A Spell in Provence

by Marie Laval

  ‘Dreams? If the best you can offer is dreams, then we’re wasting our time, just like we were twenty-six years ago.’

  Bijard adjusted his navy blue cap as if he was getting ready to leave.

  Sophie’s face became livid.

  ‘You didn’t listen to me at the time, Lieutenant. In fact, you refused point blank to take my statement. I was young and in shock. I did what you said. I went home, convinced myself that Mike had abandoned me, and tried to forget him. But I didn’t forget. I know that something happened to him that night and, this time, you will take me seriously. I’m not an impressionable young girl any more.’

  ‘Calm down, Madame Dessange. Nothing will be gained by you getting hysterical,’ Lieutenant Bijard said.

  Amy stepped forward, and had to clench her fists hard by her sides so strong was her urge to slap the man’s smug face.

  ‘I find your tone offensive, Lieutenant. You are here to conduct an investigation into a very serious crime, not to make fun of the victim.’

  ‘Please, this is getting us nowhere.’

  Capitaine Ferri held his hands up in a calming gesture.

  ‘Lieutenant, I would like you to go back to the gendarmerie and return in an hour’s time. I am sure you will find some paperwork to keep you busy.’

  ‘Very well.’ Bijard threw Sophie an angry glance and muttered something under his breath but complied.

  ‘Madame Dessange,’ Capitaine Ferri said, ‘could you show me where you were that night?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sophie zipped up her red coat. Amy fetched a cagoule from the utility room, pulled a pair of wellies on and followed Sophie and Ferri out. Once on the terrace, Sophie paused a moment.

  ‘The garden hasn’t changed that much … Mike and I put our sleeping bags on the grass, somewhere around there. I remember we leaned against that tree over there while we ate our picnic. Mike made a fire.’

  ‘Did you see anyone in the garden or the forest at all?’

  ‘The place was deserted, abandoned, that’s why we chose it, but I saw some lights in the forest before falling asleep.’

  ‘Do you remember where you woke up the next morning?’ Ferri asked.

  ‘It was in the forest. I’m not sure I can find the place.’

  They walked across the garden and onto the path between the cedars that swayed in the wind. Sophie stopped a few times to look around and touch the thick bark, as if they could communicate with her and indicate the way. They walked for twenty minutes before Sophie stopped. Her face was wet, a mixture of rain drops and tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, it all looks the same to me.’

  ‘It’s a very large forest,’ Capitaine Ferri agreed in a kind voice. ‘I’ve been in Bonnieux for almost a year now and still haven’t had the chance to explore it fully.’

  Amy had an idea. What if she showed Sophie where she had woken up after her so-called dream?

  While they were walking, she explained to Ferri what happened that night. Although he tried to keep a neutral face, she could see incredulity in his eyes. Secret rituals were not the type of events gendarmes were used to investigating.

  ‘This way.’

  The path was getting narrower, winding between high trees. It was dark and there was a strong, pungent scent of pine.

  ‘It was somewhere around here.’

  She pointed to the place where she had woken up.

  Sophie walked away from the path towards the ancient woodland Amy had discovered a few weeks before while taking Michka on a walk. Sophie stopped near the smooth, large rocks masking the entrance to the spring.

  ‘This place looks familiar,’ Sophie whispered. ‘I remember large stones like these, and bright green light filtering through a thick canopy of trees. Oak and birch trees.’

  Capitaine Ferri joined them. He had the pained look of a man who is trying to show understanding but whose patience is about to run out.

  He took a map out of his coat pocket.

  ‘I think we’re here.’

  He pointed to an area on the map, halfway between Bellefontaine and Manoir Coste.

  Was this where the lost fountain and temple had once stood? Amy could see no stonework but that may be because Gaston Bruni removed it all. Perhaps Laurent would be able to find something – such as the entrance to the tunnel that locals and Denis Piquot called ‘the devil’s mouth’ – with his surveying equipment.

  ‘I think we’re done here,’ Capitaine Ferri said as he turned back and marched ahead. Dark clouds had swallowed most of the daylight, heavy rain flattened the flowers and the tall grasses, and by the time they reached Bellefontaine the three of them were soaked.

  Amy was surprised to see Adèle and Paul sitting at the kitchen table with her sister.

  ‘I was starting to wonder where you got to.’

  Chris stood up, an angry frown creasing her forehead.

  ‘It took longer than I thought.’

  Amy greeted Adèle with a kiss on the cheek then looked at Paul, surprised to see that his face pale and covered with a shiny film of sweat as he stared at something – or someone – over her shoulder.

  Amy turned round. Behind her, Sophie pulled the hood of her red coat down and ran her fingers through her wet hair, and Capitaine Ferri wiped his black boots on the doormat.

  ‘We didn’t know you had company,’ Paul said. ‘I didn’t see the gendarmerie van in the courtyard.’

  ‘That's because Lieutenant Bijard drove it back to the village,’ Amy explained. ‘He’s coming back shortly.’

  ‘I told Paul about the trap door in the cellar. He’s going to take a look at the basement,’ Adèle said.

  ‘There’s nothing down there, Amy.’

  Paul’s voice was strained. He took a white handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped his forehead.

  ‘I would have noticed any hidden passage or blocked tunnel when I resurfaced the floor.’

  ‘Then why don’t you go and have a look for yourself if you don’t believe me?’

  Amy took the basement key off a hook in the utility room and threw it over to him.

  ‘Here is the key.’

  A knock on the door announced the return of Lieutenant Bijard. Ferri told Amy she would have to come down to the station the following day to make a statement.

  Sophie shook Amy’s hand.

  ‘Thanks to you, I hope they’ll finally realise that I wasn’t making anything up.’

  ‘I forgot something in the van.’ Paul rushed out.

  Lieutenant Bijard said he would wait outside and followed him.

  When he came back, a few minutes later, Paul went straight down into the basement. Amy bid Sophie and Capitaine Ferri goodbye, and watched the van from the gendarmerie leave, with Sophie sitting at the back since she had left her car in the village.

  ‘I never liked Bijard.’ Adèle pursed her lips and shook her head.

  ‘He used to be a friend of Paul’s. In fact, Paul, Bijard, and Marc Chevalier were inseparable when they were young – before we got married – but they fell out one day, I don't know why, that’s why I was so surprised when you said Marc recommended him for the renovation works here at Bellefontaine. As far as I know they haven’t spoken for years.’

  Remembering her encounter with Paul and Marc Chevalier in the woods a couple of weeks ago, Amy frowned. He and Paul did talk – a fact Paul obviously wanted to keep from his wife. She wasn't sure it was her place to say anything.

  ‘Why were the gendarmes here?’ Adèle asked. ‘And who was that lady with them? She didn't look very well.’

  ‘Sophie Dessange. I told you her story, do you remember? She is having the case re-opened.’

  Amy offered Adèle a coffee and the two women talked while Paul was down in the cellar.

  ‘By the way,' Adèle remarked, 'Capitaine Ferri came to see us yesterday about Stéphane’s mobile, which he said was found in bits at the bottom of a well in the old village. He almost accused Stéphane of deliberately breaking
it and throwing it away after he called you for help.’

  ‘Why would he have done that? It doesn’t make sense. Stéphane needed his phone to call for help.’

  Just then Paul walked back into the kitchen.

  ‘Why did you pile up all that rubbish in the cellar?’ he asked in a grumpy voice as he wiped his hands onto his blue overall.

  ‘I was afraid the trap door led to a tunnel and I wanted to make sure nobody could get in,’ Amy explained.

  Paul shrugged dismissively.

  ‘You’re fretting for nothing. It’s not a trap door but some kind of storage box for coal or grain, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Then why is there no ring or mechanism to open it?’ Amy insisted. ‘It seems to me that you can only open it from the other side.’

  ‘How should I know? I'm telling you, there’s nothing to worry about.’

  He turned to his wife.

  ‘Are you ready? I have things to do before lunch and I've wasted enough time here already.’

  And he walked out of the front door without even saying goodbye.

  ‘I’m sorry, he is in a foul mood again,’ Adèle let out a heavy sigh and promised to call soon.

  ‘What can I do?’ Peter said when Paul and Adèle had left. ‘I’m bored.’

  It was raining too much for him to go outside, and watching television was out of the question as long as the thunderstorm raged.

  ‘I know!’ Amy said. ‘Let’s explore the old barn. The last time I looked it was full of rubbish. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find some treasure.’

  It would give her something to do too while she was waiting for Laurent and Fabien to arrive. She searched the kitchen drawers for the key to the padlock. She had not been in that barn since visiting before Christmas. It was the only part of Bellefontaine she hadn’t had renovated.

  She located the padlock key, linked arms with her nephew, and together they ran to the barn. The large wooden door creaked as she pushed it open. And Amy stepped into the dusty barn filled with boxes, crates, and bags.

  ‘Wow! That’s just great!’

  Peter walked around, his eyes filled with excitement. They opened countless boxes, exclaiming in delight as they lifted dusty old ledgers, chipped ornaments, rusty tools, and bunches of keys. There was nothing of any value so it was no wonder it hadn't been claimed by the heirs to Magali Bruni's estate when they sold her the bastide. After a while, Peter asked if he could climb up to the mezzanine.

  ‘Yes, but be careful. The ladder may not be very secure.’

  He came back down five minutes later, holding a faded photo.

  ‘There’s nothing much upstairs but I found this stuck in the wooden floor.’

  Amy glanced at the photo. It showed a very young, very beautiful woman in the arms of an older man. Amy's heart jumped. It was Serena Chevalier – a youthful, Serena. The man bore a striking resemblance to Fabien. He must be his father, Armand Coste. From the way they he held her, there could be little doubt the two were lovers.

  Did Céline know that her husband had been involved with Serena? Did Fabien suspect anything?

  So it seemed that Serena, Rosalie’s adoptive daughter, had carried on with the tradition of Bellefontaine women having a liaison with a Coste. For the second time today Amy thought about the curse – the ducs de Coste dying a violent death after having an affair with a lady of Bellefontaine, and she suddenly felt the urge to speak to Fabien and make sure he was safe.

  ‘Come on Peter, let’s go back.’

  She was fastening the padlock onto the barn door when Chris called her from across the yard.

  ‘Come quickly. It’s Fabien. There’s been an accident.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  ‘He has a mild case of concussion, a sprained shoulder, and a few bruises here and there.’

  Céline’s voice was shaky as she spoke to Amy on the phone.

  ‘He was very lucky.’

  ‘Did he say what happened?’

  ‘He said he was anchored to a boulder at the top of the cliff, parallel to the children who were abseiling so that he could abseil down with every child then climb back up for the next one. It started raining harder, so he decided to call it a day and was going back up one last time when his rope slackened and fell on top of him, tipping him off balance. Thankfully he fell onto a ledge and just about managed to get down before losing his grip and sliding down onto the ground.’

  Amy felt the blood drain from her face.

  She closed her eyes and swayed against the wall. She had been right to be scared. Fabien was hurt. He could have died.

  ‘Will you call me when he gets home tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course,’ Céline promised.

  ‘How is he?’ Laurent asked, glancing up from the sheets of paper covered with names, dates, and question marks he’d been writing on.

  ‘Not too bad, considering. He’ll be out of hospital tomorrow.’

  Amy’s fingers trembled as she brushed her hair away from her face. She peered at the sheets of paper on the table.

  ‘Are these the Coste and Bruni family trees?’

  Laurent nodded.

  ‘I went back to the late eighteeenth century when Renaud Coste and Magali Bruni were born. Renaud died at Waterloo in 1815 before his son Louis was born. Louis himself was twenty-two years old when he died, having just married, and his son, Jean, was born after his death, in 1837. As you can see, he too died young. However, Jean’s son, Michel, lived to the ripe old age of sixty. He’s the only duc de Coste to have done so.’

  ‘How strange that three successive ducs died so young. Do we know what happened to them?’ Amy asked.

  Laurent flicked open his notebook.

  ‘As required by French law, the death certificates were signed by a doctor and countersigned by the Officier d’Etat-Civil – the mayor’s representative. Louis’s death appears to have been caused by muggers in the woods. He was shot in the chest and died of his injuries. Jean died in an accident, although there is no detail about it.’

  ‘What do we know about Michel de Coste – the one who lived longer than all the others?’

  ‘He was the local député – that’s member of parliament – for Provence. He lived in Paris much of the time, leaving the management of the estate to his cousin Victor, who happens to be Arsène’s grandson and a direct ancestor of Frédéric Coste.’

  Laurent looked through his notes.

  ‘Michel was Philippe’s father. Philippe, who we know was Rosalie Bruni’s lover and was so obsessed with finding the temple that he ignored the most basic safety rules, causing not only his death but the death of his workers on his makeshift archaeological dig. That was in 1935. His wife gave birth to Armand, Fabien’s father, two months later.’

  ‘And Armand Coste himself was shot in a hunting accident,’ Amy finished, tracing the Coste tree with her finger.

  Thoughtful, she bit her lip as she remembered the photo she’d found in the barn. If the man was indeed Fabien’s father, then it looked as if he too had been romantically involved with yet another lady of Bellefontaine.

  ‘Rosalie was the end of the Bruni line,’ Laurent spoke next to her.

  Amy shook her head.

  ‘Not quite. Don’t forget that Serena Chevalier is Rosalie’s adoptive daughter. Serena is the last one.’

  ‘Yes, but she isn’t a Bruni.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Amy objected. ‘What matters is that she is a lady of Bellefontaine.’

  She leaned over the sheets of paper again to study the names on the family trees.

  ‘How strange. Ever since Béatrice’s birth in 1814, the Brunis have produced girls whereas the Costes have had boys. Béatrice had a daughter called Nicolette … I wonder if Béatrice was Louis Coste’s lover, and her daughter became his son Jean’s lover too. If so, we would have a romantic entanglement followed by an accidental death for every duc except Michel Coste, the member of parliament who lived in Paris.’

  ‘Are you thinking that
the Bruni women were somehow responsible for the death of the ducs de Coste?’ Laurent smiled, clearly not taking the idea seriously.

  ‘I don’t know. No, of course not. It’s impossible, unless …’

  She remembered what Adèle had said about the poor branch of the Coste family managing the estate every time a duc died young.

  Yes, of course! It made sense. Maybe there was no curse, just jealousy and greed. If Michel lived until old age it was because he entrusted his affairs to his poorer cousin, who would therefore have no incentive to get rid of him.

  What if the poorer line of Costes were somehow in cahoots with the women of Bellefontaine? Magali, her daughter Béatrice, and granddaughter Nicolette. There would be strong links – family links – between them if Béatrice was indeed Arsène’s illegitimate daughter, like Renaud hinted at in his journal.

  It was a shocking, but plausible, hypothesis.

  If it was true then Philippe had been killed in cold blood and not during a mud slide in his forest dig, and Armand’s hunting accident had been a cover up for murder. Could Frédéric’s ancestors and the Brunis women have orchestrated such an evil plan and kept it going over several generations?

  What about Fabien? Maybe it hadn’t been an accident at the cliffs that morning. She pushed her reasoning to its logical and terrible conclusion. Perhaps Frédéric had deliberately cut or loosened Fabien’s rope so that he fell to his death.

  Laurent gathered all his papers into a pile.

  ‘Since Fabien is in hospital and I can’t explore the castle tunnel today, I’m going for a walk in the forest. I have a theory I want to check out.’

  He looked at the window. It was still raining. It hadn’t stopped all day. Rising to his feet, he put his map and compass in a rucksack.

  ‘What theory?’

  ‘You may think it’s ridiculous, and it might very well turn out to be, but when I examined the fountain at Manoir Coste this morning I realised that each of the lions looked in a different direction. It reminded me of an ancient building I once surveyed in Rome where the statues were positioned in such a way their fingers pointed to a location in town – a temple. And it got me thinking. What if the lions’ eyes cross at one point in the forest?’