The Undertaker's Son

by Bev Spicer

Angeline thought the Englishwoman rather brusque, but there was obviously something on her mind and so she went cheerfully back to her work. There was a second load of deliveries to make before lunch, the washing to be transferred to the dryer, and a new load to be put on. Alicia would not have time to do any of this if she was to get through the pile of ironing still to do. The new customers Angeline had taken on had trusted her with their most beautiful dresses and blouses, which had ruffles and gathers to test the most experienced of people. Luckily, Alicia did not mind, and made a brilliant job of everything. But, that was not the point – if the clothes took longer to iron, then Angeline’s profits would be eaten into and so she had decided to impose a surcharge for ‘special’ clothing. It was only fair, and, anyway, the dry cleaners’ would be far more expensive and far less quick and convenient. She would tell her customers that very morning.

  ‘I shall be back before midi,’ she called to Alicia. ‘I have left milk and biscuits.’

  Alicia was pregnant and needed to eat constantly. Her young body showed little sign of her condition, but she was not as energetic as she had been and, just occasionally, a little moody. Angeline worried that it would be difficult to find a replacement for her when the time came. Another thing to add to her list! It was far more difficult to be an entrepreneur than people imagined.

  The traffic was light, but she got stuck behind a tractor and couldn’t get past. It would make her late.

  ‘Good morning, Madame Pommier. How are you today?’ Angeline walked into the house and placed the bag of washing carefully inside the hall.

  ‘Oh, very well. Very well, my dear. A little backache, you know? But at my age… Well, how much do I owe you, I can never remember?’

  ‘For last time and this time, it comes to thirty-eight euros,’ said Angeline, taking out a notebook from the pocket of her dress and recording the payment.

  ‘Thank you. Take this, my dear. No need to bother with the change. I think there is another small bag ready on the stairs…’

  Angeline collected the new washing and waved goodbye to Madame Pommier, who would have liked her to stay longer.

  Adele was singing on the radio and Angeline sang with her. She could pronounce all the words but did not have much idea of their meaning. She liked the clarity and power of the music.

  The next house was just a few doors down.

  ‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Rainier. How are you today?’ She set down a large bag and complimented the young woman on her beautiful shoes.

  Inside, the house looked immaculate. The telephone was ringing, as it always did.

  ‘Busy!’ she said, looking back into the house and smiling.

  ‘Would you like to answer –’

  ‘ – the phone? Oh, no! Let them wait!’ Mademoiselle Rainier disappeared for a moment, returning with an envelope. ‘It’s not as if I need them as much as they need me, after all!’ she laughed.

  Angeline knew what she meant. She felt the same about her own customers. Mademoiselle Rainier was a businesswoman, just as she was, who dealt in jewellery and, it was rumoured, ladies underwear and accessories. She was single, wealthy and in her early thirties. Her clothes were expensive and took a great deal of ironing.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Angeline. ‘Oh, I have to mention a change in our pricing. There will be a surcharge on certain –’

  ‘Of course! Just put it on the next bill. Thank you so much,’ she said, going back inside the house and leaving the door open for her laundry woman to close.

  When you are rich, it is easy. When you have money, you don’t mind how much you pay for the things you need. Angeline wondered whether her prices were too low for everyone. Perhaps they were laughing at her, thinking that she scurried around for a handful of euros. The more she thought about it, the more sure she was.

  There was French music on the radio as she pulled away, so she changed the channel. A modern woman of independent means did not listen to such dirges.

  After another three deliveries she had collected a good deal of money and began to feel better about her prices. It was getting on for half past eleven. There would be time to call in for bread and then go home to pay Alicia, before preparing a light lunch for herself and her guest.

  Now that she had finished her rounds, and feeling very pleased with her takings, she wondered what it was that Martha could want to see her about. If it wasn’t to do with Guy, then it must be to do with Clement. It would be a mistake for Martha to take him too seriously. He was not looking for a wife, after all. And, even if he were, he certainly would not marry an Englishwoman who was older than he was, no matter how large a fortune she had!

  Alicia had finished the ironing and had packed it beautifully. Angeline added five euros to her pay and kissed her warmly, saying that she would see her after the weekend. As the girl closed the gate, Angeline heard a car pull up and knew that it must be Martha. She had not had time to do much, but if people arrived early, what could they expect you to do about it?

  Forty-two

  Guy had been touched to receive such a present from Monsieur Bonhomme on his last day at the garden centre. He had not expected much. Now, he stood and gazed at the painting, which, for so long, had hung in Reception. It now had pride of place over the fireplace in his dining room. Angeline did not think much of it, saying that the mirror he had taken down should be replaced, but Guy thought it beautiful. It was by a Spanish artist, unheard of and, therefore, not revered. It showed a hillside, covered with olive trees. In the forefront of the picture the harvest was commencing, with figures spreading nets to catch the olives, one woman laughing and another with her hands to the sky. He had said he liked it and now it was his. He suspected that his wife disliked it simply because it had no monetary value.

  The new job at the hotel was going well. He learned something every day from Monsieur Valerie, who knew every plant that grew in the gardens, possibly every blade of grass. He told stories of his youth and Guy listened to how he had first met and fallen in love with his wife. It had been on the occasion of a village picnic. He had shared some cherries with her.

  ‘When I saw her blush, I knew she was the girl I was going to marry!’ He was pruning roses, with his new assistant.

  ‘Do you… do you miss her?’ Guy had asked.

  He stopped and put a hand on Guy’s arm, smiling knowingly. ‘She is with me all the time. Especially here, in the garden and at home, in the kitchen. I hear her and I feel her warmth.’ Then he chuckled again. ‘Oh, no doubt you think me a foolish old man, but one day, perhaps you will remember my words.’

  Monsieur Valerie was never morose. He was calm and measured in all he said and did, but always cheerful. Guy liked him very much. Monsieur Bonhomme, on the other hand, had always had about him an air of tragedy that Guy had never known how to break through. He had rarely seen him laugh. Here, amongst the roses with Monsieur Valerie, it was easy to be optimistic and to value the simple things in life.

  ‘You have a wife, I think?’ said the old man.

  ‘And a child,’ replied Guy.

  The two men worked along the wall of climbing plants, Guy pruning the low and high branches, Monsieur Valerie confining himself to the middle portions.

  Some guests came into the garden and commenced a short promenade.

  ‘You must cherish them. They are all that you have.’

  Guy did not answer, for he did not know what to say, but looked instead at the glint in the old man’s eyes.

  The hotel guests were English and wanted to know the names of some of the plants.

  ‘Excuse us…but do you speak English, by any chance?’ asked the two women, one of them beginning and the other finishing the question.

  Monsieur Valerie took off his cap and bowed a little, ‘I do not understand,’ he said, eloquently.

  ‘I speak a little English,’ said Guy.

  ‘Oh, wonderful!’ The older woman squeezed the younger woman’s arm. ‘My daughter was wondering what the name of that extravagan
t plant is just over there. The one with the star-shaped leaves and the red, prickly fruit.’

  Guy understood some of the words and together, they went over to the plant. Monsieur Valerie said that it was indeed a beautiful specimen, but that its fruit was poisonous. Guy translated and the women laughed, delighted.

  ‘Don’t worry, monsieur,’ said the daughter. ‘We shall be careful not to eat it!’

  When they had gone inside again, Monsieur Valerie complimented Guy on his English and said that he should continue with his studies.

  ‘Did you notice the way the mother was looking at me?’ he added. ‘And the daughter at you!’ laughing now and holding his stomach.

  ‘Perhaps we should call them back?’ said Guy. ‘You can show them around a little more.’

  ‘Ah, my young friend, there is not much to see these days.’ There was a measure of pathos in his words that set them both off again.

  Later that afternoon, Madame Alizee sent for Guy and told him that she had heard that he had helped some of the hotel’s English-speaking guests with an enquiry. She was pleased that he was able to do so and asked him to wash his hands before going up to room 37, where a shelf needed making good.

  ‘The lady in question is Mrs. Anderson. She specifically asked for you,’ said Madame Alizee. ‘Of course, I do not have to remind you that we maintain a respectful distance from our guests, Monsieur Roche…’

  Guy understood perfectly and wondered why, if he had not needed to be reminded, Madame Alizee had taken such trouble to point it out. He was not exactly offended, but knew that the head housekeeper did not entirely trust him. He would make sure that, in future, she had more confidence when asking him to do something.

  In the garden, Monsieur Valerie tutted and told him that he would be a lamb going into a lion’s cage. That he should take care not to rouse the young woman’s passions and that, if cornered, he should make for an open window and call to him for help. Guy laughed, but not quite as energetically as the old man did.

  On the way home, he went into the LeClerc to look at the new music centres. His wife would have the best, now that he could afford it. And his son, too. Christmas this year would be better than last year, with the extra money from his new job.

  Forty-three

  The newspaper said that the heiress had been betrothed to a local businessman. There was a picture of the smiling couple on the front page and, below it, a picture of the man who had been with her at the arena, her uncle. As is the norm with newspaper photographs, there was an awkward irony: a cruel gap between the story and the carefree images taken out of context.

  Claude Cousteau had shot the single bullet into the base of the girl’s skull, into the part of the brain responsible for a number of basic functions, including breathing. Certainly there would have been no suffering and, had it gone to plan, severing the spinal cord, death would have been instantaneous. The girl must have noticed something and turned, just a little. He had sensed it at the time and had adjusted the angle of the gun as he squeezed the trigger. The slightness of her build had made all the difference.

  In the square, the birds sang in the trees and the sun climbed higher into the sky. The coffee machines rasped and ground inside the café and the waiter scurried about at the beck and call of his morning clientele. Claude read the article from start to finish, not because he enjoyed gloating over the death of the girl, as so many others might, but so that the details of the report could be clear to him. So that he would be aware of what was known and not known. He was surprised and irritated to learn that the girl had lived for some hours, although not regaining consciousness, and had died in hospital with her husband-to-be at her bedside. It was reported, with interest, that the bullet was made of a gold alloy, encouraging the journalist to insinuate that the murder had been an act of revenge. No comment had been made by the family.

  Witnesses had testified to various sightings of suspicious-looking individuals, amongst them, a grey-haired man with a coat over his arm, seen leaving the vicinity at the time of the attack, but several other people were also mentioned. Nothing he read was cause for concern.

  Not far from where he presently sat, the police were still in attendance, the arena cordoned off, a few members of the public wandering around on the lookout for gossip, or perhaps coming forward as tentative witnesses.

  With his newly-dyed dark hair and his modern clothes, there was no chance of Claude being recognised, and so he enjoyed a second coffee and another serving of cornetti, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on the back of his head, happy to have accomplished his assignment and only waiting now to collect his fee, before boarding a plane back to France.

  If Felix Dumas had need of him, as he suspected he might, Claude would stay a while longer in Royan. The rooms above the sweet shop were still rented, the inquisitive shopkeeper under the impression that he was in Scotland on a walking holiday. If he were not required, he would travel to his mother’s house in southern Italy. He would not go for pleasure, but for his father, who had recently passed away and to whom he had given a son’s promise to look after his mother for as long as she lived and needed him.

  The waiter brought a second coffee and wiped down the table, glancing over at the arena.

  ‘Do you know about the killing?’ asked Claude, pouring sugar into his coffee.

  ‘Not much,’ replied the young man, hesitating, tucking the empty tray under his arm. ‘Just what they say in the newspapers.’ He nodded, his expression resigned.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Claude. ‘The newspapers!’

  ‘Bastardos!’ announced the waiter, moving off to another table.

  Claude thought that ‘bastardos’ might be applied to a number of subjects, apart from the newspapers, including, undoubtedly, himself.

  His father, especially in the recent years before his death, would not have advised taking such a job. He himself had never had the heart for killing women or children. That was one of the reasons his son’s promising career as a student of Law had been cut short. Claude had filled a gap. He had proven a calm and confident operator. A single man, without children of his own, or anyone he could say he truly cared for. Perhaps that was the key.

  When the waiter collected his tip, still looking over to the arena, a sudden thought struck the young man: that perhaps, as in good films, the assassin had come to his café to revisit the crime scene. Perhaps, also, one of his customers would be an undercover policeman on the lookout for suspects. It did not enter his mind that his present customer, with his mass of dark hair and wearing an elegant brown suit, who had enjoyed his cornetti with such gusto, might in fact have checked out of his hotel that morning before his landlady had risen, walked to the Ponte Vecchio and jettisoned a small package into the canal, then, picking up a newspaper on the way, circled the arena before seating himself at the very table he was now clearing, to contemplate the passage of a golden bullet into the skull of Maria Sanguini, narrowly missing her spinal cord, but causing irreparable internal bleeding and subsequent death. He surveyed the other customers and settled on a large, middle-aged businessman who had positioned himself at one of the outer tables, with a good view of the arena, and who had set down a large briefcase next to his chair.

  On the flight back to France, Claude Cousteau had one thought inside his head: he would like to meet up once more with his friend Felix Dumas. And soon.

  Forty-four

  ‘Good morning. Could I make an appointment to see Maitre Dumas, please?’

  ‘May I ask who is calling?’ said Estelle.

  ‘It’s Clement Berger, regarding the sale of my father’s apartment in rue des Rosiers, number ninety-seven.’

  Estelle listened politely, although she had known instantly who it was and why he was calling.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Berger. Would this evening at seven o’clock be convenient for you?’ She remembered that he worked.

  Clement was surprised to be offered such a convenient and prompt appointment. ‘Yes, that would be
perfect. Thank you.’ He pictured the way Estelle had stepped forward to look out at the rain, her face so close to his, and the thought brought to mind the delicacy of a pink rose bush his mother had loved.

  ‘I’ve noted it, then.’

  Her voice is here, in this room, he thought.

  ‘Goodbye, Monsieur Berger.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ He did not know her name.

  I’ve cut some roses, where shall I put them? His mother smiled at her son. There she was, wearing a white blouse with small pearl buttons, an apron tied around her waist, pink roses in a vase. Melanie Berger. How strange and random was the sudden evocation of a person who had disappeared from the world. And how comforting.

  Clement did not mention his plans to the people at work. They were more interested in talking about the time they had had the previous evening, anyway, making it clear that he had missed out and insinuating that he must have had a very good reason not to have joined them. His evasiveness made them tease him all the more and eventually, he told them that he had indeed had a hot date and that he would be busy at the weekend and every night the following week. The girls in the office were shocked and thrilled by his frankness, twittering like birds over a handful of crumbs and glancing over at him for the rest of the day, whispering to each other and giggling. He had made it worse for himself, and he began to think their flirtatious behaviour more irksome than their innuendo. But he got on with his work and had a very good day, outselling everyone in the office and earning a hefty bonus. This did something to quieten his colleagues; although he did not relish the thought of making them suffer any more than they already did with their low sales figures and desperate tactics.

  Clement watched the clock all afternoon and finally, putting on his jacket, left the office, eager to know what offer had been made on his father’s property and, at the same time, knowing that it would fall well below his expectations.