Season of Snows and Sins

by Patricia Moyes

  “Emmy has,” said Henry.

  Jane immediately wanted to know how she was, when the baby was due, what we could do to help. The change in her was quite astonishing. I told her all I could about my meeting with Anne-Marie, and then Henry took over.

  “I’m trying to help her in the most practical way I can,” he said. “I’m no good at knitting baby clothes, and in any case, I don’t think that’s the point. What I want to do is to prove that she’s innocent.”

  A cloud crossed Jane’s face. “Oh, Henry,” she said, “you’ll never be able to do that.”

  “Why do you say so?”

  “Well…” Jane shrugged hopelessly. “Me, for one thing.”

  “What do you mean—you?”

  “My evidence. You can’t get away from it.”

  Henry said, “I’d like to talk to you about it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. But what good can it possibly do? We might just as well talk about the weather.”

  Henry smiled. “It’s funny you should say that!”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s exactly what I do want to talk about, Jane. The weather.”

  “The weather?’ Jane looked at Henry as though he had taken leave of his senses. “What on earth…?”

  “The weather on the day that Robert was killed,” Henry said.

  Jane frowned. “I can’t see what that has to do with—”

  Henry said, “Just think back, Jane, and tell me about the weather that day.”

  Jane laughed, a little embarrassed. “Oh, really. How silly can you get? All right. It was a cold morning, but sunny. I remember, because Herbert went out during the night, and I woke up frozen. It got much warmer at midday, of course, but after lunch the clouds began to come up, and it got colder again. I lit the stove in the studio after lunch. It grew steadily more cloudy, and then it started to rain. That’s when I packed up working, because there wasn’t enough light.”

  “And it was also when you saw Anne-Marie going back from Panoralpes to her own chalet?”

  “That’s right.”

  Henry leaned forward. “Jane,” he said, “are you absolutely certain it was raining?”

  “Yes, of course I am. I told you—”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Well—because it was. That’s all.”

  Henry said, “Mario remarked in court that it was a nice day.”

  “It wasn’t a bad day,” Jane conceded. “Earlier on, that is. But just before five it suddenly got dark and started to rain. Why would I have stopped working otherwise?”

  “Look, Jane,” said Henry, “I don’t want to be rude, but Emmy and I have seen, these last few days, how you get completely and utterly wrapped up in your work when you’re going flat out. Were you—like that—then?”

  Jane had gone slightly pink. “I was working hard, yes.”

  “And so—forgive me—your evidence might be unreliable.”

  Jane put down her knife and fork with a clatter. “That’s not fair, Henry. You know perfectly well that I’d have done anything to help Anne-Marie. If I’d had any idea how damning my evidence was going to be, I might even have cheated and kept my mouth shut. You can’t imagine that I’d have made up false evidence…”

  “No, no. Of course not, Jane. This is the way I’m thinking. You were absorbed in work, to the exclusion of everything else. It grew too dark to go on, so you stopped. And you jumped to the conclusion that it had started to rain. Why?”

  “Because it was raining.” Jane sounded near to exasperation.

  “No,” said Henry.

  “What?”

  “I said ‘No.’ It couldn’t have been raining.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Jane demanded.

  I must say, I was with her. How could Henry know it had not been raining?

  Henry said, “The police made a great point of the fact that the murderer must have approached the chalet along the swept path, because there was unbroken snow lying on the fields around about.”

  “I know that,” said Jane.

  “When we were in Charonne, in the newspaper office,” said Henry, “I took a look at the copies of the Gazette de Charonne for the day of the murder and the day after.”

  “Oh,” said Jane with disdain. “Journalistic nonsense. Sensational—”

  “I looked,” said Henry, “at the weather reports. The forecast, and the actual conditions. I noted down the figures.” He pulled out his notebook and opened it. “On April 14, the limit of zero degrees was at eight hundred meters, and didn’t rise above that level all day.”

  “Well?”

  “Montarraz village,” said Henry, “is at an altitude of fifteen hundred meters. If anything had fallen here, it would not have been rain. It would have been snow.”

  There was a long silence. Jane was nodding her head slowly as she worked out the implications. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, you’re right. And there was no snow—otherwise the police would have admitted that footprints might have been covered up. Anyway—well, I know it didn’t snow.” She sounded deeply puzzled.

  “So,” said Henry, “I ask you to think again. What gave you this conviction that it was raining?”

  Another long pause. Jane said, “I don’t know… I can’t think…” And then suddenly, “Of course! The umbrella!”

  “What umbrella?”

  “When Anne-Marie came past the studio door, back from Panoralpes to her chalet, she was running and sheltering under an umbrella. So naturally I assumed it was raining.”

  Henry looked at her. There was a long silence. Then Jane said, “Oh, my God. All right, Henry, don’t bother to say it. You’re right. I didn’t actually see her face. But it was Anne-Marie.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well—she was wearing her blue overall—the one she was wearing when she went over, earlier…”

  “The one she always wore for housework,” Henry pointed out. “Which is obtainable at any branch of the local chain store.”

  Again Jane said, “Oh, my God.”

  “Dear Jane,” said Henry, “don’t be so distressed. You may have been right. It may have been Anne-Marie you saw. On the other hand, it may not. It could have been anybody—anybody of about Anne-Marie’s height and build, dressed in a blue overall, hiding her face under an umbrella.” He leaned across the table and took Jane’s hand. “Jane, Jane. Don’t cry. Don’t you see—this is the breakthrough? It could have been anybody.”

  Sylvie

  Extracts from the private diary of Mme. Sylvie Claudet

  (translated from the original French)

  CHAPTER TEN

  TUESDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER

  I’m so terribly worried about Chantal. Sometimes it seems that for years I’ve been trying to shield her from the consequences of her own foolishness—and I suppose that this in itself is an admission of failure. If I had succeeded, I would have been able to stop her from being foolish in the first place, instead of eternally trying to patch things up afterward.

  There’s this drug thing. Oh, I know that people like Giselle and Michel and Mario and—yes, let’s face it—like me haven’t made things easy for her. But I’m reasonably sure she’s been on the hard stuff for some time. I’ve never mentioned it, of course. Neither has she. We love each other too much to risk hurting each other. She manages very well, I must say. I mean, it’s not obvious. Not yet. Still, I can’t help worrying.

  It wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t for this business of poor Anne-Marie. Heaven knows, I did all I could—paid thousands for the girl’s defense, and so on—but now this extraordinary little Englishman is stirring it all up again. Why? If he were a Frenchman, I’d think it was political—trying to get at Pierre through me. Can it be that he’s employed by one of Pierre’s political enemies? We must be very, very careful. I must be careful. I must protect Pierre, and myself, and Chantal. Whatever she may have done. God knows what she may have done.


  That day—the day Robert Drivaz was killed. Chantal had my car. Did she really have a near-miss with a lorry at Versailles? Where was she? The Englishman said she could have driven to Montarraz and back. So she could—it hadn’t occurred to me. I tried to make it sound impossible when I talked to him, but I know it’s not. Chantal could have driven here and back.

  Tomorrow, we all go up the mountain for something called a raclette picnic. It will be horrible, that I know. But I must go, because I must know what this Englishman is doing, what he is thinking, and how it affects Chantal. Thank God Pierre is safely in Paris. Did I say “safely”? I hope so.

  Then there’s Giselle. What did she mean, talking about frivolities? I’m fond of Giselle, there’s no harm in her, and she did as I asked and posed for Jane and made a fuss of the English couple. But Michel is a different matter. Michel and Mario. There’s danger. I should never have let Chantal go and stay at Perce-neige without me—but how could I stop her, when I was on a ghastly yacht in Menton? What has she been saying? How much does Mario know? What did he mean when he telephoned me in Paris?

  “Giselle is very concerned about Chantal. She thinks you should come to Montarraz at once.” Of course I came. Now Giselle says she isn’t in the least worried about Chantal, and she had no idea Mario had rung me; and all he will do is smile, and walk away. I wish Pierre were here.

  Wednesday, 9 September

  Well, the raclette picnic is over, and it was just as grisly as I feared it would be. Chantal, very sensibly, refused to come; so did Michel. But for some reason Giselle developed an extraordinary enthusiasm for the beastly outing—so of course she persuaded Jane to take a break from work and come along to. So there were five of us, the Tibbetts, Jane, Giselle, and myself.

  The weather was lovely—and when you’ve said that, you’ve said everything. Thank God, I insisted on driving up—at least, as near as one could get to the place. Apparently, they usually walk. It was quite a pretty clearing in the trees, and Henry started piling up stones to make a hearth, while the rest of us were told to collect firewood. This was utter disaster to my hands—I had a manicure only yesterday—so I left Giselle and the Tibbett woman to do it and went with Jane to fill the saucepan at a nearby stream.

  I don’t know what’s the matter with Jane. She’s usually a nice enough creature—not very…what can I say?…not very mondaine, but a good-hearted, useful sort of woman. Today she was almost unfriendly. She looked at me in the strangest way. Or am I imagining things?

  Anyhow, we filled the damned saucepan—in the process I splashed my new Pucci shirt. I had to make a joke of it, but of course it’s ruined. Then we were all expected to sit on the grass around this filthy, smoking fire—I suppose I shouldn’t have worn my white silk trousers, but it never occurred to me we wouldn’t even have a rug to sit on. Giselle, of course, was in her element—she wore her old blue jeans, and soon had her face smeared with charcoal; she also removed her shoes and walked around barefoot. She is a curious girl. Anyhow, she did toast my cheese for me—the grisly idea is that everyone does their own, so that you all end up like chimney sweeps.

  When the grim rites were finally over, Jane and Emmy lay down under the trees and went to sleep. Giselle wandered off on her own, the way she does—which left me with the Englishman. I can’t make him out. Petit bourgeois and insignificant, I thought at first—now, I’m not so sure. One thing—he’s persistent. Why couldn’t he leave it alone, instead of stirring up…what? Oh, Chantal…

  I played it as cool as I could—after all, there’s no sense in wrecking a Pucci shirt and a pair of silk pants for nothing. I said, “Did Giselle talk to you yesterday?”

  “Yes,” he said. Just like that. Nothing more.

  I tried again. “Did she tell you what Robert said to her in Paris?”

  “No.” He was filling his pipe with that awful deliberation that Englishmen use when they want to be awkward.

  “Oh, well,” I said, “I expect she will one day. Giselle is a funny girl. You have to catch her at the right moment.”

  That did produce a response of a sort. He said, “It would be surprising if she told me, considering that she denies ever having seen him in Paris.”

  I suppose it was wicked of me, but my heart gave a little jump of joy. If Giselle was going to tell such transparent lies, she was bound to attract suspicion to herself. Away from Chantal. How could I convince this Tibbett that Giselle had been lying, without seeming eager to denounce her? I said, “I told you, she’s a strange person. For her, the truth is what she wants it to be, at any particular moment. It’s all part of the artistic thing.”

  “Is it really?” His voice was dry and edged, and I realized—I simply hadn’t noticed before—that we were speaking in French. I must remember to be careful what I say in front of him; one assumes a foreigner will not understand.

  “And then—” I said, and deliberately hesitated.

  “And then what?”

  “Well.” I smiled. “Giselle and Michel put up an impeccable front, of course. They have to, because of the publicity. But actually, some of their parties are…well, a bit wild. It’s just possible that she might have seen Robert, and not even remembered afterward.”

  He looked at me sharply and said, “You told me she had telephoned you with an account of the meeting.”

  It was true—so I had. A slip there. I said, “That’s quite right, but it was late at night. She said he had just left. It’s possible she doesn’t remember anything about the telephone call, either.”

  Tibbett said, “Giselle denies that Robert Drivaz was ever anything more than her ski instructor. She agrees that he turned up at her house in Paris, demanding to see her. But she says that she was out, and that Mario sent him packing. She says that Drivaz was drunk and abusive.”

  “How does she know that, if she wasn’t there?” I tried to make it sound casual.

  “I presume that Mario told her.”

  “Oh, Mario.” I sighed, and was silent. What could I say about Mario that wouldn’t…well…lead this Tibbett man deeper into things that were no concern of his. I went on, more brightly, “In any case, this is all academic, isn’t it? I mean, we’re all fearfully sorry for Anne-Marie, and we’ll do all we can for her and for the baby—but there’s no doubt that she killed Robert.” I paused again. “After all, three years in the convent isn’t forever. My husband is not a poor man, and he has a lot of influence. You can rest assured that we will do…” I hesitated, choosing my words; “…that we’re in a position to do more for Anne-Marie than…anyone else. If it seems desirable, we’ll get her baby back from its grandmother—in due course. There’s no sense in rushing things. Surely for the moment it’s best to leave things as they are, and not stir up trouble.”

  There was a long silence. Tibbett puffed at his pipe and looked steadily out over the valley, at the mountains beyond. Then he said, “Perhaps you’re right, Sylvie. But all the same…”

  “Oh, please,” I said, “don’t let’s spoil this heavenly afternoon with dreary talk like this.” Heavenly! May I be forgiven! I gave him one of the slow, dazzling smiles. “It’s been such fun having you and Emmy here.” This was a bit tricky. I had to get my timing right. As if it had just occurred to me, I added, “Pierre and I are so busy, our apartment at Panoralpes stands empty most of the time. Such a waste. Anytime you feel like taking a break—well, I do hope you’ll use it. Just drop a line to say you are coming.”

  He took his pipe out of his mouth slowly, and looked at me. Long and hard. His eyes are dark blue, and somehow they seemed to see right through me. I felt as if—I don’t know—as if I’d been caught trying to bribe a policeman, which, I suppose, was just what I had been doing. Oh, my little Chantal…why do you force me into situations like this? If I only knew just what you had done…

  Then Henry Tibbett smiled at me—a warm smile, almost conspiratorial, as if he understood and sympathized. God knows, perhaps he did. He said, “You really are very kind, Sylvie. We might
take you up on that.”

  Then Giselle came wandering back, with a huge bunch of alpine flowers and a filthy face, and Jane and Emmy woke up and started to be practical—dousing the fire and packing things up—and we all walked down to the cars and drove home. As I’ve said, it was not my idea of a gay afternoon—but in a curious way I felt that perhaps the Pucci shirt had not been sacrificed in vain.

  It was a relief to get back to Perce-neige, back inside the comforting fences, back into the world I knew. All the same, I was uneasy, because I knew I must speak to Chantal, and I didn’t know what I was going to say. People like us don’t talk to each other. We don’t need to. We share a way of life, a complicated web of conventions which covers almost every situation, making speech unnecessary except as a decoration to life. This was different. There were no flip clichés to convey what I had to say to Chantal.

  I found her in her bedroom, asleep as usual. If Chantal is not involved in some frenetic activity, she just goes to sleep. Not a bad idea. She woke up when I came in, and I was relieved to see that she appeared quite sober and rational.

  “Hello, Sylvie,” she said, rolling onto her back and holding out her hand to me. “Was it ghastly?”

  “Yes,” I said. I took her hand, and it lay in mine, like a little bird. Then I gave it back to her, with a definite gesture, and said, “Chantal, I want to talk to you.”

  “Talk away,” she said.

  It was even more difficult than I had foreseen. I said slowly, “Chantal…you’re grown up now…you have your own life to lead…”

  She closed her eyes and gave a little impatient sigh. I tried again. “I’ve never asked you to tell me…things…because I knew that we understood each other. There was no need.”

  Her eyes still shut, she said, “No need, Sylvie. No need at all.”

  This was getting me nowhere. Making a big effort, I said, as briskly as I could, “Well, I’m going to ask you something now, Chantal. Straight out.”

  She opened her eyes. “Well? Go on—ask!”

  “It’s about the day Robert Drivaz was killed.”