He couldn’t help giving a smile, thinking these performers weren’t so different from the royalists in the cafe. After all, they were all just romantics who longed to bring back the customs of better, bygone days.

  He saw a young woman dressed as a can-can dancer strutting around with a chicken on her head, which Laurent mistook from afar for a feather hat. She turned out to be a very friendly Italian lady, who told him Thierry was doing some repairs on the inside of a green caravan with gold trimmings and a red door.

  He had no trouble finding it. Under the cart he saw what were clearly chamber pots, and it occurred to him that the caravans were flawless not only in their beauty but also in their historical accuracy, and that a nostalgic aesthetic is hard to revive when one’s body has grown accustomed to certain creature comforts, such as a modern toilet. He imagined having to step out of the cart on a cold, rainy night, and that put an end to the reverie of living in a caravan alongside a gypsy with gleaming eyes and an unfastened bodice.

  There was Thierry, on his knees with his back turned to him as he varnished the bottom bedframe.

  ‘Hello, Laurent. Give me just a moment,’ he said, not turning around.

  ‘How do you know it was me?’ asked Laurent, surprised he’d been recognised even before he spoke.

  ‘Your aftershave is unmistakable, and since in the circus we shower at night, in the morning we don’t smell so nice. Hold on a second, I’m almost done. This is the ringmaster’s bed, and she’s very demanding.’

  ‘To hear you tell it, you’d think I’m some sort of flamboyant playboy.’

  ‘Oh, please. Solange always said your cologne had a very pleasant, masculine scent.’ Thierry finished his task, wiped his hand on his trousers and shook Laurent’s. ‘Let me put away the varnish and clean the brush, then we can go for a walk and talk in peace.’

  They walked past the horse-training field, where a group of elementary-school Amazons were practising jumping. Thierry was the first to open fire.

  ‘I have to admit, I was surprised by your call and your eagerness to see me, especially when you told me it had to do with Monsieur Shennan’s death. I’d also like to take this chance to apologise. When they were questioning you and rumour had it that you were the suspect, I didn’t do anything to help, even tho
ugh there was no doubt in my mind that you had nothing to do with it.’

  Laurent didn’t know what to say. If Thierry really did have something to do with Shennan’s death, then of course he’d have acted the way he did, letting events play out and not doing anything. But he also had to consider that if Thierry was innocent, he logically wouldn’t have known anything and therefore couldn’t have done anything to help his case. He decided to say exactly what he had just thought.

  ‘Don’t worry, I don’t see what you could have done, unless of course you had some information about Shennan’s death. But that would mean that you were involved, in which case it’d be in your interest to keep quiet and protect yourself.’

  Thierry opened his eyes inordinately wide. ‘You can’t be serious. I had nothing to do with it. Besides, I don’t believe in violence.’

  ‘Come on, Thierry,’ Laurent said. ‘Coming from a woodman, that sounds like something you’d say at a Boy Scout bonfire.’

  ‘I’m not a woodman, I’m an arboriste-grimpeur,’ countered Thierry in his defence.

  ‘That sounds even worse. Don’t dig yourself in deeper,’ advised Laurent patiently. ‘And yes, the days I spent being interrogated as a suspect gave me a lot to think about, and that’s why I’ve taken it upon myself to go back over everything that happened.’

  ‘But Laurent, that was months ago. Why now?’

  Laurent didn’t think it appropriate to tell him about the inheritance he’d received from Shennan, so he just said, ‘Because ever since then I’ve been thinking about the case.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s a waste of time, but I’ll try to help. What do you want to know? Or better yet, what do you think I can tell you?’ He seemed sincere in his desire to help.