Death in Pont-Aven

by Jean-Luc Bannalec

  ‘Was it a bad argument?’

  ‘Monsieur Pennec was very determined. It was important to him that this clause be clear and airtight.’

  ‘And the second clause? You mentioned two.’

  ‘The second dates back thirty years. It excludes his half-brother from the legacy. Completely.’

  ‘I’ve heard about that one. Do you know the exact reason?’

  ‘No. I don’t know anything about it. The clause was originally my predecessor’s responsibility; it was on file when I took over the case. The clause is in fact very concise. It sets out the exclusion in one sentence.’

  Dupin fell silent for a moment. ‘Did you know about the state of Pierre-Louis Pennec’s health?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He only had a short time to live. It was probably a miracle that he was still alive at all. His arteries were completely blocked. He was at Doctor Pelliet’s on Monday this week and ought to have been operated on immediately but he categorically refused. He knew that that would mean imminent death.’

  Madame Denis shook her head almost imperceptibly. ‘No, I didn’t know that. I hadn’t seen him for some time. And I didn’t hear anything about it from anyone else either.’

  ‘He probably didn’t tell anyone. As far as we know at this stage.’

  Madame Denis’s forehead furrowed and she spoke slowly. ‘If I may say so, Monsieur le Commissaire, that sounds extremely strange. Pierre-Louis Pennec finds out he only has a few days left to live, wants to change his will… and is murdered two days later.’ She broke off.

  ‘I know.’

  After the terrible turn of events, it was true that a coincidence sounded unlikely. But maybe there was another way of looking at everything.

  ‘You mentioned a few conditions just now. Relating to inheriting the hotel.’

  ‘Yes, there aren’t many. One was that Madame Lajoux would keep her position as long she lived, and her salary too. Another was that Madame Mendu would become her successor as housekeeper. A kind of hotel manager. Above all, that the hotel cannot be sold or substantially changed from its current design. There is of course a certain vagueness in the wording of these things. Loic Pennec has to consent to these binding conditions in order to come into his inheritance.’

  Dupin thought this over.

  ‘At the time, I had the feeling that Pierre-Louis Pennec actually wanted to add more conditions to the list. He hinted at it a few times.’

  ‘Could that have been the reason why he wanted to amend the will or include an addendum?’

  ‘I can’t really say.’

  ‘Did Pierre-Louis Pennec mention an amendment or addendum to the will?’

  ‘An amendment.’

  Dupin noted the word down, underlining it twice. ‘In its current form, what kind of motives for murder might there be in the will? It’s not all that spectacular… It is, shall we say, surprising in a few places.’

  Once again, he hadn’t really asked a question. Madame Denis didn’t look at Dupin, staring uncertainly out of the window instead. Dupin followed her gaze.

  ‘Such an incredible blue.’

  There was another long pause. Finally Madame Denis made as though to shake herself. ‘I don’t like to speculate. My profession is about facts and safeguarding facts. Records.’

  Dupin didn’t fully understand what she meant. He was wrapped up in his own thoughts now and had started to feel rather uneasy, almost impatient.

  ‘Well, this has all been very helpful. That information was very important. Please accept my thanks, Madame Maître. You’ve been most kind.’

  ‘A pleasure, Monsieur le Commissaire, a pleasure. I hope you’ll shed some light on this dark crime soon. It’s so horrific, it doesn’t bear thinking about, Monsieur Pennec having to die so violently. And at his age!’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I’ll see you out.’

  ‘No, no, Madame, don’t go to any trouble. I know the way.’

  Dupin shook Madame Denis’ hand.

  ‘All the best, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘Yes, all the best. I hope we see each other again soon – under more pleasant circumstances.’

  Madame Denis smiled.

  ‘I hope so too.’

  Commissaire Dupin knew that he had left Madame Denis’ office rather abruptly, but he wanted to take a short walk. Things were getting more and more confusing. Deep down he knew that this was usually a good sign at this stage in an investigation. But it didn’t feel that way this time.

  He walked back to the hotel, turned right into the little alleyway and then decided to follow the path wherever it might lead, right up the hill. As it didn’t go straight to the river, the area wouldn’t attract any tourists and he would have some peace and quiet.

  The will wasn’t all that controversial, but there were still a few surprises. As with his heart condition, it wasn’t clear whether anyone had known about the provisions in Pennec’s will. Had he ever told the beneficiaries anything? His son and daughter-in-law had denied knowing anything specific about the will, evidently considering the whole thing nothing more than a formality. They felt the entire inheritance belonged to them. But that didn’t mean anything of course. And Fragan Delon and Francine Lajoux hadn’t given anything away. The crucial point was not the existing will. After finding out he was going to die, Pennec had decided to change the will again, as a matter of urgency. But which part? One part, many parts? Had he wanted to add something new? This information might be the key to everything. And so again the question arose, did anyone know what he intended? Clearly it must have been about this intended change – everything else, the existing will with its conditions didn’t seem to be enough of a motive for murder. The issue must have been more divisive than that. Or else the will contained things that he hadn’t seen yet, that he wasn’t able to see.

  Dupin had reached the top of the hill. The view from here really was spectacular. This was how Pont-Aven looked in the painters’ work. You could see how hilly the whole area was, how many twists there were to the valley, and how the inlet had developed. He suddenly had an idea. He rummaged around for his mobile and dialled Madame Denis’ number.

  ‘Georges Dupin here. Forgive me for bothering you again, Madame Maître. I have another question.’

  ‘You’re not bothering me at all, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘When Monsieur Pennec requested the appointment to change his will on Tuesday, he said it was “very urgent” and then suggested Thursday himself, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, he suggested Thursday.’

  ‘He said it was very urgent and yet he didn’t want an appointment on the same day, if it were possible? Or at least Wednesday?’

  ‘Em, no. As I say, he suggested Thursday.’ Madame Denis was silent for a little while. ‘I see what you mean. You’re right. Three days. He makes an appointment for three days later on an issue which is of the utmost importance to him – knowing that he could drop dead at any moment. He…’ she hesitated, ‘he still had things to sort out before the meeting with me.’

  Dupin had been told how astute she was. ‘Yes. I think so too.’ There was a short pause. ‘Thanks again, Madame Denis.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll solve the case soon, Monsieur le Commissaire.’

  ‘I’m not so sure yet. Bye, Madame Maître.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Dupin took the steep, narrow path down the hill and found some old stone steps that threaded their way between the villas and gardens, right down to the banks of the Aven. At the bottom of the steps there was a hidden path which branched away from the footpath by the river. Twenty or thirty metres along the path, he discovered a bright red wooden bench, which suddenly appeared from behind a profusion of shrubbery underneath a handful of poplars. It wasn’t visible from the path, even though it was no more than half a metre away from the river, just a little higher up. He sat down. There was a rushing sound like a mountain stream at this point of the Aven because of some dramati
c rapids and waterfalls. You could hear the sound of the falling water all over Pont-Aven except by the harbour. The sound was there in the background the whole time, especially at night. There was no sign of the sea here, it was a different world. Incredible.

  Dupin sat completely still for a few minutes. Then he reached for his mobile. ‘Le Ber?’

  ‘Monsieur le Commissaire?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t hear you very well.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In the office, I’ve just come from Pont-Aven. The connection isn’t very good. There’s a real roaring noise. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m sitting by the river.’

  ‘You’re sitting by the river?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Is there any news on the break-in? Forensics?’

  ‘No, nothing yet. Salou would have been in touch.’

  ‘Call him again.’

  ‘But he –’ Le Ber stopped himself.

  ‘I want to speak to the chairman of the art society. Do you have an address for him?’

  ‘Labat has it.’

  ‘I’ll call Labat then.’

  ‘One more thing, Monsieur le Commissaire. Docteur Lafond called an hour ago, he wanted to speak to you but you were at the notary’s, so Nolwenn put him through to me.’

  Le Ber knew that Dupin always wanted to speak to Lafond himself.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Four stab wounds, as we already knew. Deep stabs, each one up to hilt. Upper abdomen, lungs, two in the heart area. Docteur Lafond says he probably died very quickly. The knife penetrated the body at a right angle. A very sharp, smooth blade, about eight centimetres long.’

  ‘Which means?’ Dupin could never get his head round knives.

  ‘It’s an average length of blade for a knife. Could also have been a large penknife. Opinel, Laguiole, something like that. No rust, no dirt. A well-kept knife.’

  ‘When did Pennec die, do we know the exact time yet?’

  ‘Around midnight. Not much later than that. But we can’t say to the very minute, as you know…’

  ‘I know, we don’t want to force Lafond to make it up and risk his scientific reputation.’

  ‘That’s pretty much how he put it, yes.’

  ‘Fine. I’m up to speed. Call me if there’s any news.’

  Today had turned into another magnificent summer’s day. The sky was clear and vast, no sign of the clouds or haze that had been forecast for the evening. Dupin was sure he could see all the signs of a high pressure period that would remain stable for a few days at least.

  Labat had had Monsieur Beauvois’ address ready immediately. He lived centrally too, in one of the streets upstream where it was always damp. Rue Job Philippe. Like almost all the other houses in this picture book village, it was a very pretty old stone house straight out of a travel guide with huge hydrangea bushes in the little front garden. There was every shade of hydrangea imaginable: pink, purple, light blue, dark blue, red.

  Dupin opened the garden gate and was about to ring the doorbell when the door swept open and a short, very round man stood in front of him, squinting dubiously. Not much hair any more and what was left had been cut short to make up for it. Small oval glasses. An oval head.

  ‘Commissaire Georges Dupin. Hello.’

  ‘Ah – Monsieur le Commissaire. Frédéric Beauvois. Delighted to meet you,’ he hesitated a little, ‘although these are terrible circumstances of course.’

  ‘Is this a bad time?’

  ‘No, no. Not at all. I was just about to go and get something to eat,’ he seemed to feel as though he had been caught out somehow. ‘I live alone. An old bachelor… I’d be pleased to help. Whatever I can do. Pierre-Louis Pennec, it has to be said, was one of the most important citizens in this town, and his loss is a great tragedy for Pont-Aven. That’s the only word for it. Tragedy. He served our village in so many generous ways. And if I may say so, I was his friend. We’d known and worked with each other for three decades. He was a true and wonderful patron of the arts. But do come in!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As with most of the stone houses, it was quite dark inside. Sometimes that could be quite cosy – by the fireside with a roaring, lashing storm outside – but Dupin often found it depressing, especially on such a bright, sunny day.

  Dupin hummed and hawed a little. ‘You know, I’m hungry too. Why don’t we go and get a bite to eat together? What do you think?’

  This was a completely spur-of-the-moment idea. But Dupin was now realising just how hungry he was, and he had no desire to sit in semi-darkness in this weather, when it was so bright outside. Monsieur Beauvois looked at the Commissaire with some surprise, but only for a moment.

  ‘That sounds fantastic. Let’s go to Maurice’s place in the mill. An old friend of mine, and the best restaurant in Pont-Aven – apart from the Central of course.’ Beauvois smiled in a very friendly way.

  ‘That sounds great, Monsieur Beauvois.’ Dupin tried not to seem too eager as he turned round and hurried out the door as quickly as he could.

  They walked purposefully through the little alleyways, past the lane leading to the hotel, and towards the old mill, a restaurant called the Moulin de Rosmadec, which had been renowned throughout Pont-Aven and the surrounding area for twenty years. As a retired teacher, Beauvois couldn’t resist giving Dupin a little tour of the village and a lesson on its history, overflowing with pride and numerous superlatives. Dupin, whose stomach was rumbling, hardly said a word.

  Finally they were sitting underneath a magnificent, tall lime tree next to the old mill wheel.

  With the water roaring over the stones, it was like a fairy tale. Dupin knew precious little about the many mills in Pont-Aven. Long before the artists, the village had been famous for its mills, a great number of millers having settled here over the centuries, providing flour for the whole region. The flour had been delivered to Nantes and even as far as Bordeaux when Pont-Aven had still been a proper sea trading port, as Beauvois explained with great emotion.

  Beauvois and Maurice Kerriou, the over-eager owner of the restaurant, agreed after some extensive culinary discussions – with Dupin simply looking on from the sidelines – on a little plâteau de fruits de mer, followed by filets de rougets.

  ‘You must have the fruits de mer – the palourdes grises! The best mussels in all of Brittany. You can’t get ones like this in your neck of the woods, up in Paris. They’re a real speciality here.’

  In fact Dupin loved palourdes grises – and he would have liked to have said that he had had them many times in Lutétia, his favourite brasserie in Paris, and that they had always been very fresh and that he preferred them to palourdes roses because they tasted like a distillation of the whole Atlantic Ocean. He had been eating them whenever they were in season since he’d moved to Brittany. But he didn’t say anything. He had just accepted a sympathetic smile: you poor Parisian, you get fobbed off with rubbish that’s been travelling for a day, bad mussels from overseas in the first place, and at such extortionate prices! He knew that look.

  ‘Yes please, that’s very kind.’

  ‘You’ll see, this will be an eye-opener for you. Everything is excellent here.’

  ‘Monsieur Beauvois, you saw Pierre-Louis Pennec just this week, on Tuesday.’

  ‘My God, yes. I can’t take it in. On Tuesday. He was very much alive! We mainly spoke about the new brochure.’

  ‘The one about the artists’ colony in Pont-Aven and the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. We had been talking about an expanded edition for a long time. We kept everything very concise in the first edition and it’s more than twenty years old now. We know so much more now about the lives of the artists, especially in Pont-Aven. It was a disgrace you know, they had all been forgotten, apart from Gauguin and maybe Émile Bernard. The other artists were only rediscovered two decades ago. There were such stunning talents amongst them, such great artists. We’ve started to do a lot of research he
re in Pont-Aven. Who lived where exactly, who painted together where, who ate what where…’ Beauvois smiled mischievously, knowingly. ‘And who had affairs with which innocent country bumpkin. They had colourful lives. My, there are a lot of stories there.’ He interrupted himself, as though he had to remind himself to concentrate. ‘So I brought Pierre-Louis the text for the new brochure. He wanted to be in charge of photographs again. He had a small, but superb collection of photographs, you know. They belonged to his grandmother, Marie-Jeanne. She took a few of them herself.’

  ‘In the hotel? Photos from when the artists were around?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe a hundred photographs. Including a few truly extraordinary ones. All of the artists are there, all the greats!’

  Dupin had taken out his Clairefontaine notebook. He made a note. ‘Where did he keep them?’

  ‘Upstairs in that little room of his, next to his bedroom. There are a few prints up there too, ones he couldn’t find room for in the restaurant after the renovation. He showed them to me once.’

  ‘Could I see the text?’

  Beauvois was irritated. ‘My text for the brochure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll send it over to you.’

  ‘Was Pennec in a hurry?’

  ‘With the brochure?’

  ‘With the brochure.’

  ‘He was always in a hurry when he wanted something.’

  ‘You collaborated on many projects, not just on this brochure… if my sources are correct.’

  Beauvois sat back a little and drew a deep breath, apparently pleased with Dupin’s question. ‘Perhaps you should know a little bit more about my work, Monsieur le Commissaire. Otherwise you might misinterpret some things. With your permission, I’d like to explain something, very quickly of course.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Without wanting to seem vain – things really have gone marvellously well for the museum under my direction. I started running it in 1985. I founded a permanent exhibition, sorted out what we already had and had it displayed properly at long last. And then bit by bit I also made some significant new acquisitions. We have over a thousand paintings now, a thousand! Even though we obviously can’t display all of them. In 2002 the Ministère de la Culture officially designated us a Musée de France which was long overdue but even so, it was a recognition of my work. And I had Pierre-Louis’ support from the beginning. He was a member of every club that I founded, even the first one, the Association des Amis du Musée de Pont-Aven, he was vice-president for a while.’