Death in Saint-Chartier

by Ivo Fornesa

  ‘Well, the first thing that surprised me was that after hearing all the talk about the Patagonian lamb, about how amazing it was, I didn’t think it was any better than the ones my cousin raises in Montipouret. And don’t give me that look. I know you don’t raise animals, so you don’t care about such things, but I do. What you will care about is the other thing I saw, something that really did catch my attention: not long after I spoke with you, I saw that couple from Montgivray, the chubby ones who dress like hippies and are always stirring up trouble. You know the ones I mean?’

  Laurent wiped his hand over his face, and without realising it covered himself in milk and udder grease.

  ‘The Monattis. What about them?’

  ‘Well, I saw them slip right into the house from the side of the tower that goes up to the rooms, and I got the impression they did so surreptitiously.’

  Laurent tried to downplay the excitement this information caused.

  ‘And I get the impression that you don’t often use the word “surreptitiously”. If I were the suspicious type, I’d say you’d rehearsed it for the occasion. You didn’t see them leave?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true, I saw the word in the local paper, but I swear I didn’t see the hippies again, and honestly I didn’t give them much thought until just now, when you asked if I saw anything unusual.’

  Laurent got up. ‘You’re right, I do care about what you’ve just told me, so I don’t think I’ll be able to keep helping you milk. I’ve got to go and check on a few things.’

  ‘I see. Don’t worry, do what you have to do, and thanks for the help. But can I ask a question before you go?’

  ‘Of course, whatever you like,’ said Laurent obligingly.

  ‘There were a lot of versions of the story, and not even the papers were very clear. Where exactly did Shennan’s body turn up? Some said in the cellar, others said in the stairs to the tower …’

  Laurent was puzzled.

  ‘The papers didn’t say? Well, all right, I found Shennan myself in a secret passageway on the second floor.’

  The farmer looked up in surprise.

  ‘In a secret passageway? When I was little, people talked about those passageways, but no one in the town ever saw one. Apparently Madame Germaine, the woman who restored the château in 1878, walled up all the entrances.’

  ‘Well, now you know. Turns out there were secret passageways after all.’ Shaking Tonton’s hand, Laurent bid him farewell, and then turned back around. ‘I don’t suppose the cassowary’s running loose around here?’

  ‘How could you believe I’d have a bird like that running around the garden? The only cassowary here is stuffed. I bought it at an antique fair in Issoudun, and I keep it in the living room. Some kid must have seen it through the window when I had a fire going in the fireplace. In the light of the flames the feathers glint like it’s alive, and its head is turned toward the window, so maybe that’s where the legend comes from. Anyway, you’d best be on your way. I’ve still got six cows to go and can’t spend all day talking.’

  BETWEEN MEETINGS, A MEMORY

  Laurent spent the days following his meeting with Tonton Boussard holed up in the vicarage, reviewing notes and drawing up charts of possibilities. The farmer’s revelation about the Monattis had given him a boost of optimism, but the more he analysed the case the less sense it made that they would have had something to do with the crime. In his eyes, they were nothing more than a couple of run-of-the-mill opportunists – shameless but harmless. Annoying, certainly, ridiculous and somewhat parasitical too, but ultimately cowards. Over the course of his life, Laurent had run into many individuals of that sort, and he know how to spot them at first glance.

  Finally, on the morning of his appointment with Monsieur Rataille, the businessman who’d overseen the construction on the château, he decided to set aside his charts, at least until he could see things more clearly. They’d arranged to meet in Châteauroux, and he had to leave no later than ten, or he wouldn’t arrive on time.

  He left his lists on the table and, seeing the overcast sky, he armed himself with an umbrella and a military raincoat, which he always thought provided the best protection from the water.

  On the way to his car, he thought it might be a good idea to call Cathy Barnaud, the woman from the security agency who’d helped out in the search for Shennan. Maybe she knew something about the Monattis’ party crashing or their mischief inside the château. Suddenly he slapped himself on the forehead: she was the one who, with her statement, had cleared his name during the investigation. Laurent was well aware of what she’d done, and he’d planned to send her a gift or call her, but as the days had gone by he’d gradually forgotten. Now he suddenly felt guilty. It hadn’t occurred to him that by testifying that they’d been together the whole time, she’d lied, and that, perhaps out of a sense of loyalty, none of her colleagues had ratted her out. And despite all that, he still hadn’t even thanked her. He was a disgrace. His mind suddenly made up, he got out of his car and walked back to the house. He went straight to the telephone, looked up her number and without giving it a second thought called her.

  The other end of the line picked up right away.

  ‘Hello, Laurent,’ said Cathy in a husky voice.

  Laurent, taken aback, looked at his phone. ‘How on earth did you know it was me? I’m impressed. I feel like I’m in a spy movie.’

  ‘It’s really nice to hear from you,’ she went on saying, as if she hadn’t heard his question. ‘I wanted to call, but I felt a little strange doing so after everything that happened. And since you never contacted me …’

  ‘Stop playing around and tell me how you knew it was me.’ Laurent didn’t like being surprised like that. He wanted to hold onto a sense of freedom – he didn’t enjoy feeling as though he was being controlled. ‘Do you guys have a satellite in your office?’

  Cathy burst out laughing. ‘Aren’t you adorable? There’s no secret: I’ve got an ordinary, everyday phone, I’ve just activated a few extra functions. Anyone can get them, if they pay for them. One of them is a caller ID that gives you the caller’s postal code. That’s how I knew it was someone from Saint-Chartier, and the only person I wanted to talk to from there is you. Happy now?’

  Laurent felt somewhat stupid for his reaction, and even guiltier than before.

  ‘I’m calling to apologise, but now I have to apologise on two counts, first for being so stupid just now, and second for not having thanked you as I ought to have for everything you did for me during the investigation into Shennan’s death. Only you and Madame Mayumi intervened on my behalf.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you. When I saw it was you, I thought you’d be calling to ask for a favour, and I almost didn’t pick up …’

  Now Laurent didn’t feel guilty but crass. ‘I’m actually just leaving to go to a meeting in Châteauroux, but I’ll be free in the afternoon. Would you like to get together?’

  ‘You’re in luck. For three weeks I’ve been working on a complicated case, but as of this afternoon I’m back and not too busy. If you like, I can come by Châteauroux. I imagine there must be someplace nice there where we can meet.’

  ‘Say no more. I’ll find someplace interesting. Let me know when you’re on your way. Thanks again for everything. You can’t imagine much I’ve wanted to see you so I could thank you in person.’

  He hung up, and as he walked back to his car, he realised that the last thing he’d said, though improvised, was more than just a little white lie to excuse his long silence. He really did want to see Cathy, and not just so he could ask her about Shennan’s death. She was attractive, fun and devilishly sexy.

  He started the car, put on some colonial baroque music and headed out to his meeting with Monsieur Rataille. They’d only met in passing through the restoration work on the château, but he’d made a good impression on him: he seemed like a sterling man, the kind whose greatest ambition was to retire as early as possible and devote himself to fishing.


  YVES RATAILLE

  He’d arranged to meet Monsieur Rataille at the construction site where he was working, in one of those office trailers typically used on large projects. Apparently Rataille had made the most of the job at the Château de Saint-Chartier, becoming an effective salesman in his off hours, and had landed several contracts. The work he was doing in Châteauroux consisted of the complete restoration of an elegant bourgeois mansion located between the house of Grand Marshal Bertrand and the old Cordeliers Convent.

  The businessman stood waiting for him at the entrance to the property, a majestic stone gate with a wooden double door adorned with tin rosettes.

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur de Rodergues,’ he said. ‘Step into my office. I’ve got hot coffee and chocolate croissants.’

  Monsieur Rataille originally hailed from Roussillon, and he struck Laurent as a classic exemplar of that land. Like many from that part of southern France, he could get by well in Spanish, as his native language was Catalan. His friendly air was heightened by the fact that he was one of those people who have the rare fortune of always looking impeccably clean.

  This was something Laurent had learnt in Chile as a child: there are those who know how to receive a guest and those who don’t. Rataille belonged to the former group, and he kept his office in a military order: the project blueprints were displayed on one of the walls, while on a draughting table he had laid out in perfect condition all the tools of that noble profession, which is never given the attention it deserves.

  Rataille served the coffee, set the plate of croissants in the centre of the table and invited Laurent to take a seat in the chair opposite his.

  ‘So, what brings you to Châteauroux? Don’t tell me you’re looking for a house, because the one you have in that vicarage is marvellous. If you’re thinking of selling, don’t hesitate to give me a call. I’ve had my eye on it for a long time.’

  Mouth full of the flaky croissant, Laurent could only shake his head, and once he’d managed to swallow, replied, ‘Thanks for the offer. I’m quite happy in the vicarage, but rest assured that if I ever decide to move, you’re the one I’ll call. I know you’d work wonders on it. However, I’m here to see you for another reason that has to do with the death of your former client.’

  ‘You mean poor Monsieur Shennan, of course. I’ll do whatever I can. He was a good client – a bit of a micromanager during construction, but I should say in his defence that most of his opinions were well-founded. I must admit, I liked watching his never-ending spats with the architect.’

  ‘Madame Pia de La Tressondière seems quite inflexible and sure of herself,’ replied Laurent in an attempt to get him to open up.

  Rataille, the sharpest of the sharp, didn’t take the bait, giving instead a diplomatic response. ‘She’s meticulous, and she knows her job very well, but you’re right that she was too inflexible. Draughting plans is one thing, and reality is quite another. The château renovation was an especially complicated project, and a lot of unexpected problems cropped up. That’s why it’s best not to be tied to the original plans without taking into account the imponderables that any restoration project will inevitably entail. For example, on the third floor, when everything was finished and even plastered over, we heard an enormous crash and had to open up the wall again. Inside, a metre deep, we found a huge beam that had rotted through. You can’t imagine how much it took to tear down that wall, prop everything up, remove the beam, chop it up and fill everything back in with stone.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Laurent interrupted, fearing that Rataille would launch into a dissertation on the minutiae of the construction project. ‘As you’ll recall, I had the misfortune of finding Monsieur Shennan’s body in a passageway.’

  ‘Yes, I remember that secret passage, which goes from the guest room to the girls’ room. After we discovered it, I always liked to think it had been put to some mischief in its day,’ said Rataille with a wink.

  Laurent practically choked and spilt his coffee. ‘You knew about that secret passage? I thought it was something no one but the girls knew about, not even Shennan.’

  ‘Please, Monsieur. I’m a professional! How could we miss a thing like that? I was the one who suggested there was a false wall there after I looked over the blueprints. Madame the architect, with all her degrees from the Sorbonne, hadn’t noticed. When we opened it up in front of her, she tried to wave it off, saying we should seal it up again so we didn’t have to redo the wiring and the heating.’

  For a second Laurent practically thought he’d have a heart attack. Apparently the secret passage was a public thoroughfare: all it was missing was a newspaper kiosk and a soda fountain! He couldn’t contain himself.

  ‘This is outrageous! The police gave me the third degree over how I knew about that passageway, but it seems its existence was common knowledge. Why didn’t you tell anyone you knew about it?’

  Poor Rataille appeared at a loss. ‘I had no clue that’s why they detained you. Had I known, I would have easily cleared up the matter, but at no point did the police ask me about the passageway, nor about my whereabouts during the party. Believe me, I’m very sorry.’

  Laurent realised he’d gotten upset over nothing, and immediately apologised. ‘Forgive the sudden outburst, it’s just that the more I learn, the less I understand why I was the only one questioned about that blasted passageway.’

  ‘Not at all, you have plenty of reason to get angry,’ Rataille agreed. ‘And if they’d suspected everyone who knew about it, they would have had to interrogate everyone who was there when we tore down the false wall.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me who was with you then?’

  ‘I remember perfectly. There were only four of us. I felt that would be for the best, because if we discovered something interesting and word got out, the site would turn into a piece of Swiss cheese, with all the employees carrying out excavations of their own in search of a bit of treasure for themselves. That’s why it was only Monsieur Shennan, Madame the architect, the worker who tore down the wall, and myself.’

  ‘A worker? Which one?’

  ‘Actually, it was Ahmed. I don’t know how that didn’t occur to me until just now,’ said Rataille in surprise. ‘I didn’t want to let any other employees in, and after he found the passageway he promised not to tell anyone else. He took care of everything. He tore down the wall, got the passageway into decent shape, cleaned it up and repaired what needed fixing. All by himself he plastered and painted the room and strung a wire from the next room for lighting. We didn’t even put heating inside. Shennan’s idea was for it to be a secret nook inside the girls’ playroom. If you recall, the door to the passage was a mirror with a magnet. He did it so that they could play and amaze their friends. And since they slept with their nanny, there was no danger that they’d use it unsupervised.’

  ‘When you say Ahmed, do you mean that worker who Shennan got in a fight with?’ Laurent was beside himself with delight. ‘Monsieur Rataille, this is quite a coincidence. I came here to ask you about him, and even before I’ve said anything you go and bring him up. I’m trying to piece together a theory about Shennan’s death. I’m doing it as a pastime that might turn into a book.’ Barely realising it, Laurent was lying more and more smoothly and confidently.

  ‘It was very sad, what happened to him,’ sighed Monsieur Rataille at length. ‘He was a fantastic worker, and I had no complaints. In Perpignan there’s a large North African population that goes back to colonial times. A lot of them have wives and children back home, and because they’re lonely, they’re an easy target for those Salafist preachers that keep turning up everywhere. First they offer friendship, they help them out with everyday tasks, they even lend them money. Then they find excuses to bring them to the mosque, at first for social events, like a lamb roast in honour of some religious festival, and gradually they snare them, until they end up brainwashing them.

  ‘Ahmed is a typical case. He was an open-minded, unfastidious Muslim, like ever
yone in that area. Many of them would go out for a beer on Fridays with the rest of the group. If there was ham in the stew at the company cafeteria, they’d eat it without a fuss, and the practising Muslims didn’t harass them. The trouble started when I hired a young man from Ouarzazate, Ibrahim, an individual who made me a very good first impression: clean, dressed in modern clothes, polite and very hardworking. You could tell he’d been to school. Six months after he came to work for us he started chipping away at the foundations. I always had a lot of North Africans and rarely had trouble, but once that Ibrahim showed up things went south: they wanted changes in the cafeteria menu, breaks for prayer, a space to pray … then they started growing beards, then wearing chéchias – those fez-like caps – and then things took a turn for the worst. There were fights with other workers, and some Algerian employees even got beaten up after being accused of being lax in their faith. People stopped showing up, had to be fired and so on. The only worker left from that time was Ahmed, and the funny thing is that down in Saint-Chartier everything seemed to be returning to normal. I even thought he’d voluntarily asked to work on this project to get out of the oppressive, cult-like atmosphere. As I imagine you know, I put everyone up in two rented houses in La Châtre. Well, one day one of those bearded zealots knocked on the door looking for Ahmed, and I told him he wasn’t there. But somehow the man knew we were working in Saint-Chartier, and a few days later, when we were leaving the château, he walked up to Ahmed and berated him in Arabic. It was like a teacher scolding a schoolboy. Ahmed has a bad temper, and I expected the worst, but he took the chiding with a demoralised, ashamed look on his face. Then he told us the man was a relative of his who lived in Châteauroux who was very angry because he hadn’t gone to pay them a visit, but I could smell a lie. From that point on his attitude got progressively worse, until the day he had the altercation with Shennan. And as far as that goes, I can assure you it was a full-blown provocation. There had never been a problem before, and he never prayed anywhere, and Monsieur Shennan was especially nice to him, to such an extent that Ahmed even said, in awe, that he was impressed by Monsieur Shennan’s knowledge of Islam, which makes what happened later even more incomprehensible.’