The Undertaker's Son

by Bev Spicer

  ‘But, yours is swifter by far. I can’t understand it!’ laughed the other, making a sudden bound over a large tree stump.

  ‘The bridge! There’s a branch across the stream. The boats!’

  Claude leapt, stepping on stones lightly, and grasping the branch at the last moment, scrambling up the bank on the other side, which had become steeper, and running with Felix Dumas as the stream became a river and the boats surged forward until they were out of reach. Out of reach. The two boys stood close, panting and laughing.

  ‘Never mind. We can get more boats. Come. Come choose another, my friend!’ Felix placed an arm around Claude’s shoulders and led him back to the old oak tree and the chest that lay beneath it.

  Rapture.

  There was the sound of a horn, and Claude Cousteau opened his eyes. The newspaper, which lay open beside him, reported that Felix Dumas was due to stand trial for serious, multiple fraud and that the police were confident of a conviction. In the meantime, he was being held. Imprisoned. There was no mention of witnesses, no names were given. But Claude knew names and addresses. He knew what to do. Claude would not let Felix Dumas sail out of reach.

  He took no pleasure in the fact that he had warned the notaire that, sooner or later, someone close to him would try to bring him down. Dumas had not listened. No matter. Now, it was up to Claude to make sure that his benefactor and only true friend, who had always treated him fairly, who had raced boats with him on a summer’s afternoon, would not find himself locked away indefinitely. In France the penalty for fraud could be severe. Claude would not allow Felix Dumas to be subjected to such humiliation.

  Claude’s new accommodation was smaller and less central, but it was adequate. He would stay long enough to conclude his business and then go to Italy, where he had contacts with clients in need of his services. He was not angry, but he felt the injustice of his friend’s situation and would not be content until the present account had been settled.

  His hair was no longer grey, and he was not wearing the tinted contact lenses that he had worn on the day of Clement Berger’s visit with Felix Dumas’ young secretary. The girl was more responsible for his employer’s predicament than the man. She had been disloyal. But Claude Cousteau did not measure guilt. They would both be called as witnesses, making them equally dangerous.

  He looked around the room and closed his eyes again. The landlady, who had asked no questions, had taken a month’s rent in advance, in cash. He had given his name as Edouard Guillaume and she had nodded. The woman would not go to the police. She had no reason to do so. Even if she did, they would not make the connection; he had been careful, as any professional would be.

  After a while, he roused himself and put on a hat. As he went out, Claude noticed the light under Madame Louche’s door, noting the name of the television programme she was watching. He made for the beach, looking in at the bright windows, like any other shopper. There was a cold breeze and he pushed his hands deep inside his pockets, walking briskly. It was already dark and the shops would soon be closing. Soon, the streets would become as quiet as the deserted beach. People would go back to their cosy fireside lives. Claude Cousteau felt the coldness on his face and squinted through the darkness, looking out to sea. The world seemed to him a lonely place, and he wished that he could go back to the time when Felix Dumas had given him books to study and asked his opinion on important cases. He wished … But, what was the point in wishing?

  It was too early yet, and so, after a while, Claude returned to his room and opened a jar of fish soup to heat on the stove, staring into it without interest as he stirred.

  After he had eaten, he set his alarm for two a.m., locked the door to his room and lay down to sleep on the narrow bed, fully clothed.

  Seventy-two

  Patrice Dumas could not sleep. He thought about Estelle in the next room, with Clement. He imagined the warmth of her body, the softness of her breath on his face. He could not sleep!

  Clement and Estelle had been good friends to him since the arrest of his father. They had said that he was welcome any time and that was why he had come. Estelle had cooked dinner and he had stayed, because they had talked for hours. Now, Patrice wished he had gone home, after all, to his own bed, where he could sleep more peacefully.

  His aunt had come up from Cannes for the time being, so that he could remain in familiar surroundings and try to continue with his studies. In the long term he might have to go to live with his mother in Paris. The prospect terrified him. New school, new friends, the city. Perhaps it would not come to that.

  He threw back the bed covers and tried not to allow the one thought he dreaded into his mind. It came anyway. His father was in prison. This simple fact had changed everything. When Patrice walked into school, everyone knew that Felix Dumas had been arrested for fraud. Serious fraud. That he would stand trial, and soon. Patrice felt as though he too were on trial. His friends had tried to help, but how could they understand how he felt? They looked at him with eyes that said, You are different from us. Your life has been tainted.

  And so he had panicked and phoned Estelle, needing to see the trust she had in him. The belief that he would recover from this personal disaster. And, above all, he must be absolutely sure that he was doing the right thing. His friends could not help him with that; neither could his mother or his aunt. They considered him a child, still. They thought of him as simply a victim.

  Of course, his father had not been allowed to speak to him but, at home, the telephone had rung several times and Patrice had not answered it, fearing that it would be him; that he had found a way to contact him. Once, Angeline Roche had called at the house and had been surprised when he opened the door. She had come to collect the laundry, she said.

  On the day that his father had been arrested, Patrice had been in Paris with his mother. They had visited places of interest, eaten in restaurants, been to the opera, not knowing what was happening in Royan at his father’s offices. He pictured him now, in a cell, perhaps underground and with the jangle of the jailer’s keys the only sound in the darkness. It was a vision inspired by television horror films, he knew. There was his father, crouched in the corner like an animal in a cage. It was an image Patrice could not shake off.

  He wondered, too, whether his father were scared about what might happen to him, or whether he was sorry for what he had done. It was difficult not being able to ask him these questions.

  Estelle had told Patrice he must testify, if he believed that he was doing the right thing. That he must decide for himself. That he must be strong to be able to do the right thing. Her eyes were beautiful when she spoke about right and wrong. She was a good person. Not like his father. But his father’s fate depended on what Patrice said in court, and he did not like the pressure of this responsibility.

  Chief Inspector la Grange had told him that it would be easy. That he would only have to answer some straightforward questions. That he should tell the truth. But Patrice thought about the courtroom, and the people watching him. His father’s eyes upon him.

  It was his greatest wish to speak to his father privately, before he decided what to do. He just needed to hear the truth from his father’s lips. In the morning he would tell Estelle and Clement, and they would help him.

  It was still warm lying there without the covers. The central heating clicked on then off.

  Relieved to have come to a decision, Patrice wanted a cold drink before he finally slept. The apartment was silent and pitch black. He did not want to put on the main light for fear of disturbing his friends and so he let his eyes get used to the darkness.

  There was a sound, almost like a small explosion, so quick and fine that he barely had time to hear it as it broke the skin just above his left ear. When he fell, his right arm knocked a pan off the stove and it clanged onto the floor, spinning like a cymbal.

  Claude Cousteau moved swiftly, stepping over the body in the kitchen, noting that this was not the man who had visited his apartment. Nev
ertheless, he entered the bedroom without hesitation. Estelle, who had woken instantly, rolled off the bed and slid under it. Clement was not as quick. He dived sideways and took a bullet to his left shoulder. Claude cursed.

  ‘Estelle!’ Clement made a lunge for the killer, but a second shot hit him in the chest and he cried out.

  Claude Cousteau raised his gun to fire again. This time he would make certain.

  ‘Stop!’ Patrice stood in the doorway, his head bleeding from a superficial wound on one side, large tears running down his face.

  Estelle rolled again and grabbed Claude Cousteau’s legs, knocking him off balance. He let go of his gun, so surprised was he to see the notaire standing before him. The weapon landed at Patrice’s feet and he picked it up, still staring at the intruder, who looked as though he had seen a ghost.

  ‘Who are you?’ Patrice pointed the gun at him. ‘What do you want?’

  Claude smiled at the boy, taking in his kind, sad eyes and soft blond hair. He was as tall and handsome as he had ever been. ‘Felix, my friend! You are not safe, here. You are not safe.’

  Patrice, trembling uncontrollably, did not understand.

  ‘I said I would protect you, my friend. But, you are bleeding!’ Claude pushed himself up. ‘Let me help you.’

  Patrice put a hand to his head and brought it in front of his face to see the bright blood. ‘Clement,’ he said, distractedly. ‘You’re hurt.’

  Estelle saw her chance and moved quickly, lifting a heavy bedside lamp and bringing it down on the back of Claude Cousteau’s head.

  Seventy-three

  ‘Perhaps Clement will take me to the ice-cream parlour this time,’ said Henri Berger, speaking to his own reflection.

  ‘Perhaps,’ replied the nurse, who was setting out his clothes on the bed.

  ‘It was called… it was called Paradis des Glaces. There were tables outside, overlooking the beach. Melanie loved to go there on a Saturday morning, after the market. She loved the market! Always the same flavour. Always caramel fleur de sel.’

  ‘And what flavour did you have, Henri?’

  The man stared at the woman who had appeared behind him in the mirror. She was young, with dark skin and dull, frizzy hair pulled back from her face, revealing a large, shining forehead. ‘Are we going out today?’ he asked.

  ‘Not today, Henri,’ replied the nurse, smiling. ‘Not today.’

  ‘Perhaps Clement will come.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Henri Berger packed a bag and told his favourite nurse that his son would take him out that afternoon to Paradis des Glaces. This time, he would not forget the name of the ice-cream parlour.

  ‘You have been busy, Henri. Perhaps we could go there together one day.’

  ‘Where could we go?’

  The nurse took his hand and squeezed it, looking around the room at the pieces of paper stuck on every surface. She leaned forward and peeled one off the mirror.

  ‘Here, Henri. We could go here.’

  ‘Melanie always chose the same flavour,’ he murmured reading the name of the ice-cream parlour and picturing his wife in the sunshine, laughing under the flapping parasols.

  Seventy-four

  ‘Good morning, cherie,’ said Robert.

  ‘Good morning, Robert.’

  Outside, the sky was blue and the sun was shining into the bedroom. It would be another perfect day in Charente Maritime.

  After a simple breakfast in the garden, Martha stood in front of her wardrobe and picked out a black dress and a jacket that would do. Robert had offered to accompany her to the funeral, but she wanted to go alone. It felt strange to go at all, but it also felt right. Robert said that she must do as she thought best.

  At ten o’clock, she dressed carefully, then drove through the village and out onto the main road towards Royan. She did not turn on the radio. It did not seem appropriate. As she drew nearer, the re-built Notre-dame church came into view, looking like a ship in full sail. She had never thought it more beautiful than today. Life is fleeting, she thought. How can it be taken away so easily?

  As she drove up the hill away from town, heading for a less ostentatious venue, thoughts of Clement came to her. She remembered his smile, his wolf smile. She remembered the feeling of his hand on her waist. Some things she would never forget. That something like this could have happened to him was unbearable.

  The first person she saw as she entered the church was Patrice. He came over and kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Patrice.’

  The boy was changed. His face pale and guant.

  ‘My aunt says that I’ll be moving to my mother’s house in Paris. It will be better for me there. I’ll miss you, Madame Burton.’

  This is the end of something, thought Martha.

  Estelle stepped out from her place in the congregation and, her face barely lit with the smallest of smiles, led Patrice back to his seat next to his aunt and his mother. Martha watched their sad expressions and gentle gestures.

  After the funeral, she went back to her car. She did not want to join the others for the wake, but she knew that she would be missed, and she did not want to be disrespectful.

  There were people she knew, who came to greet her and ask about her new life in France. But their polite enquiries were incongruous, and the answers that she had once given so easily, so enthusiastically, now seemed hollow. She supposed that she had thought nothing as terrible as this could touch her perfect world. Her microcosm of happiness.

  Voices nearby rose above the muted hubbub.

  ‘It’s almost incredible,’ said one of the guests.

  ‘You wouldn’t have thought it possible, what with all the security in place,’ agreed another.

  ‘I heard that they still don’t know the motive.’

  Martha looked over to where Estelle and Clement were standing; Estelle’s hand placed flat in the middle of his chest, where the bullet had entered.

  ‘Did you know him very well, Martha?’

  Martha glanced at the oversized coffin then looked into the vacuous face of a woman whose name she could not remember. ‘No. Not at all, really. I just saw him when he brought his son for English lessons.’

  Clement smiled at Martha and came over. He kissed her on each cheek and slid his hand onto her waist.

  ‘I didn’t know whether you would come,’ he said.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Martha was near to tears.

  ‘The doctors say I won’t be able to fight off any assassins for a while.’

  There was a burst of laughter from a group of people on the other side of the room.

  It’s a happy ending, thought Martha. ‘It’s a miracle he didn’t kill you all,’ she said, one thought blazing in her mind as she looked into his eyes: Estelle can never love you as much as I could.

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  Everything precious is lost, she thought.

  ‘Do you know what’ll happen to him?’

  ‘Prison. For a very long time, I hope.’ Clement looked over to Estelle, who turned and smiled.

  ‘And how about you, Martha? Are you happy now?’

  How can you ask me that? She turned away and saw Patrice slump into a chair, his hands over his face, a bright new scar on the side of his head. Other people had lost much more than she had.

  ‘Robert is a good man,’ she said.

  The village was quiet when she got back. Life would be different from now on. But it would still be a good life. There were just some things that were not meant to be.

  Robert came out when she pulled up outside the house.

  ‘How is the poor boy?’

  ‘Oh, he’s coping as well as he can.’

  He put an arm around her.

  ‘They say one of the prison guards pushed Dumas. Some kind of revenge for something his father did. Edouard Dumas is a gangster, apparently. Had a girl shot in Italy. An heiress.’

  Martha half-remembered a photograph she’d seen on the news weeks a
go. A young girl with her uncle.

  Just then, Madame Bonnard came across the square carrying half a baguette. And Martha began to cry.

  The End

  Other titles by B. A. Spicer

  ‘A Good Day for Jumping’ (Literary fiction. Mystery/suspense on the island of Crete.)

  ‘My Grandfather’s Eyes’ (Literary fiction. Dark, psychological drama.)

  ‘Angels’ (a metaphysical short story)

  ‘Hanson’s Hunch’ (a short detective story)

  ‘Peaches in the Attic’ – a rather disturbing tale… (a short story)

  ‘Strings’ – something big is about to happen… (science fiction short story)

  Titles by Bev Spicer

  ‘One Summer in France’ (two girls in a tent – a Bev and Carol adventure: Book 1)

  ‘Bunny on a Bike’ (Playboy croupiers in 80s London – a Bev and Carol adventure: Book 2)

  ‘Stranded in the Seychelles’ (teachers in paradise – a Bev and Carol adventure: Book 3)

  Bev Spicer’s Books: http://www.amazon.co.uk/BevSpicer/e/B008BHV7YC/ref=dp_byline_cont_pop_book_1

  Bev’s Writer’s Blog:

  http://baspicer.blogspot.fr/

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty