Locked-Room Mystery Box Set

by Kim Ekemar

  “Follow me”, she said and led the way to the master bedroom.

  Inspector Rimbaud produced the key to open the door. Aunt Emilie motioned him to remain outside while she studied the bedroom. Judging by the layer of soot now covering the furniture and the floorboards, she deemed it unlikely that anyone had entered since Jean-Claude had locked the room.

  At the opposite end, she saw one window with its panes in place and the other boarded up with thick planks. The charred four-poster bed dominated the room. There was a writing desk and a chair that had been spared from the fire. To her left were the fireplace and more charred furniture. The wooden floor was black near the fireplace, and everything was covered with a layer of black dust.

  “As you can see for yourselves”, Justine said, “this room needs both a good cleaning and a new window.”

  “Please, let us study the crime scene without interruption”, Aunt Emilie calmly admonished her while remaining on the threshold. “In the meantime, you may both go back to your duties. We will have a chat with you later, if you don’t mind.”

  Reluctantly, Justine obeyed her and returned to the kitchen.

  Aunt Emilie studied everything minutely: the ceiling, the lamps, the furniture, the fireplace, the faded photographs hanging on the walls … Then something diminutive on the floor, a mere step away, caught her attention. She bent over and retrieved it.

  Rimbaud looked over her shoulder as she examined it. It was a small, S-shaped piece of metal.

  “What on earth could that be used for?” the inspector asked, embarrassed that he hadn’t discovered the object himself.

  “I don’t know yet, but perhaps we will find more things of interest if we look closer.”

  Satisfied with her prolonged scrutiny of the bedroom, Aunt Emilie now entered it with small, deliberate steps. She stopped between the bed and the fireplace and studied the burnt piece of clothing still littering the floor. Her eyes then went to the remnants of the grandfather clock and the small bureau that stood next to it. She was less interested in the sooty pictures hanging on the walls, Rimbaud noticed.

  Aunt Emilie abruptly turned, and, keeping close to the wall, she went over to the window that Michel had broken on the fateful morning. She studied the footprints Constance had left that were still visible in the dust on the floorboards. Finally, she walked over to the writing desk and pulled out each of its four drawers. Although each had a keyhole, none of them were locked. She rummaged through the drawers, finding nothing of interest.

  “I don’t think there’s anything more we can learn from the murder scene, Jean-Claude”, she said with finality.

  “There isn’t?” he wondered.

  “No. You may just as well allow Justine to clean it as requested. But before you do, let’s have a word with her.”

  They marched to the kitchen where they found Justine washing the dishes. Gaspard had left to care for the animals, Justine explained. They all sat down by the kitchen table.

  “I have a question for you, Justine”. Rimbaud said. “On the night of Monsieur Lafarge’s death, Gaspard confirmed that he helped his father to bed. However, the fireplace in his bedroom was not lit, which he said was something you did for him on cold evenings. Is this correct?”

  “Yes”, Justine replied. “When Gaspard came out, I went into Monsieur Patrice’s bedroom with the carafe of water he insisted on always having on the table by his bed. It was an unusually cold evening for early May, so I lit the fire in the fireplace. Then I left and closed the door behind me.”

  “You didn’t lock it?”

  “No, how could I?”

  “Did you return later to rekindle the fire?”

  “No, that was never a chore of mine.”

  “I know that Inspector Rimbaud has taken a declaration from all of those present on the weekend of the fire”, Aunt Emilie said. “There is, however, something I believe he didn’t inquire about and that I’m interested in. Can you give me the details of what you ate and drank during Monsieur Lafarge’s last meal?”

  Rimbaud looked at her with surprise. What could the food and drink consumed on the eve his demise possibly have to do with Lafarge's death?

  In an apparent effort to recall every detail of the meal, as well as the different beverages consumed before, during and after it, Justine complied with her request. Rimbaud made a note of everything, while Aunt Emilie seemed to trust her memory. When Justine had finished, Aunt Emilie thanked her and told her nephew it was time for them to leave.

  “Oh, there’s one more thing”, Aunt Emilie said, turning to Justine. “Monsieur Lafarge had decided to change his testament, and his plan was to tell his children when they arrived to celebrate his birthday, is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “Did he tell you to inform them about the testament when you invited his children for the weekend?”

  Justine appeared awkward for the first time.

  “No, he wanted to tell them himself.”

  “Yet, according to the interviews Inspector Rimbaud later conducted with them, they were all informed that some changes were going to made in the will. Apparently, this is what really motivated them to travel from places as far as Paris and Bordeaux.”

  “Well … perhaps I made a slip of the tongue … Monsieur Lafarge had told me –“

  “Why would he tell you, his housekeeper, about such an important detail, do you think?”

  Justine turned red, visibly showing resentment over Aunt Emilie’s comment.

  “I was his housekeeper for eighteen years, and he often talked with me about his worries that Clos Saint-Jacques would be sold once he was gone. His children only wanted the money, he often said. Then, one day when he came back from talking with his lawyer, he was quite happy and said he had found a solution by changing his testament. That’s when he asked me to call them all with an invitation for his birthday.”

  “I see.” Aunt Emilie smiled sympathetically. “Thank you, Justine. Jean-Claude, I believe we are ready to go back to Bercy now.”

  Chapter XXXI

  Patrice Lafarge’s last meal revisited

  THE MENU

  Red wine: 1930 Clos Saint-Jacques

  *

  Assorted cold meats and sausages

  *

  Stuffed goose with potatoes and garden vegetables

  *

  Assorted cheeses

  Digestif: 1916 Château de Armagnac

  It was when Emilie was going through the laborious task of repeating Patrice Lafarge’s final meal that she stopped as a thought of understanding flashed unexpectedly through her head.

  Yes, of course – that’s it! she thought as she stopped tying the bird after stuffing its guts with dried fruits, spices, leaves and berries. The goose is the key!

  Cooking the goose for the next five hours gave her plenty of time to go over every aspect of the crime based on the inspiration the bird had provided her with. Expertly, she kept it cooking at a low temperature, watching it from a kitchen chair.

  At two o’clock on the hour she heard her nephew’s bicycle approaching on the gravel leading up to her cottage. She smiled broadly at Rimbaud as he entered the low-ceilinged room.

  “To get into the appropriate mood”, Emilie greeted him, “I’ve recreated the dinner on the day of the murder. Do test the wine from Clos Saint-Jacques with some cold cuts while I finish preparing the goose.”

  “How’s that?” the police inspector inquired surprised. “What do you mean by 'appropriate mood'?"

  “You’ll soon understand what I mean”, she replied gaily and went to the oven to turn it off. “You see, I think I solved the case with the help of this goose.”

  Rimbaud looked at her as if perhaps she was in need of psychiatric assistance.

  “What has the goose to do with this quite complicated case, auntie?” he ventured. “Surely you don’t want to introduce yet another element into this affair … and a goose to boot?!”

  “Of course not, Jean-Cl
aude”, she calmed him by patting his sleeve. “Now we’ll eat the meal I’ve prepared, while you tell me all the news you’ve learnt about the investigation since we last saw each other.”

  She placed the platter with the steaming goose on the table between them.

  “The body has been released by the morgue”, Jean-Claude offered. “My, when you opened that oven door, I felt a sudden burst of saliva threatening to drown me. What is it you have in that paradise of yours that smells so deliciously?”

  “Just the goose I told you about, Jean-Claude, a mere goose at this point. Now, if Patrice Lafarge’s body has been released by the authorities, I assume the burial will take place soon?”

  “After consulting his close relatives, it has been agreed that it will take place this coming Saturday.”

  “You mean you have consulted his children?”

  “Yes. They have all approved the date for the funeral.”

  “Good”, Aunt Emilie said as she cut the first slice of the goose and served her nephew. “It means they will all once again be assembled here in Bercy.”

  She straightened up and studied Rimbaud with her intelligent eyes.

  “It also means that together you and I shall take a last farewell of an old schoolmate of mine, before taking advantage of the customary subsequent family gathering to ask a few very precise questions.”

  “I do have some important questioning in mind”, Rimbaud replied. “The bank manager in Annecy, where Patrice Lafarge had his cheque account, called me this morning. Apparently, someone called Alphonse Charrière tried to collect a cheque in Paris on two occasions. The second time he was successful.”

  “Perhaps it was some purveyor who Patrice had paid?”

  “I doubt that very much. When I met with Constance in Paris, I remember her calling a man in her flat Alphonse. I think she stole Patrice Lafarge’s chequebook and is now spending his money. With the bank manager’s assistance, I blocked the account from further misuse some time ago, and I’m more than surprised that this Alphonse managed to collect on the cheque despite this fact. I’m going to Annecy tomorrow to have a long talk with the manager. It nevertheless gives Constance Lafarge a motive and again makes her the prime suspect.”

  Chapter XXXII

  Patrice Lafarge’s funeral

  Patrice Lafarge’s burial was a sombre affair. A gentle drizzle made the event gloomier still. There were, however, no tears shed either in the church or during the lowering of the casket in the graveyard. Besides Patrice's four children, Michel’s wife, Roland Lafarge and his wife, Justine and the priest, the only other attendants at the ceremony were Inspector Rimbaud, Aunt Emilie, Hervé Bonnard and two other lifelong friends of Patrice Lafarge.

  After the dry-eyed ceremony, the priest and Patrice’s old friends left. The rest returned to the house where the deceased had met his final fate. They all made themselves comfortable in the drawing room. Gaspard started building a fire in the fireplace to keep the damp day at bay. Justine disappeared into the kitchen for the hors d’oeuvres she had prepared earlier. Michel opened a bottle of sherry, and after filling it he handed a glass each to those present.

  “It’s indeed a tragic day”, Michel ventured.

  Rimbaud detected a note of hypocrisy in Michel’s voice.

  “You've been investigating for three weeks now, Inspector Rimbaud. Have you come any closer to finding out what really happened?” he continued.

  “I’ve been working to find the motive that anyone might have had for the crime”, Rimbaud confessed. “However, I’ve not yet come to any conclusion.”

  “Could it be that the coroner got it wrong, and that the death was indeed accidental?”

  Justine came in with a large tray laden with the foodstuff she had prepared and placed it on the table. When it looked as if she was returning to the kitchen, Aunt Emilie spoke up for the first time.

  “Please sit down, Justine. What I’m about to say concerns you as much as all the others present. You did help putting out the fire, after all.”

  After a slight hesitation, she obeyed. Looking demure, she took a chair close to the fireplace.

  “No, Michel, the coroner didn’t make a mistake when he declared that your father’s death was murder”, Aunt Emilie continued. ”Twenty-three days have gone by since Patrice Lafarge was killed in the room next to the one where we are now gathered. I knew Patrice since we were children. We were at school together, although he was five years older. Now I’d like to share with you how Patrice’s killer attempted to get away with the murder.”

  All present looked at her with surprise, and none less so than Rimbaud.

  “I’ve been turning the events over and over again in my head, and I assure you that it hasn’t been easy to reach the right conclusions. The first and most obvious one is, of course, that it’s impossible to commit a murder in a room that’s been locked from the inside, where no one but the asphyxiated victim is present. Barring a secret access to the room, the answer must be that someone resorted to a deception of sorts, some clever trick to make everyone believe that it was an accident in an attempt to pull wool over everyone’s eyes.”

  They all watched her intently.

  “I’ve personally been able to confirm that there is no secret access. That leaves us with the trickery. The person who killed Patrice Lafarge did so by entering the bedroom around midnight, which is the approximate time he died according to the coroner. Five people were present in this house that night. Although all have presented alibis, no one lacks a motive. But, before we get into that, let’s start with how the murder was committed.”

  Aunt Emilie sipped the last of her sherry. She looked appreciative when Michel offered to replenish her glass.

  “After the extended luncheon and several glasses of Armagnac consumed in front of this fireplace, Patrice Lafarge announced that he wanted to retire. A little before eleven, Gaspard helped him to bed. Justine followed them. As usual, she left a carafe of water by his bedside and, on this rather cold night, started a fire in the bedroom’s fireplace. I may add here that the conjecture Michel offered when my nephew interviewed him after the fire is completely false.”

  Michel’s face took on a scarlet colour and looked as if wanted to protest.

  “His theory was that your father got up during the night and rekindled the fire. If that had been the case, he wouldn’t have been found dead with his feet where the pillow was, exactly like Gaspard has described how he left him. No, what really happened was that, a little later after everyone else had gone to bed, the murderer went to Patrice’s bedroom and put a pillow over his head until he was smothered from lack of oxygen. However, none of this explains how, six hours later, the room was found locked from the inside.”

  Aunt Emilie looked around, taking her time to meet the gaze of everyone present. She had their full attention.

  “I began asking myself what unusual events had taken place before his death. The most obvious detail was that, after all these years, Patrice suddenly wanted to be able to lock his bedroom door. So he asked Gaspard to make a copy of the missing key. I think this circumstance can be explained by the fact that Patrice didn’t want his property to be sold or converted into a business venture after his death. He wanted to conserve it as it was, the way he had always enjoyed it. He knew that his children wanted to exploit it one way or another for their economic benefit – the one exception, perhaps, being Gaspard.”

  They all turned to look at Gaspard, whose face went red from their scrutiny.

  “But let’s go back to the mystery of the door that had been locked from the inside after the murder. The only other unusual circumstance taking place before Patrice’s death that I have detected was his birthday – and the gifts his children brought him.”

  Her audience displayed their disbelief at the statement the elderly woman was making so confidently. Michel and Henri began protesting. Constance stood up, clearly angered. Gaspard looked bewildered, seemingly not able to follow her train of thought. J
ustine, with her face pale, curled up with her arms across her shoulders. Rimbaud watched her with his mouth open and wondered why his aunt hadn’t told him all this beforehand.

  “If you think more carefully about it, your gifts had an impact on your father's last hours.”

  “How can my bookcase have had anything to do with his murder?!” Henri protested vehemently.

  “Indirectly it did, Henri”, Aunt Emilie replied calmly. “You see, when you brought it, its obvious place was here in the drawing room. For lack of space, the grandfather clock was moved into Patrice’s bedroom.”

  “I still fail to see that this should have anything to do with my father’s death!” Henri exclaimed.

  “Then Michel arrived with bottles of liqueurs and Armagnac, which Patrice indulged in to excess. He did it to such degree that he had to be helped to bed by an obliging Gaspard, where he remained profoundly asleep.”

  “Are you insinuating that drinking the Armagnac I brought him is part of some murder plot?” Michel asked coldly.

  “Yes – I am. And then the fire spread causing the smoke thanks to the large, fluffy morning gown Constance had given him.”

  Constance muttered something incoherent from behind her fists.

  “You’re making no sense at all with these farfetched conjectures”, Michel offered.

  “Now, for how the crime was committed”, Aunt Emilie continued, unperturbed. “Quite ingenious, really. Some time before midnight the murderer entered the bedroom, took the carafe Justine had placed in the room and doused the morning gown so that it would provoke heavy smoke once it had caught fire. Next a candle was placed near it, probably wrapped in cotton or something similar to make certain the fire spread quickly.”

  “That doesn’t explain how our father locked the door from the inside!” Constance protested.

  “That came next. The assassin wanted Patrice’s death to look like an accident, and to cause this illusion used this little piece of metal.”

  Aunt Emilie brought out the little bent scrap of metal she had found during her inspection of the bedroom.