by Bev Spicer
‘I wonder if the children are afraid of him, when he comes down?’ she had laughed, when they had come out onto the street.
‘Perhaps the sweets are worth the risk!’ he had replied, looking in at the window with its displays of chocolates and candies.
‘Come on! Let’s get a pizza and have a bottle of wine together. My treat!’ She grabbed his arm and ran with him back to the main square, not noticing the face at the first floor window of the apartment they had just left, watching them until they were out of sight and still running, towards the sea.
During the afternoon, Estelle drafted a letter to the Conseil General and printed out a copy to work on with Clement the following Monday. They had decided that it would be best to present their case to Maitre Dumas before posting it, in case new evidence came to light during the confrontation. Of course, he would deny everything, she had no doubts about that, but this time the proof was overwhelming.
At four-thirty Felix Dumas told Estelle that she could leave early. He would lock up. He was pleased with her work and wanted to reward her.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, surprised, and not knowing what else to say.
When the door had been locked from the inside, Felix Dumas went to his secretary’s computer where he logged on, using the details he had taken down months ago from the CCTV above her desk, opened up her recent files, discovering the notes she had made on the tenants she had visited, the questions she had asked them and the letter she had drafted to the Conseil. It was surprising how much initiative she had used, and he was impressed. He made copies of everything and logged out carefully, leaving the office fifteen minutes after his secretary, a thin smile on his lips.
Sixty-two
It was still drizzling, and the car was very cold when Guy awoke. He looked at his watch: four a.m. He got out and walked up to the large gates of the house, peering in at the immaculate garden and grand façade with its large windows and steeply rising grey slate roof that looked glossy in the rain, with the thin yellow moon lighting it. Behind the solid walls, it was painful to imagine the man sleeping inside, unaware that Guy Roche, the husband of Angeline Roche was standing outside, separated from him by a metal gate and a simple front door. The gate would be easy to climb. The front door would be impossible to break down, however, and the shutters on the ground floor were closed. If he rang the bell, would Felix Dumas get out of his bed and come down to answer it? Or would he look out and, seeing the closed gate, call the police? And, if he did open the door, what would Guy do to him? He looked up at the sky, feeling the rain on his face and watching the thin clouds float above his head, obscuring the moon and revealing it just as suddenly. It would be good to hit him. Of course, that’s what would be expected of him. People would say they understood why a man would want to hit another man for sleeping with his wife. But, when he thought about it, he was sure that, far from wanting to assault Felix Dumas, he wished to question him, to ask him why he had done such a thing, when it caused so much pain, so much trouble. Because, one thing was for sure, the hurt he felt inside his chest, was nothing to the torture he would feel when his neighbours whispered as he went by and, even worse, when the parents at Adrian’s school kept their children away, nodding and gossiping together. Adrian would not understand why his friends had deserted him. All this and more ran through his mind as he stood in the cold wet night, noticing that, mixed with the rain on his face, were his own salty tears. Slowly, he sat down, his back against the grilles of the gate, his legs on the gravel, stretched out in front of him. The world was quiet, apart from the whisper of the rain and the sound of his sobbing.
Sometime later, chilled to the bone and exhausted, he drove home and let himself in quietly. Angeline was asleep on the sofa. He crept up the stairs and changed his clothes, then left once more, before six thirty, out into the darkness again. He drove to the Bellevue and sat in the wooden shed at the bottom of the gardens, breathing in its familiar damp smell and feeling calmer, surrounded by the tokens of this simple place with its single gas burner, kettle and cups. He relaxed, considering making tea, but the next thing he knew, Monsieur Valerie was standing over him, gently shaking him by the shoulder.
‘Guy! Wake up. Come on, now.’
He sat up, feeling the ache in his neck, looking into a smiling face that nonetheless bore a shadow of concern.
‘I made coffee. Do you want to tell me about it?’
And so, the two men drank their coffee and Guy told his story while Monsieur Valerie listened, nodding and making small sounds, patting him on the knee and gazing out at the brightening sky. When he had finished, they went out into the garden to plant the winter pansies that stood ready in their positions all around. Monsieur Valerie busied himself with various tasks nearby, watching the young man settle and forget his grief a little as he worked in the open air. At midday, Guy sat under the large elm tree and shared Monsieur Valerie’s lunch.
‘It’s a good job I made so much!’ he said, passing him a slice of cake. ‘When my wife was here she always made a healthy box, with crudités and fruit. She didn’t want me to get fat!’ he laughed, rubbing his stomach and wondering whether Guy was strong enough to make a comment.
The latter smiled and looked out into the garden, his gaze fixed on a middle point.
‘When I was twenty-eight, I met a girl,’ said Monsieur Valerie, quietly. ‘It was a Wednesday afternoon, and there were children everywhere, running and shouting in the park. I watched them and ate my lunch on a bench in the shade. When she passed by, the sound of the children’s cries disappeared. The world became silent, apart from a low buzzing inside my head.’
Guy turned to look at the old man, saying nothing.
Monsieur Valerie faced him. ‘Her name was Clara and she came to the park every Wednesday afternoon with her daughter. We would sit together while the child played. I told myself that I was committing no crime, and she must have done the same, poor girl. I went home to my wife, whom I loved deeply my whole life, and I thought of Clara. She had long blonde hair and lips so full that they seemed to me like the bud of a flower before it bursts open. I was fascinated when she spoke, telling me about her day. Ordinary things. How she had tried to cut the grass with her new mower, just for the fun of it, how she had been scared by an enormous spider in the woodshed, how Anatolie, her daughter, had fallen and cut her knee at school. I listened and laughed, delighting in her simple stories of a life that seemed so different from my own. I pictured her in her magnificent home and wandered around it with her in my mind’s eye, imagining a place for me there.’ He paused and looked away, sitting back in his chair and clasping his hands in his lap.
‘We carried on meeting until the end of July. Then, she told me that she would be going away for August, with her child and her husband, to their chalet in the Pyrenees. She never spoke of her husband. I knew that he must be rich and I sensed that he was older than she was – I don’t know why. But, on the day she told me that she would be going away from me, it was as though I could not bear the thought of a month without her and I think she felt the same. It was the moment we had been waiting for, and the moment we had dreaded, too.’
Guy watched the memories crossing his friend’s face.
‘She left her daughter in her mother’s care on the last afternoon before her departure, and we walked along the river. I waited until we were far from the town before I took her hand in mine. Even then, I was sure I was doing nothing wrong. We came to a small copse and, without speaking, we went into the shadows, where no one would find us. I cannot tell you how strong my feelings were that afternoon – it was as though I were taken over by a force, a passion so irresistible that I was delirious. Yes, delirious!’ He paused for a moment. ‘Even now I feel an echo of the delight I found there with her all those years ago. God forgive me, but I went home to my wife as though nothing had happened! As though I had not deceived her in the vilest of ways.’
Guy waited, wanting to know how the story ended, noticing subtle dif
ferences in the man he knew as Monsieur Valerie, a tumbling strand of white hair, the elegance of his trimmed fingernails.
He sighed, before continuing, in a flatter tone. ‘Carla came back in September, and we sat together in the park, as we had before. But it was different. We were embarrassed – I know it sounds odd, but we were strangers to each other again. And, when the weather became cooler, she didn’t come anymore. I waited for her, but she didn’t come. At first I was angry and then I realised that it was her way of helping me. I had told her once that I loved my wife and that she loved me, and Clara had told me I was lucky. I knew that she loved her husband, but it was clear that he did not show her the love that she sought.’
‘Did you ever see her after that?’ asked Guy, quietly.
‘No. But I heard that her husband left her. It was rumoured that she had disgraced him and that she had moved away to live with her parents in Germany somewhere. I told myself that it had nothing to do with me, and I forgot her.’ He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. ‘So you see, she suffered greatly and I… I did nothing to help her.’
‘But, what could you have done?’ asked Guy.
Monsieur Valerie shook his head, then. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I should have gone to her husband and taken the blame. But I thought only of myself, not of her happiness. My dear Guy, you must forgive your wife and you must stand by her. If you love her and she loves you, then you must be strong together. You cannot know the torture you will suffer in the years to come, if you act rashly now.’ The old man stood up with difficulty, stretching his back. ‘Pride is a terrible thing. A terrible, terrible thing.’
Guy stayed beneath the elm, looking up through its branches, watching them sway. The leaves fluttered and the sound took him far away.
Sixty-three
Claude Cousteau had been just eighteen years old when he had discovered that taking a human life was as easy as breathing. It was during the time of his apprenticeship to Felix Dumas.
The office had been stuffy and the reading difficult. Felix had suggested Claude have a look at some criminal law cases. He began with a man who had murdered his wife, pushing her into the path of a bus, for carelessly allowing their child to run into the road and be killed. Claude was to compare this to a similar case, where a man had deliberately called his brother’s child across a busy street, resulting in injury but not death and where the father of the child had subsequently blown off his brother’s head with a shotgun.
A fly buzzed at the window, the only sound in the notaire’s office, as Felix worked at his latest contracts, unaware of the thoughts going through his young apprentice’s mind.
To Claude, the answer was simple. The law stated that you should not kill another man (or woman), therefore, the cases were the same. The ambiguity allowed for in a so-called ‘crime of passion’ was so much nonsense. When he became a criminal lawyer, he would not specialise in such imprecise proceedings. He would stick to aspects of the law where human emotion did not come into it. He would apply the rules, identify the culprit and define the crime. Where there had been a violation of the law, a transgression of the accepted boundaries laid down by the establishment, he would be clear and unambiguous in his pronouncements. He would not seek pleasure from his profession, only the proper application of justice.
‘What do you think?’ Felix Dumas asked, seeing Claude look up from his books.
‘They are both guilty of taking a life and should go to prison for the statutory number of years.’
‘But, what of the difference between them?’ Felix had asked. ‘In the case of the woman, the death of her child was accidental and the actions of her husband inspired by passion, while in the case of the brothers, the crime against the child may have been malicious, but it did not warrant the subsequent, premeditated action taken by the father.’
‘There is no difference. The facts of the cases have the same outcome. A life has been taken in each case. The appropriate penalty must be applied.’ Claude smiled, evidently pleased with the answer he had given.
‘But are there no mitigating circumstances to take into account as far as you are concerned?’
‘Not as far as the law is concerned. Of course the judge is at liberty to consider the more subjective aspects of justice. But he must stay within the law, which does not allow him much leeway. The law deals in facts. Honour, Dignity, Trust: the most noble of human qualities, are not considered. If the perpetrator is foolish enough to be caught by the police and judged by the current legal system, it is probable and right that he or she will be incarcerated for life. It is the law which is at fault, but it is the duty of its servants to defend its dictates. A life outside the law is preferable, of course, but only possible with careful planning and constant vigilance.’ And with that, he cupped his hands around the fly, listening to it buzz, before pressing his palms together, and squashing it.
It was at this juncture, fascinated by his young apprentice’s argument, that Felix put before him the hypothetical case of a maid who had delved into personal affairs that could bring potential ruin to her employer.
‘A solution outside the law would be simplest. Betrayal of trust is a most serious crime, but one which the law does not address adequately. Besides, the maid would be at liberty to ruin her employer’s career at any point in the future, even if she were punished.’
The following week, Claude had waited outside Felix Dumas’ maid’s house and followed her along the path beside the river, watching the sway of her skirts and measuring the strength of the life inside her.
The river rolled past; the dark night floated thickly and lapped at its shadow banks. Quietness teemed with minute sound, needling his inner ear. A soupy, yellow light glowed from the solid streetlights and was lost in the moisture-burdened air as the dim form of the man stalked the young woman, humming to herself and pleasantly contemplating the scudding clouds. The man’s nostrils twitched and flared as cool air infiltrated his lungs, feeding a rush of new blood to his brain. The girl moved silently along the path, her skirts still swinging; the bag she carried, bulky with its contents, bouncing against her heavy hip. The man caught her scent and his body tensed, his mind delirious with appetite.
Claude looked down at the woman’s body. She lay on her front, her head twisted to one side, her hair still dancing in the breeze, a strand caught on her teeth, fighting to be released. Her mouth was open, as though she had something to say, and he wondered what it might have been. There had been no time for words as she had struggled against him. It had been a surprise to her when he had come alongside and asked her the time, not waiting for an answer, but closing his hands around her neck. The look in her eyes, a question at first, had burned with fear and finally, hate. Until the moment when her eyes had rolled back and something bright flew out of her, into the night.
She had been stronger than he had thought she would be; now, he felt the bruise lifting on his shin and the nail marks smarting through his thin leather gloves. He clicked his tongue and smiled, crouching to roll her soft body down the riverbank and into the water below, wondering if her still open eyes saw the river as she fell.
Checking the path once more and looking into the dark waters, he removed his gloves, feeling strong and relaxed; still warm with effort. He breathed deeply in the night air and looked up at the sky. Keenly, he listened, catlike in his senses. There was no sound. Moonlight floated like milk on the river, which gave no sign of what lay beneath. Satisfied, he walked quietly away, towards the town, where he had parked his car. The night continued as before, the stars winking between the clouds and the branches of the willow trees moving in a light breeze.
It was three days before the body was dragged out of the river and identified. Felix Dumas would not need to worry any longer about what the maid had seen. It had been a question of loyalty and justice. The maid had betrayed her employer’s trust and justice had been exacted. Simple.
Sixty-four
On Saturday morning, Estelle made breakfast
and watched the news. All she heard was that France would be facing the worst financial crisis in years and that François Hollande wanted to spend money on new teachers whilst, at the same time, cutting social benefits. It made no sense to her and so she switched it off.
On the table in the lounge was a folder with all the facts she and Clement had gathered about the properties in Felix Dumas’ name. They would have a final meeting on Monday evening and then they would be ready for their appointment to see the notaire. Clement had told her that he should go alone. She should not risk her reputation and future employability by admitting to having a part in the affair.
Estelle had hung fire on this. She would tell him at the last minute, when there was nothing he could do about it, that she was coming with him.
The telephone rang and she answered it. ‘Estelle Dupont.’
‘Good morning, Mademoiselle Dupont. My name is Chief Inspector la Grange. I am calling on behalf of the National Police and wonder whether you might be free to answer some questions on the activities of Felix Dumas?’
Estelle sat up straight and her coffee spilt on the rug. ‘Inspector la Grange?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle Dupont,’ he replied calmly, letting her misunderstanding of his rank pass, for the time being. ‘May we come up? It is a matter of the utmost importance that we speak to you immediately.’
