Death in Saint-Chartier

by Ivo Fornesa

  Last, there was one more detail to take into account: Thierry had a way with children, and Shennan’s daughters were crazy for him, because he was constantly performing tricks and stunts. Whenever he showed up, the three girls stuck to him like glue and laughed at his jokes, since his circus experience and innate affability made him a natural with them. Laurent knew them well, and he’d bet that the little girls, to win him over, had told him about the passageway. This was just conjecture, and he had no evidence to back it up, but it meant that not only did Thierry have one of the strongest reasons to hate Shennan, he was also the one most capable of killing him. And even though his looks and his limpid eyes made him look like an angel, Laurent, who hadn’t had occasion to see him angry, could easily imagine him turning as diabolical as Lucifer himself.

  Suddenly another detail against Thierry occurred to Laurent as he remembered he was involved with the circus: ‘Of course,’ he whispered aloud, ‘his profession, and his work at the Cirque Bidon, require a high degree of dexterity, and no doubt he knows his way around a tightrope, and wouldn’t have had any trouble climbing up somewhere to get into the château when no one was looking.’ Then he threw his pencil down on the table in frustration. ‘No, that’s impossible. The garden was packed, the security team were roving the grounds and Thierry was probably with people the whole time. It couldn’t have been him. His motives weren’t serious enough to murder Shennan, and even Solange herself admitted that Shennan had long ago given up on her.’

  In the end he struck his name from the list, and turned his eyes back to the page where he’d written ‘Final Suspects’. Below this heading he had written nothing. He got up to go to the bathroom and chat for a bit in the kitchen. He liked to watch Le Juanch and his two assistants cook and maybe nab a bite to eat while he was at it. A quarter of an hour later, after a successful kitchen raid, he returned to his work station.

  The next name was Solange Vartel, who’d turned out to be the most enigmatic and underrated suspect on his list. Months back Laurent would have sworn to anyone that Mademoiselle Vartel was the quintessence of virtue, a little songbird covered in onyx and ruby feathers who only opened her golden beak to make a beautiful trill. But no: once again outward appearances, what we think we see in others, had turned out to be so many layers of an enormous onion.

  Laurent knew that Solange had nothing to do with Shennan’s death. She was amused by his doting, and no doubt he was a romantic trophy on her list, but nothing more. She’d noted that outside a brief period of embarrassing pushiness, when he sought to reprise that single night of love or sex, Shennan had left her in peace. Laurent therefore guessed that what she’d interpreted as an infatuation on his part was simply the flattering reading that some women make of men’s attention. From what he knew of Shennan, he felt certain he hadn’t been at all obsessed with her. What had bothered the man was simply that his lover’s tricks hadn’t turned the landscape architect into another admirer. As for Solange, she’d never know this ‘romantic obsession’ was nothing more than a game for him, a simple pastime. Laurent laughed as he imagined his neighbour trying to think up a ploy to win over Solange. And because Shennan was a man of tangible, immediate things, he would have given up, slightly annoyed that he couldn’t achieve his objective.

  As for the outright lie that Solange had told him about Thierry, that was excusable and could be called love, or simple friendship, because ultimately lying for a loved one is not a sin or misdeed, especially when the person who prompted the lie is innocent, as Thierry was.

  He crossed her off his list, thinking that no doubt Cathy would say he was a pushover who’d fallen under the spell of Solange’s apparent fragility. Maybe so, but even though he lacked poetic gifts, Laurent was no novice in love and could have spoken at length about melancholy and the moods of the heart.

  The next candidate on his list was the wildcard in that deck, his friend Tonton Boussard, with his menagerie of do-it-yourself taxidermy. Looking back on their meeting, Laurent decided he must not look very intelligent, because people kept trying to feed him falsehoods left and right. Even that boorish farmer with his coypu hides had had the nerve to lie to him about the passageway.

  On the other hand, aside from his primitive way of looking at life and his phobias about everything, on the list of suspects he was really the only one who had something to gain from the man’s death: once Shennan was out of the auction, Tonton had acquired an enormous estate at a ridiculous price. Still, Laurent had trouble believing that Boussard could attain the degree of criminal sophistication that a death like Shennan’s entailed. Tonton Boussard was also set free.

  Yves Rataille: he was without a doubt the only one who shouldn’t be on the list in the first place. He’d added and interviewed him just to get to Ahmed El-Kubri. Besides, not only had the businessman not benefitted from Shennan’s death, he was actually worse off, because Shennan had promised new projects that now would never take shape. Add to that the fact that he’d acquired several important projects in the area through his work on the château and Shennan’s contacts, and the only conclusion was that Yves Rataille, far from harbouring murderous hatred, could have only felt gratitude toward the man. Therefore there was no point in wasting another second wondering about him.

  Ahmed El-Kubri: unfortunately, thought Laurent, the individual most likely to be the murderer was the hardest to incriminate. El-Kubri had turned out to be a diehard Salafist who hated anything that didn’t fit in his world. Not only was he the one who’d torn down the false wall that led to the passageway, but he’d been publicly slapped by Shennan, who, to add insult to injury, had used the language of the Prophet to threaten his family.

  But as Yves Rataille had told him and Cathy had confirmed, he was the subject of an active search by Interpol and the CIA, so he couldn’t have made it through the château gate on the day of the party – he’d have set off alarms from miles away.

  Pia de La Tressondière: she was perhaps the only one on his list who had truly been straight with him. She was also one of the few who’d earned his respect.

  While Pia had plenty of reason to despise Shennan, she was too smart to let herself be carried away by spite. Cold and calculating, with the intellectual faculties needed to devise such an exquisitely planned death, she was also, as Laurent could see, a woman of great sensitivity and passion, emotions she hid under her mask of sneering Paris snobbery.

  The image of Hercule Poirot came to mind, sententiously repeating the line ‘Cherchez la femme!’ Yes, perhaps the instigation had come from a woman, but the execution seemed to require a man, and none of the women involved in the case had much physical strength to speak of.

  He drew a thick red line through the architect’s name. Only one name remained, that of a woman who had meant a great deal to Laurent, a woman he had come to despise as fiercely as he once thought he loved her.

  Yael Golani: after the Mauritanian, she was the one with the most motives to hate Shennan. Because of him, her little sister had been institutionalised, and her niece had been stillborn largely as a result of his indifference. That’s what had led her to spend all those months observing him from the house she’d rented across from the château, and ultimately to confront him and hit him the night of the party. Also worth noting was that, like every non-Orthodox Israeli citizen, Yael had military experience. Not only had she been stationed on the northern border, which implied she had abundant experience under fire – she herself had said as much – but her late husband had been in the Israeli special forces. What’s more, Yael had the intelligence, the motives, the mettle, the physical training and a flair for the convoluted that would have allowed her to plot the crime. If that weren’t enough, she’d been the Shennans’ neighbour for long enough to pick up any other necessary information.

  Still, she wasn’t the culprit. Laurent felt certain she was innocent, and not just because she’d assured him she was, but above all because the security team had seen her leave before the crime was committe
d, as Cathy had confirmed.

  Once again he took his red marker and drew several lines through her name until it was no longer legible. Then he tore out the page, crumpled it up into a ball and threw it into a distant rubbish bin, not making a basket. He felt discouraged. There were no more suspects left standing. He had no one, and still Laurent believed, despite what everyone else said, that his friend Carlos had been murdered.

  From the other room he heard Le Juanch calling out to him to clear away his things because the food was on the way.

  Laurent did as he was told, and as Le Juanch set the dishes on the table, he asked with his usual chattiness, ‘How’s the investigation coming along? Figured out who did it yet?’

  ‘How do you know what I’m doing?’ asked Laurent with a start. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Who do you think? Tartarin. He told us all about it after your visit to the station. He came for the Town Preservation and Promotion Society meeting, and after a few beers he blabbed so much he had to sleep on a cot I keep upstairs for emergencies.’

  ‘But … that’s unacceptable!’ Laurent was beside himself with indignation. ‘I told him it was a private matter that called for the utmost discretion! What else did that knuckle-dragger say, and how many people heard him?’

  ‘I don’t know …’ Le Juanch stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Honestly, the place was packed. As for what he said, there wasn’t too much.’

  But seeing the look of rage on Laurent’s face, he began to twist his kitchen rag awkwardly, realising he’d stuck his foot firmly in his mouth and might not be able to take it back out.

  ‘Look, don’t get angry, we’re like a great big family here, and nothing will leave this restaurant, but the truth is, he told us everything. He even told us about your list. In fact, along with Sandrine Jamet’s tavern in Saint-Août, we’ve set up a pool betting on who your culprit will be. Tartarin’s bet a double round of Carterius Magnum for all the regulars that his theory, that it was all an accident, is going to win out. Even Thierry and Tonton are betting, and they’re implicated.’

  Laurent was mute with rage, but finally he spoke. ‘This is beyond the pale. No respect for privacy and discretion! This is humiliating – I must be a laughing stock.’

  ‘Not at all, Laurent.’ Le Juanch put his arm around his shoulder. ‘You can’t imagine how much fun we’ve had thanks to you. It’s like we’re all playing Monopoly! Madame Triflerre’s embroidery group has also joined in, with different variations, and every Thursday we get together to see how the ranking is going. At the moment your friend, Mademoiselle Yael, is winning. Honestly, we thought you knew, because even your new girlfriend has money in the pool.’

  This news was too much for Laurent. ‘Which girlfriend would that be? Because I don’t recall having one.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Laurent. You can’t lie to me, not to your Le Juanch. I mean the curly blonde beauty, with that killer body and those huge green eyes. By the way, you should know we all think she’s great for you. Hopefully she won’t brush you off like Mademoiselle Yael. The morning she left your place she stopped here for a coffee – she said the one you made wasn’t strong enough. She saw us drawing up the pool and asked about it, so we told her. She laughed and bet ten euros on Mademoiselle Yael, five on Mademoiselle Solange and two on the architect in Paris. Personally I’m leaning toward the worker from Mauritania, Thierry’s betting on Tonton, and Tonton says it was the skinny Chinese secretary.’

  The fact that Cathy was having a ball taking part in the pool, that even Thierry and Tonton had placed bets … Anyway, the damage was done, and he might was well draw his conclusions as soon as possible and find a stable, paid occupation.

  ‘It’s fine, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it, just let me have lunch in silence. Lord knows I need it,’ Laurent pleaded, crestfallen and feeling thoroughly ridiculous.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you’d get so upset,’ said Le Juanch contritely, though he quickly seemed to perk up. ‘And while we’re at it, since you’re going over your files, couldn’t you give me a clue for Thursday?’

  The look Laurent gave Le Juanch could have wiped out all the legions of Scipio Africanus at a single blow. The barkeep, tail between his legs, scurried off to tend to his stovetop.

  Laurent, with all that food before him, let himself be intoxicated by its aroma, which is always soothing. As much as he hated to admit it, ultimately he’d have to agree that Tartarin was right.

  THIRD CHORD

  A LETTER

  Not four months after the dark day of his disappointment in La Cocadrille, Laurent received a certified letter signed by Xiao Li: Madame Shennan and her daughters would be visiting the château and asked him to call on them to discuss his acceptance of the inheritance.

  Laurent hadn’t expected to hear from Madame Mayumi and had completely forgotten about the gift from Carlos Shennan’s estate. He reread the letter several times. The prospect of seeing the victim’s wife was daunting, even if he had to admit that she was the only one, aside from Cathy, who’d spoken up for him. He also knew it would be sad seeing the girls, who were now fatherless. No doubt they’d have grown quite a bit over the last year, he thought with a rueful smile.

  Ever since he’d reviewed his list of suspects for the last time, just before finding out the entire town had been following his investigation, Laurent had tried to put the whole thing out of his mind by intensely occupying his time. He was again exercising, taking brisk hour-long walks every day and going to La Berthenoux to ride three days a week. For practical reasons, as well as out of financial necessity, he decided to open up the building behind the vicarage that housed his grandfather’s workshop, with all its tools still meticulously in order. From the mayor he heard about some courses in traditional crafts and grants offered by the prefecture that led to his professional reinvention as a sabotier, or clog maker, a job that left him a lot of free time, since despite showing himself to be a remarkable craftsman, his product did not yet have mass appeal.

  His love life followed a meandering course to which Laurent was not averse: Cathy stepped in to fill many of the roles usually reserved for a girlfriend but wisely did so with a light touch. She never imposed her presence, and cleverly punctuated it with absences largely made necessary by her work. Laurent thus had to put up with long periods of abstinence, sprinkled with calls or surprises that she ably rationed to whet his appetite. Cathy was often on the road, and many of their encounters took place in other cities, like Orléans, Paris or Moulins. Then he’d return to the vicarage and eagerly await the amusing postcards she sent from abroad, which he’d grown quite fond of. His love life was peaceful, and from Olympus a buxom Aphrodite looked on in satisfaction as a devoted Cupid massaged her bunions.

  Although he hadn’t managed to finish his memoir, or even write a single line, he’d at least come to the conclusion that he wanted to stay in Saint-Chartier. He publicly admitted defeat at the hands of Tartarin, and even raised a glass to his health on each of the two rounds that Tartarin had promised to pay if his theory on Shennan’s death won out. That night, once he’d admitted that Carlos’s death couldn’t have been anything but an unfortunate accident, he put on a good face and accepted the ribbing from the regulars. They even begged him to come up with another, equally entertaining idea as soon as possible.

  In short, he’d led a peaceful life until Madame Shennan’s letter arrived asking him to meet with her three days later. Laurent was shaken again. He sighed: he clearly couldn’t turn down the inheritance, and he realised he had to start thinking about where to store it and how to make the most of it.

  Suddenly he recalled that Madame Mayumi knew nothing about his investigation, and it occurred to him that she might be interested in hearing about it. Laurent thought for a long while, weighing this possibility, and in the end he decided to go to La Châtre: he wanted to buy some presents for Shennan’s daughters, as well as order a bouquet of flowers for Madame Mayumi.

  IN THE MUSIC
ROOM

  The day of the meeting arrived, and Laurent endeavoured to dress nicely so he’d be as presentable as possible to Madame Mayumi. He hoped she and her daughters liked the gifts he’d made: he’d worked hard creating a pair of clogs for each of the girls and another for their mother. He was proud of his work, and even though he could only eye the measurements, he could at least take comfort in the thought that wooden clogs always had to be worn a bit loose. Each pair was painted a different colour and had one of girls’ names carved in the side. For Madame’s, he decided to look up her family crest in Japan, which turned out to be easier than he expected: to his surprise, the history of her family’s heroic deeds and its role in the country’s military past took up several pages. Apparently, her ancestors had been quite remorseless.

  When he arrived at the château he was met by Yammei, the Chinese cook, who could now get by in French, though with a heavy Chinese accent.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Laurent,’ she said. ‘Madame is awaiting you in the music room. Follow me, please.’

  Laurent often ran into her in town, so he felt emboldened to tell her she looked sad, and that made her burst into tears. After she managed to calm down a bit, she choked out a reply.

  ‘I’ll never see Tum or the girls again, I just know it! I’m filled with sadness, and Khun Suan is, too,’ she sobbed, opening the door to the music room. Laurent wanted to ask what she meant by that, but before he could, she had already closed the door, and a familiar voice called out to him from a corner of the chamber.

  ‘Monsieur de Rodergues, so nice to see you again. Please, come and sit down. What can I get you?’

  The voice belonged to none other than Monsieur Jablard, who had already taken over the bar cart, as Laurent saw from the glass of whiskey in his hand. It struck him as a rather generous pour for that hour of the morning.