by Olga Wojtas
“Thank you, madame!” he breathed, and ran off.
It crossed my mind that the policeman was nowhere to be seen, but I had better things to do than to worry about that.
When the children had gathered, I checked that they knew all of the competitors and where they lived.
“I need you to calculate distance along with average speed. The ladies all look pretty fit, so we’ll say eight miles an hour. So if Madame A has half a mile to go to her cow, Madame B has one mile, and Madame C has two miles, then Madame A should be given three minutes forty-five seconds to reach her cow, and the same to come back with her crêpe, Madame B needs seven and a half minutes, and the same back, and Madame C needs fifteen minutes, twice.”
The pupils looked at me in some confusion.
“What’s wrong with you?” I demanded. “You’ve done much more complicated things than this in the past.”
The wee scone put up his hand. “Please, madame, what’s a mile?”
“I don’t know what they teach you children these days,” I said. It crossed my mind that the teacher was nowhere to be seen, but I had better things to do than to worry about that. “A mile is 1.6 kilometres. You can do the conversion easily enough, can’t you?”
Their faces cleared, and their slate pencils squeaked. They soon devised a handicap system and the first competitors sped off to milk their cows, the mayor and his pocket watch checking the times. The men meantime were sprint-hurdling, using barrels as hurdles. The children, having sorted out the maths, had three-legged races and wheelbarrow races. Cart Woman wanted to join in until I explained that you upended your teammate in order to make a wheelbarrow, and no carts were involved.
The men decided they wanted a wheelbarrow race as well, and I tried to instigate an egg-and-spoon race for the children. But the mothers wouldn’t allow them to have the eggs because they would break them, and insisted that in any case, they needed them for the next cooking challenge. So the children had a pommes-de-terre-en-cuillère race instead.
In one pasture, men were using boules for the shot put, while in another, two teams were battling in a tug of war.
The mayor went from one competition to another as judge. It crossed my mind that the actual judge was nowhere to be seen, but I had better things to do than to worry about that. When it came to the crêpe-tossing competition, he wisely decided it was a dead heat.
The women, fresh from this triumph, decided they were going to make as many things as possible with their unexpected supply of milk. My organisational skills were not required: they organised themselves. They got the children shaking milk to make butter. They produced chicken in mustard sauce with potatoes au gratin, they produced spinach and bacon quiches, omelettes aux fines herbes, onion tarts, tarte tatin, blancmanges, crème brûlée. I was disappointed that there wasn’t a competition for sauce Béarnaise, but, realistically, my organisational role gave me no time to be a competitor as well.
The hitherto empty tables were now laden with food, and wine and beer appeared from the back doors of chalets, although I stuck to water. We all had a long, leisurely meal, during which the wee scone and Cart Woman’s daughter came up to me holding their slates.
“We’ve been calculating,” Cart Woman’s daughter said, and the wee scone displayed his slate to show the working-out.
“You said if the vampires only bit one new person every month, then we had v=1, and B=1,” said Cart Woman’s daughter. “And you said the population of the world is about two billion. When n = 31, 2 to the power of n is just over two billion.”
The wee scone could no longer contain his excitement. “That means that if vampires all bite just one new person each every month, then in thirty-one months, which is two years and seven months, we’ll all be vampires!”
He seemed quite enthusiastic about the prospect. I wondered whether I should tell him that well-behaved vampires didn’t bite people (I couldn’t speak for Dracula’s rogue relatives), and that the undead had been defamed because of a woman from Airdrie.
Instead, I praised their keenness, and told them that maths helped develop skills in thinking logically, solving problems and making decisions, which would greatly enhance their employment opportunities.
After we had eaten, we had the prize-giving. Armed with my watercolours, the children had expanded on their tree-drawing skills to create the awards, and the prize winners duly won Expressionist gold medals, Pointillist silver medals and Symbolist bronze medals. There was even a proto-Surrealist runner-up medal that looked like a fish.
“And now,” I said, “the children are going to pay tribute to the olden days, when this was simply a cheese festival, by singing a specially written song about cheese.”
Their little voices rang out, clear and true.
The parents applauded enthusiastically.
“As a special surprise for you, the children are going to sing a second verse,” I said.
“My lad’s been practising his song for weeks, and there isn’t a second verse,” said the nearest parent.
“There is now,” I said, and I began to conduct. Their accents were perfect: they could have performed in any Morningside venue and been taken for locals.
When the children finished singing my verse, there was silence.
Then a parent said, “What was that?”
“A verse in English,” I said. “I’ve been teaching them English.”
“Why?”
“It’s good to learn other languages.”
“Why?”
“Because then you can communicate with different nationalities.”
“I already can. I speak French. If other people can’t, that’s their problem, not mine.”
There was vigorous agreement with this. I was about to outline some of the other benefits of language-learning, such as boosting the cerebral cortex, promoting multi-tasking, enhancing your CV and boosting creativity, but the parents were already shoving past me to praise their little darlings for their singing, if not for their linguistic skills.
People started drifting away from the village square to have some downtime before the evening concert. The mayor looked anxiously at his pocket watch.
“I don’t understand it,” he said. “I expected them to be here by now.”
He glanced round the square as though looking for something. Suddenly, he gave a strangled cry and ran off. I followed.
He ran after Cart Woman, who was walking away with her daughter.
“Where are they?” he panted. “What have you done with them?”
“What have I done with what?” asked Cart Woman.
“Not what, who,” said the mayor. “The singer from Paris. The man who plays the piano.”
“Oh, them,” said Cart Woman. “Don’t worry, I haven’t done anything with them. I got your message.”
“My message?” queried the mayor
“The message not to pick them up.”
“Not to pick them up?”
I was going to suggest that he stop just repeating things, because of the irritation factor, but I could see he wouldn’t be receptive.
“Yes, the policeman explained that you had made other arrangements,” said Cart Woman. “Frankly, I’m getting a bit sick of people making other arrangements. That cart is my livelihood, especially now that I’m a widow.”
The mayor didn’t reply. I turned to see why not, and realised he was in the process of fainting. Fortunately, I have excellent reflexes, and was able to grab him before he hit the ground.
“Quick,” I said to Cart Woman, “take his other arm, and we’ll get him to Madeleine’s.”
Between us, we half-dragged, half-carried him to the chalet, Cart Woman’s daughter following in fascination. We needed her help to manoeuvre him up the steps and over the threshold, where we were confronted by Madeleine.
“How dare you bring that man here?” she snarled. “I will not have him in my house.”
“You will,” I said, “and you will also make him a cup of tea w
ith sugar and milk.”
I used my prefect’s voice, not the loud one, but the quiet one, and she knew better than to argue.
Cart Woman and her daughter helped me prop him up on a chair in the kitchen and then took their leave. The mayor was beginning to revive, although since he came from Sans-Soleil, I couldn’t say the colour was coming back into his cheeks.
“Take it easy,” I soothed. “You’ll feel better once you’ve had a nice cup of tea.”
Madeleine shoved the tea towards him.
“Murderer,” she declared.
“What?” he quavered. “I’m not … I never … why would you say that?”
“She’s talking about the former teacher, judge, schoolmaster and cheesemonger and undertaker,” I explained.
“I am.” Still standing, she put her hands on the table and leaned forward. She wasn’t talking to me. “You know what I think? I don’t think they were torn to death by wild animals at all. I think they were murdered.”
The mayor put down his bowl and shrank back in his seat. “Now, Madeleine. You mustn’t say things like that.”
“Or what? You’ll murder me too?”
“I haven’t murdered anyone!” he protested, sounding quite upset.
“I’m sure you haven’t,” Madeleine sneered. “You get your creatures to do it.”
“My creatures?”
“She’s got a thing about creatures,” I explained. “She thought I was your creature, but I put her right.”
Madeleine was still in sneer mode. “You deny that they’re your creatures? That pathetic replacement for my Sylvain, and the so-called judge, teacher, schoolmaster, undertaker and cheesemonger?”
The mayor stared into the bowl of tea as though he was planning to dive into it. Eventually, he said, “You’ve got it all wrong, Madeleine. I’m not running them. They’re running me.”
“Those idiots, running you? You’ve been dealing with them for so long that you must think I’m as stupid as they are.”
Slowly, I was gaining an insight into what was going on. Since I had only one more day to complete my mission, it was about time I was given all the information I needed. I really must suggest a new system to Miss Blaine.
“He’s telling you the truth, Madeleine,” I said. “When I first arrived here, and called in at Chez Maman, they looked really threatening. I thought they were about to beat him up. And before you start, I say that as a disinterested spectator, not as a creature.”
“You’re the mayor,” said Madeleine stubbornly. “You’re in charge of this village. How can they tell you what to do?”
“They discovered something that gives them a hold over me,” said the mayor in a low voice. “They stole my business.”
“What did they discover?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Madeleine started pacing round the room. “I knew it. I knew you were up to something. My beloved Sylvain was too professional to discuss his work with me, but I knew he was putting the town hall under surveillance. And one night he went out and I never saw him again.”
She approached the table, and for a second time I thought the mayor was about to get beaten up. But instead she sank onto a chair and put her hands over her face.
“Madeleine, I swear to you, I had nothing to do with Sylvain’s dea – disappearance,” said the mayor. “By that time, they had forced me to hand everything over at the town hall. They took my keys. I couldn’t get in.”
“Couldn’t get in where?” I asked. “There’s only one door, and I thought you told me it was always unlocked because it was the people’s hall.”
“There’s only one front door,” he said with a bitter smile. “And it’s unlocked because the front-door key was attached to the others, and they took the lot.”
Madeleine’s hands were now gripping the edge of the table. “This is all linked to my Sylvain’s disappearance, isn’t it?” she hissed. “Tell me about this business of yours.”
The mayor cowered. “Everything I have done is for the benefit of this village,” he whispered. “Everything.”
Madeleine smacked her hand down on the table in front of him, making us both jump.
“What business? Keys to what?” she demanded, just like a television Bad Cop. I wondered if she’d considered teaming up with Sylvain.
The mayor’s voice could barely be heard. “I have the recipe.”
“Recipe for what?” snapped Madeleine.
It was all falling into place. “Heather ale,” I said. “Or rather, the Unknown Abbot’s brandy. Your mayor has been distilling hooch. And he’s been smuggling it out in wheels of cheese.”
“How could you possibly know that?” he said through dry lips.
“An educated guess,” I said.
He bowed his head. “I found the recipe in an ancient record book. Nobody here has any money, and I thought this would be the best way to get some.”
“How many people were in on this?” I asked. “The woman with the cart, obviously, and–”
“No, no,” he interrupted. “Nobody in Sans-Soleil knows anything about it, apart from…” He stopped, a haunted look on his face.
“Apart from the judge, the teacher, the police officer, and the undertaker and cheesemonger,” I said. “And now Madeleine and myself.”
Madeleine was staring at him. “Who else knows?” she said sharply. She really would make a very good Bad Cop.
“I have contacts in other villages,” he gabbled. “They take delivery of the cheese, which is sold on the open market, and the eau de vie is sold under the cheese counter.”
“I’m not interested in your contacts in other villages,” said Madeleine. “I want to know who else knows in Sans-Soleil.” I could see her as a Detective Chief Inspector.
The mayor started tousling his thick, lustrous hair. I managed to stop myself saying, “Here, let me do that for you.”
Suddenly he stopped, with a laugh verging on the hysterical. “It’s all over for me,” he said. “My dream was to build a town hall worthy of Sans-Soleil. When I found the recipe, it was as though the Unknown Abbot had blessed my plan. I began distilling small amounts of eau de vie in my little chalet, setting up my distribution network, and saving every centime towards construction. I needed bigger premises, and it struck me that I could combine the two projects.”
He indicated a rectangle with his hands. “The town hall. The front door leads into the auditorium. But the auditorium is surrounded on three sides by a secret corridor, whose only access is a back door concealed by the forest.”
That explained the lack of windows, and why the town hall seemed smaller on the inside.
“So that’s why you built it so close to the forest?” asked Madeleine. “Everyone in the village just thought you were stupid.”
“Perhaps I was, to think I would ever get away with it,” he muttered. “It went so well, so smoothly. I set up all the latest equipment in the corridor, and I had an excellent workforce. They could slip out into the forest after dark for supplies, and then return to their distilling duties, with the door not only concealed but locked for safety.”
Madeleine was eyeing him the way a Weegie eyes an unopened bottle of Buckfast. She would be an ideal Detective Chief Superintendent.
“This workforce of yours – who are they?”
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. “No – I can’t – that’s what they found out, the four of them: Jean-Voix, Jean-Tant, Jean-Chante and Jean-Jambe.”
“Who?” I asked.
Madeleine flapped an impatient hand at me. “The Jeans. The so-called judge, teacher, undertaker and cheesemonger, and the useless replacement for my beloved Sylvain. But never mind that. I want to know about this mysterious workforce.”
“Please, Madeleine. Don’t ask me that,” pleaded the mayor. “I can’t tell you.” He gave a long exhalation. “Then again, why not? I have nothing left to lose. The Jeans have already stolen my business. And now they’re threatening to slit my throat and
feed me to the pigs.”
“We don’t have any pigs in Sans-Soleil,” said Madeleine.
“You’ve got wild boar,” I said.
“What?” said Madeleine.
“What?” said the mayor.
It wasn’t the most tactful thing I could have said. “Sorry, carry on.”
“This workforce,” Madeleine reminded him.
The mayor took a deep breath. “Jean-Jambe was out having a late-night cigarette when he spotted one of them heading into the forest. The next thing I knew, the Jeans had discovered what I was up to and demanded that I hand over the business to them, so that they could feather their own nest.”
“Surely you could have exposed them?” I said. “Admittedly, you were doing something a bit illegal – something totally illegal – but you were doing it for the best of motives, trying to help Sans-Soleil. If the Jeans are just out for themselves, wouldn’t the villagers support you?”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said the mayor. “Because of what the Jeans discovered.”
“They discovered your workforce,” said Madeleine.
The mayor nodded. “It’s the fathers. I’ve been giving them refuge.”
Madeleine’s eyes widened. “What, all of them?”
The mayor nodded again.
Her gaze was a mixture of shock and pity. “You’re a dead man,” she said.
“I know,” he said with a bleak smile. “One way or another, this is the end.”
“Sorry, who are the fathers?” I asked.
“My beloved Sylvain told me about them,” she said. “They just disappeared, ages ago, one by one, and everyone presumed they had been torn to death by wild animals. So how–?”
“I found them in a grotte,” said the mayor. “They were happy enough, as you can imagine, but not terribly comfortable. It’s basically just a cave. They had got used to living on wild berries, which meant they were very low-maintenance. They were delighted to move somewhere wind-and water-tight, and of course they enjoyed the distilling because they got paid in kind.”
“And now the Jeans are doing the distilling?” asked Madeleine.
The mayor raised his head, looking suddenly noble instead of louche. “They’re trying. But they will not succeed. I refused to give them the recipe.”
