Husbandless… Fen wondered for a second if perhaps the sudden absence of a man about the house was rather convenient for Hubert, who may benefit from moving into the position of lord of the manor once Clément was dead. He could do a lot worse than marry back into the family and retake what he might view as his rightful place at the head of it.
And Estelle… she was obviously upset about Pascal, but were her tears, like Fen’s were right at this moment from the chopped onion, not flowing due to sadness at all? Hadn’t she been part of a troupe of travelling performers before she settled in Morey-Fontaine? Maybe she was a better actress than she had let on…
‘Now put them in the pot and move on to the potatoes,’ Sophie’s voice carried across the table and Fen did as she was asked, but her mind was still on the possible murderers here in the house. So far, Hubert seemed to have the best motive; jealously of this branch of the family taking what he might see as his inheritance and perhaps greed enough to drive him to claim possession of the château. Could James even be tarred with the same brush? A lost soul of a soldier could do worse than kill his way to the top of a ready-made family. Fen shook the idea out of her head. Sophie would be the last person to accept an offer from James, and besides, it didn’t seem like his style. Plus, there was something about his accent and demeanour, if not his scruffy clothes, that made Fen wonder if James could simply buy this château if he wanted to.
And Estelle, well perhaps she had been blackmailed by Pascal into helping him scam the Bernards, although why she would kill the priest and her employer, she couldn’t fathom. Sophie had that clandestine meeting with Father Marchand the night before he died – a lovers’ tryst or had they met for quite a different, and less loving, reason? But surely she was beyond suspicion, as her swollen ankle put her out of action for the time of all three deaths.
‘And add the stock now,’ Fen heard the instruction and brought her concentration back into the room.
‘Yes, Sophie, like this?’ She helped finish off making the vegetable soup and checked the prove on the freshly made bread rolls in the larder.
‘They will only take twenty minutes or so,’ said Sophie once the rolls were in the oven, ‘why don’t you go and find the others? I know no one has much of an appetite these days, but they must eat.’
Fen smiled at her and ducked out of the room. She was only halfway up the spiral stone staircase when she bumped into James. This time, it was him who put his finger up to his lips and beckoned her to follow him up the stairs, past the landing that led to her and Estelle’s room and up to the top attic floor. He led her along the much smaller, lower-ceilinged corridor and Fen was about to remind him of the impropriety of them being seen together up here when he turned around and starting talking at her, thirteen to the dozen.
‘I’ve had an idea, you see, how we can flush out the murderer. It should be relatively easy, but we’ll have to work together.’
Fen opened and closed her mouth a couple of times and took Arthur’s letter, which was being thrust at her while James was speaking.
‘Here take this too, so Estelle doesn’t think you’ve shopped her in. We can’t have anyone suspecting what we’re planning.’
‘Which is?’
‘A trap.’
The soup was bubbling away when Fen returned to the kitchen and she heaved it off the hotplate and onto the warm cast-iron surround. Sophie had managed somehow to cajole the children into laying the table, although Benoit was insisting his mother play with him, chasing him round the table. He was roundly shushed by his harried mother and told not to be so silly, as she leant down and massaged her swollen ankle.
‘That still looks so painful,’ Fen reached across and brought the water jug to the table and poured Sophie a glass.
‘Eh la, it’s getting there. If only hearts could mend as quickly as ankles.’
Fen looked at Sophie and nodded. ‘If only, indeed.’
‘I’m sorry you’ve come to us when there’s so much…’ Sophie sighed and couldn’t complete her sentence, but Fen knew what she meant. This beautiful old château had the potential to be a wonderful home, a splendid place to come and stay, if only they could catch the killer in their midst. Fen was tempted to ask Sophie what it was like having the British agents lodging with her, and find out more about Arthur’s last months, maybe even eke out a little more as to who might have betrayed him, but before she could speak, James came downstairs and Clément, Hubert and Estelle appeared and took their places around the table.
The conversation was muted, with Clément leading the meal with a grace, but not mentioning too much in the way of thanks to their Father in heaven.
‘How is the harvest going, Hubert?’ Sophie asked as she passed her bowl across to Fen, who was standing up and ladling out the hot soup.
‘Despite it all, it’s not too bad. Maybe not quite up to 1937, for the whites at least, but it’s got potential.’
‘And the wine press is fixed?’
‘Yes, we are full steam ahead.’
Fen noticed that James was still quiet, waiting for the right time to lay his bait. She had been unsure of his idea about tempting the murderer to show themselves, but she had begrudgingly agreed that the only way to stop the gendarmes from pointing the finger at him would be to find out who had killed the others and, even better, catch them about to kill again. ‘Then it will be irrefutable’, he had said, and she’d had to agree. But even so, she was nervous as she waited for him to set the trap that would lead perhaps to another attempt at murder.
‘And, James, we are glad to have you back.’ Clément reached out an arm and clapped James on the back. ‘From Boncourt-le-Bois and from prison! I knew you would not have killed our dear Marchand.’
Without wanting to make it seem too obvious, Fen turned towards Sophie, interested to see what her reaction would be. Unsurprisingly, her face was stony.
‘It’s good to be back,’ James confirmed, before spooning some of the broth into his mouth.
‘We’ll be pressing the grapes from the eastern fields tomorrow, I’m glad you’re here to put your back into that screw. Rather you than me.’ Hubert seemed to be trying to lighten the mood, but Fen could see Sophie’s face and it was like thunder.
‘Why did they release you?’ Sophie blurted out, ruining Hubert’s best efforts at manly bonhomie. Her resentment towards having James back in her house must have been simmering away since his return. ‘Are we all now expected to believe that you lost your capsule?’
‘Sophie,’ Clément chastised her.
‘It’s all right, sir.’ James put down his spoon and looked across the table at his accuser. Fen was speechless. She thought James was going to try and lay some bait for the murderer, but he seemed to be back to defending himself. She stared at him as he continued. ‘Father Coulber was able to secure my release.’
‘On what grounds?’ Sophie had a determination about her that Fen hadn’t seen before. But then grief always did come in stages and Sophie may have been through sadness and denial and was now bordering on anger.
‘Sophie…’ Clément seemed keen to keep the peace, but James was ready to put up a defence.
‘On the grounds that the cyanide capsule – lost, stolen or otherwise – was only circumstantial evidence and I have an alibi for the morning of the murder. I was here, with you all.’
‘But cyanide can take hours to kill if administered in a small enough dose.’ There was silence around the room. ‘What?’ Sophie questioned the eyes staring at her. ‘I do have a chemistry degree, you know. Anyway, I was laid up in my bedroom all morning before Marchand came to breakfast, it couldn’t have been me.’
‘No one is suggesting that at all,’ Clément again tried to keep the peace and calm his daughter-in-law down.
‘I was with her too,’ Estelle piped up. ‘So I am in the clear. And none of you seem to care that I have also lost the love of my life!’ She got up to leave, but Clément pleaded with her to stay and finish her supper.
> ‘We have all lost loved ones. Please, let us at least eat together and try and heal these wounds. We are all we have left now.’ He reached across and squeezed Sophie’s arm and then looked at Estelle, the young boys and back to Estelle. ‘Please?’
‘Fine, fine.’ The nursery maid sat down and silence once more took over the dinner table.
Fen felt awkward, sitting as a comparative newcomer in this room full of people who had been through years of occupation, war and hardship to now be faced with a killer in their midst. Not that she didn’t have her own grief to dwell on, but she raised a silent prayer that this horrible situation would soon be over.
James broke the silence. ‘I have an idea who might be responsible too. Father Coulber and I have been talking.’ He kept his eyes down, looking into his bowl as he spoke.
‘For all three deaths?’ Fen asked him, knowing full well his trip to see Father Coulber had been utterly unfruitful in that respect.
‘Please, not in front of the children,’ Sophie said with a pleading look in her eye.
‘Of course, I’m sorry,’ Fen felt terrible, but couldn’t deny how on edge she was with the atmosphere around the table being far from jolly and James about to walk right into the lion’s den.
No one said anything for a few moments, then Estelle looked up from her soup bowl and levelled a demand at James. ‘If you know who did the… the things, then why don’t you tell us?’
‘Shh, please,’ pleaded Sophie, trying to distract Jean-Jacques with a chunk of bread spread thinly with what butter was left from the crumble making the day before. Benoit had already excused himself from the table and was playing on the floor by the stove with his twig.
‘Father Coulber is in Beaune until the day after tomorrow; he’s checking a few details out for me.’
‘A few details of what?’ Estelle, to Fen’s mind, was looking as shifty as ever. Did the thief have an even guiltier conscience?
‘Why get the priest involved now?’ This time it was Hubert, and Fen could see James’s annoyance brewing.
‘Because—’
‘Enough!’ Clément interrupted James. ‘That is quite enough. For goodness’ sake, let us talk of grapes and wine. Hubert, are the tanks ready for the juice that will come from tomorrow’s pressing?’
Much to Fen’s relief, the conversation moved on and the supper was eaten between bouts of uncomfortable silences. Finally it was over and Fen cleared up the dishes as Clément helped Sophie to her feet and up the spiral stairs. The two little boys had run on before them, and the household all started to slowly prepare themselves for bed. Fen wondered, as she wiped the last of the water from the drying bowls, if James had been successful in routing the killer. One thing was for sure, he’d been successful in just about ruining everyone’s evening, but had it been enough?
Once in bed, Fen took Arthur’s letter out and read it over to herself. The light of the oil lamp on the bedside table glowed on the thin, almost translucent paper. Arthur must have rushed this one off, thought Fen as she identified the clues as not being his best work. Still, she rubbed her thumb gently over the ink and then kissed her fingertip and pressed it to the last of his words – adieu.
‘You’re not going to cry on me, are you?’ Estelle, with her hair in a net, pulled her blanket up to her chin in the bed next to Fen.
‘No. Goodnight, Estelle.’ Fen wasn’t sure if Estelle deserved any sort of niceties, not after what happened this afternoon, but her good manners always seemed to prevail, even with suspected murderers.
She turned the lamp off and let the bedsprings creak her into a comfortable position. Sleep came more easily than she would have expected after the upset of the day, but she awoke a few hours later to the sound of Estelle rustling around the room.
Luckily, Fen’s wits were about her and as she became aware of what was happening, she realised she would have to stay absolutely still so that her bed didn’t creak and alert Estelle to her waking. After a few moments, Fen’s eyes adjusted to the dark and she dared to turn her head very slightly on her pillow, to get a better look at what Estelle was doing. To her surprise, and quite some relief, she was praying silently, going through her rosary, as she looked out of the window. Fen decided that Estelle seemed less murderous than yesterday, so let the bed announce the fact she was awake.
‘Shhhh,’ the Frenchwoman hissed, then beckoned Fen over to the window.
Fen sat up as quietly as she could and slipped out from under the blanket, aware now of how cold the nights were getting. She would have done anything to have had one of Mrs B’s warm rubber bottles to nestle her feet against when she got back under the covers.
‘What is it?’ Fen had put thoughts of cosy Sussex farmhouses to one side and was now standing next to Estelle by the large, unshuttered window.
‘There, do you see it?’
‘What? Where are you looking?’
‘There, you numbskull,’ Estelle pointed to the far edge of the lawns, where the moonlight illuminated the grass.
Sure enough, Fen squinted and saw what Estelle was looking at. A white figure passing through the hedge, disappearing and appearing.
‘It is a ghost, a phantom. I told you all that I had seen one last week, the night before—’ Estelle broke off and crossed herself, gripping the rosary in her knuckles so tightly that Fen thought the thin rope would be crushed. ‘It is a portent of doom, an omen!’
The Frenchwoman carried on saying almost-silent prayers and Fen, more intrigued than superstitious, squinted into the dark night to try and catch sight of the phantom. The moon passed behind a cloud and the whole garden was dipped into darkness once more.
‘Come, Estelle, let’s sleep. There’s nothing we can do, standing guard up here.’
‘I must check on the children.’ She paused. ‘First thing in the morning, perhaps.’
The two women climbed back into their own beds and Fen, wide awake now, wondered if the figure was indeed a phantom, and if that ghostlike shroud, so bright white in the moonlight, might have left a very real scrap of earthly fabric in the winery last week?
Twenty-Four
Fen took extra care getting ready the next morning, as she wanted to make sure she kept all the little clues she had been gathering close to hand. After she’d put on her usual headscarf and a dash of lipstick, she stood back from the mirror and collected her thoughts, and her evidence, together.
In her right pocket, she had the two scraps of fabric. The one she knew came from the quilt, the other she highly suspected might be something to do with Estelle’s moonlight phantom. She had Arthur’s letter, partially decoded, in her central front pocket, along with her mother’s brooch; she was pretty sure Estelle wouldn’t make another attempt to steal it, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. And, in her left pocket, she had the envelope containing the fragment of German writing, and also her word grid, which she’d updated to look like this:
Estelle had promised, before she left the room that morning to check on the boys, that she would return Arthur’s cigarette case to Fen. As Fen had suspected, Estelle was using the winery’s chemical cabinet as her stash. So, the women had arranged to meet at the winery directly after breakfast. From the sounds emanating from the nursery down the corridor, the boys were not only alive but very awake and very alert – sounds of wooden blocks being hurled at each other suggested to Fen that, omens or not, nothing seriously bad had visited the château in the night.
The winery was in full flow when Estelle and Fen got there shortly after breakfast.
Estelle raised her eyebrows to Hubert, who was monitoring the sluicing of juice into one of the barrels. Cries of ‘whoa!’ and ‘oop-la!’ peppered the air, creating a sense of busyness.
All hands on deck, Fen thought to herself, remembering how depleted the workforce was now, with many of the local workers seeking harvesting jobs in other vineyards until the Morey-Fontaine killer was apprehended. The workers who were left were too preoccupied to notice the pair of women h
eading into the fermentation room.
Fen stood behind Estelle as she placed the key in the lock of the chemical cabinet and clinked open the bolt. She opened the door and reached inside, fishing out the silver cigarette case and passing it to Fen, who did her best not to snatch it away and clasp it to her. She could so easily have spent the next few moments just taking in the sight of the precious object, but something Estelle was doing caught her attention.
‘Four, five, six, seven… Zut alors,’ she muttered, beginning counting again from one with a very purposeful finger tracing over the contents of the cabinet.
‘What is it, Estelle?’ Fen was intrigued. Was she counting money? She hadn’t noticed much else in there when she’d found the cabinet open the other day.
Estelle ignored her question and kept counting, finally slamming the cabinet door shut and locking it.
‘Estelle?’ Fen repeated.
‘There’s not enough there…’ Fen could sense the agitation in her voice.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Blue fining. No matter. I must have lost count. Anyway, you have your memento back. That is all now, yes?’
‘Yes, thank you, Estelle.’ Fen felt slightly defeated, thanking the thief who had stolen something precious from Arthur, but she couldn’t help it, plus she was turning the name of that chemical over in her brain – blue fining, why did that ring a bell?
Pocketing the cigarette case, she followed Estelle out of the fermentation room and almost collided with Hubert.
‘Sorry, I—’
‘Watch where you’re going, tsk.’ He sucked his teeth in and dismissed Fen from the winery, suggesting she was better off doing ‘women’s work’ back at the house. In no mood to argue with him, and all too delighted to be away from him, Fen headed back to the château’s kitchen, where Sophie was more than pleased to make use of her.
A Dangerous Goodbye: An absolutely gripping historical mystery (A Fen Churche Mystery Book 1) Page 20
