SEASON OF SNOWS
AND SINS
Patricia Moyes
FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK
Born in Dublin in 1923, Patricia (“Penny”) Packenham-Walsh was just 16 when WWII came calling, but she lied about her age and joined the WAAF (the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force), eventually becoming a flight officer and an expert in radar. Based on that expertise, she was named technical advisor to a film that Sir Peter Ustinov was making about the discovery of radar, and went on to act as his personal assistant for eight years, followed by five years in the editorial department of British Vogue.
When she was in her late 30s, while recuperating from a skiing accident, she scribbled out her first novel, Dead Men Don’t Ski, and a new career was born. Dead Men featured Inspector Henry Tibbett of Scotland Yard, equipped with both a bloodhound’s nose for crime and an easy-going wife; the two of them are both a formidable sleuthing team and an image of happy, productive marriage, and it’s that double picture that makes the Tibbett series so deeply satisfying. While the Tibbett books were written in the second half of the 20th century, there is something both timeless and classic about them; they feel of a piece with the Golden Age of British Detective Fiction.
Patricia Moyes died in 2000. The New York Times once famously noted that, as a writer, she “made drug dealing look like bad manners rather than bad morals.” That comment may once have been rather snarky, but as we are increasingly forced to acknowledge the foulness that can arise from unchecked bad manners, Inspector Henry Tibbett—a man of unflinching good manners, among other estimable traits—becomes a hero we can all get behind.
For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover from lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
—A. C. Swinburne, Atalanta in Calydon
CONTENTS
Part 1: Jane
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part 2: Emmy
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part 3: Sylvie
Chapter Ten
Part 4: Emmy
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part 5: Jane
Epilogue
Jane
CHAPTER ONE
THOUGH I SAY it myself, it was the wedding of the year in Montarraz. Robert Drivaz’s wedding to Anne-Marie Durey, I mean. This may seem rather strange to you, if you happen to remember all that fuss in the papers in January when Giselle Arnay, the French film star, celebrated her runaway marriage to the pop singer Michel Veron, in her “Swiss mountain hideout.” So secret were the preparations for Mlle. Arnay’s third excursion into matrimony that, several days ahead of the event, Montarraz was invaded by a small army of journalists, television interviewers, gossip writers, show-biz columnists, fashion experts, and all the rest of the circus—all fighting for rooms in the already full hotels, swarming over the après-ski cafés and nightclubs, and generally making life hideous. But that was different. That was during the season. Arnay and Veron were visitors. The world might make a nine-day wonder of their nuptials, but Montarraz did not.
By contrast, Robert Drivaz—son of the widow Drivaz from the grocery—married Anne-Marie Durey at the end of April, when the last of the visitors had departed, and the people of Montarraz were settling down thankfully to count their takings from a bumper winter season and to resume their own private lives for a while.
Giselle Arnay was married in the hôtel de ville, wearing an ankle-length ermine coat, black patent-leather thigh boots, huge dark glasses, and a diamond ring the size of a walnut. Anne-Marie was married in the little Roman Catholic chapel on the mountainside, wearing a white cotton dress which she had made herself, and a veil held in place by a circlet of artificial orange blossoms. She carried a small bouquet of gentian which Robert himself had gathered that morning from the meadows below the village.
Robert Drivaz looked bronzed and improbably handsome, if a little awkward, in his best blue suit—which was rather too small for him—and when he led Anne-Marie down the aisle from the altar, everybody cried. Michel Veron at his wedding looked haggard and pale—what you could see of him, that is, behind dark glasses even larger than his bride’s—his shoulder-length hair sprawled untidily over the collar of his fringed suede topcoat, and nobody cried. The only thing which the two weddings had in common was that both were well-attended, and large quantities of alcohol were consumed afterward.
At this stage, I should perhaps explain how it came about that I, Jane Weston, was the only foreigner present at Anne-Marie’s wedding—and, indeed, what I was doing at all in the village of Montarraz, high up in the mountains in the Swiss canton of Valais. In fact, I had better introduce myself. I’ll be as brief as I can.
I am English, and at the time when this story begins I was forty-seven years old, and had been a widow for six months. My husband had left me a modest but adequate income, which I supplemented when I could by selling my work, being a sculptor by profession.
Left alone, I had no desire to stay in England. On the contrary, I longed to cut the ties which had now become painful—the lopsided friendships with other couples, the consciousness of the empty place at the dinner table, the unspoken “poor Jane” in other people’s eyes. I wanted to make a new life and new friends, to turn the page definitively, not to live in the past. I also loved high places and spoke good French; so I did not hesitate when Meriel Blunt, the portrait painter, offered me the indefinite use of a small chalet in Montarraz.
“It sounds marvelous,” I said.
Meriel made a face. “It’s not,” she said. “It’s pure hell, and I don’t want you to be under any illusions about it. It’s utterly primitive—one cold tap and a coke stove. Charlie inherited it from an obscure uncle who used to spend his time climbing mountains and collecting alpine flora. In his day, it must have been picturesque, even if uncomfortable—Montarraz was just a tiny village, with a few cows and a church. Now…” She shrugged expressively. “At the latest count, there were thirty hotels, three télécabines, six nightclubs, and about a hundred apartment blocks of varying hideousness. One is actually being built right in front of the chalet, which will completely block the view which was the one compensation. The only reason we haven’t sold the place is that Charlie says land values are rocketing, and he’s determined to hang on until some millionaire pays him a fortune in Swiss francs for the privilege of knocking down the horrid little house and building an even more horrid concrete box on the site. So sordid.” Charlie, Meriel’s husband, was a successful businessman.
“I don’t care what it’s like,” I said. “I shall love it.”
“I think you’re mad,” said Meriel, “but if you’re determined to move to Switzerland, at least it’ll be a roof over your head until you find somewhere better.”
And so, after many formalities, I established myself as an official resident of the Valais, and moved to Montarraz—the only non-Swiss, as far as I could make out, who proposed to live all the year round in the village. Every winter, just before Christmas, the polyglot avalanche of winter sportsmen began to arrive. Until the end of March, the village glittered and quivered
and burst at the seams under the relentless pressure of a lot of money chasing a good time. Then, in April, the tide retreated just as abruptly, and sweet peace flowed back up the valley. Hotels shut their doors while the proprietors took a well-earned holiday, and only a few pensions remained open to accommodate the handful of earnest middle-aged Germans and English who tramped the mountains in leather shorts or sensible tweeds in search of wildflowers.
In August a brief, strange summer season burst into bloom. Cut-price-tour operators propelled a spate of cut-price tourists into the “special-summer-rate” hotel rooms (for all but the most eccentric of wealthy holiday-makers head for the sea in summer). Many of these visitors were English, and the terrace cafés, which abounded in sables and vicuña in February, now found themselves entertaining braces, shirtsleeves, floral cottons, and useful cardigans. Whereas winter visitors tended to come back to Montarraz year after year, we seldom saw the same faces two summers running.
“We’ll save up for Spain next year, Arthur. I mean, there’s nothing to do here, is there? Just walk, I mean. See this card Mabel and Ron sent from Majorca? Now, that’s more my idea of a holiday.”
“At least it’s cheap here, Doris.”
“Cheap, is it? Oh, the inclusive is cheap, that I do grant you. But do you know what they charged me for a small gin and orange in that bar up the mountain? Robbery, I call it, and I told them so; Mabel says drinks are ever so cheap in Majorca…”
So September comes, the summer migrants fly away home, grumbling, and the best time of the year begins. The deciduous trees turn the mountainsides into blazing gold, the sun shines in a fresh blue sky, the first new snow falls on the high peaks, and the village becomes a village again, for those short months until the Christmas invasion.
I moved into the tiny chalet called Les Sapins at the end of September, and this in itself was enough to make me an object of extreme curiosity. Curiosity—but not, at first, friendliness. The Valaisans are a small, dark, secret people. There is no malice in them, but they do not squander their precious friendship. The quick-smiling enthusiasm with which they greet winter tourists is deceptive. It is a form of extreme good manners, which should not be mistaken for an invitation to intimacy.
I was not a winter visitor. I had arrived, apparently on a permanent footing, just as the village was gathering itself to itself for its annual spell of privacy. It was silly of me to feel depressed and lonely, because everybody was kind and correct, and I had no right to expect any more of them. And yet…
For a start, Meriel had been quite right about Les Sapins. From the outside, as I drove up in my ancient little car, it looked enchanting—an illustration from a Christmas calendar. Built of dark wood on little stilts, beneath which winter firewood was neatly stacked, its small windows peeped out from under steep, carved eaves, and the front door was flanked by two small wooden balconies. Inside, however, things were undeniably bleak.
There were four tiny rooms opening onto a narrow hall, in which a large black stove glared at me in cold menace. One of the rooms contained the single cold tap, and this was the combined kitchen-bathroom—that is to say, there was a sink under the tap, and a tin bath with an outlet pipe. My old cooking stove, connected to a bottle of liquid gas, completed the modern conveniences. The lavatory was of the kind known as a chemical closet, and stood in a lean-to shed outside the back door. All the rooms were very dark, and oil lamps provided the only artificial light. The sole concession to modernity was the telephone.
My first, horrified thought was, “Where am I going to work?” Meriel had talked gaily of a studio in the garden, but the inside of the house had lowered my spirits to such an extent that I could not believe the dépendance would be anything but a windowless hovel. Fortunately, I was wrong.
Les Sapins stood in its own half-acre of land—the plot from which Meriel’s Charlie hoped to reap such rich rewards. The pine trees which had given the chalet its name had now disappeared, and—as I had been warned—a breeze-block construction was rising to a height of four stories right opposite the front door, on the downhill side of the private track which led down from the main road. The superb view over the Rhône valley, which Les Sapins had once enjoyed, was now the prerogative of the south-facing windows of this new block, while all I could look forward to was a panorama of the building’s north-facing main entrance and car park. Farther along the track, on the same level as Les Sapins, was another chalet of about the same size, but in rather better repair. What I had not realized at first sight was that the steep meadow between the two chalets was all part of my domain, and only when I explored it did I see the long, low building standing among the apple and cherry trees, nearer to the other chalet than to mine.
By the look of it, it had once been a stone-built cowshed, but Charlie’s uncle had renovated it, presumably for use as a garage. He had concreted the floor, reglazed the windows, and installed a stove similar to the one in the house. Most important of all, he had fitted a big pair of stable doors on the southern side, through which, when I dragged them open, the bright mountain sunshine flooded; and, as an additional bonus, the view from here was not blocked by the new building. So I had space to work, with light and heat. I was overjoyed. It even made up for the lavatory.
As I said, the going was fairly sticky at first. I made the acquaintance of Mme. Drivaz, with her plump friendly smile and calculating little eyes, who presided over the grocery in the main street; of Mlle. Simonet, the stout, monosyllabic spinster who ran the bakery; of M. Frey from the dairy. M. Monnet, the wizened little carpenter, came to make me a workbench for the studio, and M. Brasseur delivered a load of coal for the winter. But wherever I went, I seemed always to be giving out information, never receiving it. Always answering questions, never asking them. Very soon, everyone in the village must have known all about me, but I felt that I knew nothing about them. I was an outsider, isolated. The breakthrough began with Anne-Marie.
As soon as I had settled into Les Sapins, I decided to get down to some work. I was lucky in that I had a definite commission to work on—oh, nothing very grand, but a good incentive. A wealthy stockbroker friend of my late husband’s had asked me to do a small sculpture to put in his Chelsea garden. Neither he nor his wife was particularly artistic, as they cheerfully admitted, and they gave me a free hand. Just something about three feet high that would look good on the pedestal under the trellis arch which mercifully obscured their view of Lot’s Road power station.
I had intended to do them one of the abstract forms with which I had been experimenting, but somehow it would not come right. I made sketches and models, and only succeeded in producing lifeless shapes, like exercises in proportion. It took quite some time to dawn on me that what I was really hankering for was to step backward to the realism which I thought I had left behind forever. In my isolation, I longed to create a human form, to people my small world. Well, the stockbroker and his wife would probably prefer a conventional nymph in their garden to an elongated sphere with a hole in it. The only trouble was that I would need a model.
The Café de la Source was just about the only restaurant which stayed open all the year round, and so, inevitably, it was there that I went on the rare occasions when I treated myself to a break from my own cooking. It was small, unpretentious, and scrupulously clean, with a typically alpine paneled interior and red gingham tablecloths, and it was much patronized by the local people. It was owned by a large, genial man by the name of Bertrand, who presided over the bar, and his small, energetic wife, who was a good plain cook. I must have been aware of the fact that they also had a young girl to help them, but quite honestly I had never noticed her—until that particular October evening when I finally tore up my last sketch for an abstract form and decided to go down to the Source for steak and fried potatoes.
It so happened that the café was busier than usual. M. Bienne, the local house agent, was entertaining a couple who were obviously important clients—a big, smooth, smiling man in a beautifully cut sui
t, and a small, gently pretty woman in cashmere and mink. From their accents, I guessed that they came from Paris, and were almost certainly negotiating to buy one of the new chalets or apartments which were mushrooming all over the village.
There was also a large party of soldiers—or rather, of young men temporarily in uniform, doing their annual military service in the region—as well as the usual smattering of local people. The Bertrands had their hands full, and so, for once, it was not Mme. Bertrand who bustled up to take my order, but the young servant girl. And so I took a proper look at Anne-Marie for the first time.
She was shy and awkward, and obviously overawed at her promotion from washing-up and clearing-away to actually waiting at table. Her golden hair was drawn harshly away from her face and screwed into an ugly bun on the crown of her head, her hands were large and reddened by hot water, and her nose was shining with sweat. Nevertheless, she was unquenchably lovely. Nothing could spoil the perfect line of her jaw, her wide cheekbones and pointed chin, her little straight nose and long, slender neck. She wiped her hands on her apron, thrust the well-worn menu card under my nose, and said, “Madame désire?”
I ordered my steak and chips, and then said, “What’s your name?”
She blushed violently. “Anne-Marie, madame.”
“Have you been working here long?”
“Six months, madame.”
“Do you enjoy it?’
She said nothing, tongue-tied with embarrassment. Then Mme. Bertrand called her sharply, and the girl turned and ran clumsily around the bar and through the swing door that led to the kitchen.
The next day I went back to the Café de la Source at eleven o’clock in the morning, when I knew things would be quiet. As I had hoped, there was no sign of the Bertrands—only Anne-Marie polishing glasses behind the bar. I sat down on a bar stool and ordered a coffee. Then I said, “Do you know who I am, Anne-Marie?”
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