Noel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Therefore, it was to an empty infirmary that Abbot Arnaud made his way that night, moving with stiffness from his recent whipping, yet determined to seek out the man who had sought solace at Saint Augustin’s.

  The young Dutchman stirred slightly, just a flicker of the lids as his eyes swam to the surface, vaguely aware that a warm hand had been placed on his cheek. Unable to stir completely from the depths of exhaustion, he remained still, too weak to meet the inquisitive face that looked down upon him.

  Abbot Arnaud sighed and traced the features of the stranger with his eyes, drinking in the narrow nose and rosy lips, wondering if the young man were seeking respite from something; a brush with the law perhaps. The old man drew up a chair and eased himself down carefully, unable to ignore the searing pain that threatened to overwhelm him and, for this reason too, unwilling to lean back against the wooden struts.

  There was an audible gasp from the far end of the infirmary as Brother Alberon returned with his frothing beverage, almost spilling the milky liquid down the front of his robe, shocked at the sight of a figure sitting by the patient’s bedside in semi-darkness. He hurried forward, reluctantly leaving the steaming mug on the dispensary cabinet, and placed a hand on his heart as he made out the stooping figure of their beloved Father.

  “Abbot Arnaud,” he murmured, searching his tired brain for an apology, “j’avais…”

  The abbot raised a hand as if to wave away the confession. “Alberon, c’est bien.” It’s fine.

  The monk waited in silence while his superior’s eyes wandered over the red raincoat and pile of sodden clothes that lay on the bedside cabinet. Walking boots sat tucked under the bed, caked in mud but still with the newish appearance of a recent purchase. It was only after pondering the extent of the dampness to the stranger’s clothes that the holy man realised the rucksack must also belong to the sleeping youngster.

  Abbot Arnaud enquired whether the heavy bag had been opened by anyone there, to which Brother Alberon gave a firm shake of the head. “Non, Saint Père.”

  The grey-haired abbot gestured for his younger aide to unzip the side pockets. Perhaps there might be some identification inside, he explained.

  Brother Alberon carefully opened several pockets, his fingers deftly feeling into the corners of the fabric, revealing only a map of France, a modern mobile phone and a wallet containing a couple of hundred euros.

  “Dois-je regarder à l’intérieur?” he queried, gesturing to the main compartment of the nylon bag.

  The abbot nodded, eager to see if anything further could be learned from the inside of the stranger’s luggage.

  After rummaging amongst clean clothes for a minute or so, Brother Alberon lifted out a document wallet and passed it over to the elderly gentleman.

  “Merci. Ton cocoa sera froid.” The abbot smiled kindly, urging the monk to drink his hot chocolate before it went cold. Not needing to be told twice, Alberon scuttled away, leaving his senior to examine the newly found passport.

  NOEL VAN BEEK.

  23rd APRIL 1997

  AMSTERDAM

  Abbot Arnaud read the information twice before studying the identity photograph. The young man had a good deal more colour in his face in the picture, which was no wonder considering the freezing conditions outside on his arrival. Why would a young Dutchman in his twenties be travelling through rural France on such a terrible night? Brother Cédric had reported that no vehicle had arrived and the buses to this area would have stopped many hours before. The nearest station was that just outside the village of Saint Margaux, but it didn’t make sense. If the man had travelled by train, he could have walked to the Saint Augustin Monastery within ten or fifteen minutes and wouldn’t have been soaked through, therefore he must have arrived on foot. But from where?

  A mystery indeed.

  The elderly monk could feel the infirmary assistant’s eyes upon him as he tucked the passport back into the document wallet and returned it to the bag, the effort of reaching forward causing the rough fabric of his cassock to rub against the recent wounds. Thank goodness for Brother Cédric, the abbot said under his breath, always there to tend him but never asking the reason for the harsh whipping being meted out. There had been the odd, very rare, occasion that Abbot Arnaud had considered confessing all to his younger confidant, sharing the reason for the thrashing he considered necessary. But then, afterwards, common sense had won out, reminding the elderly monk that, should he share his sin with Brother Cédric, all faith in him would be lost.

  As Brother Alberon returned to the bedside, a thermometer and fresh poultice in hand, intent upon checking his charge’s temperature and overall comfort, the head of the monastery closed his palms in prayer, wishing the stranger a speedy recovery. A tinge of pink had appeared on the sleeping patient’s cheeks, yet his brow still bore the beaded sweat patches of one fighting an illness. Naturally, the whole place would be abuzz with news of the arrival in just a few hours, Brother Francis’ excitable disposition would surely see to that, yet the abbot was unwilling to let the traveller fight his raging fever alone and sat in silence, watching and waiting for Noel to wake.

  CHAPTER TWO – DOMESTIC BLISS

  Jack Hobbs quickly rubbed a hand over his eyes before reaching for the buzzing phone on the coffee table. The young detective could feel his wife’s eyes trying to make out the caller ID, so he quelled her curiosity and said simply, “Gabriella.”

  Angélique nodded, cursing that her husband should have a work call so late at night, and picked up the television remote control to pause the film they’d been watching, a French classic aimed at improving the Englishman’s grasp of the French language. Sadly, unbeknown to his wife, most of the plot had gone over Jack’s head and he found the phone conversation a welcome distraction.

  “Okay, where? Do you need me to drive?”

  Angélique folded her arms and watched the red-headed man at her side talk animatedly for a few moments.

  “Yes, yes, no problem, see you soon,” he finished, ending the conversation and turning around to explain, but Angélique was already on her feet, pouring another glass of wine.

  “Why isn’t your boss dealing with whatever it is?” the statuesque Frenchwoman queried, running a pink tongue over Chardonnay-flavoured lips.

  “He’s not answering the phone,” Jack replied, pulling on his shoes. “Gabriella’s picking me up in five minutes. Listen, why don’t you finish watching the film and then you can tell me how it ends when I get back?”

  His wife nestled back down into her comfy spot on the sofa, pulling her knees up under the warm fluffy throw. “Okay, it would be interesting to see if the professor and his assistant get together at the end.”

  “They will, you can tell, it’s obvious they’ll end up in bed.”

  Angélique grabbed a cushion and threw it across the room. “Oh, Jack! I knew it, you didn’t understand anything! The assistant is his sister!”

  In truth, Jack had been flummoxed from the very start and had struggled to keep up with the rapid conversational French and vague storyline.

  “I tried, honestly,” he supplied, kissing the dark-haired beauty on top of her head. “Don’t wait up. It’s a stabbing, apparently.”

  A car horn beeped outside and Hobbs gave a wink before letting himself out of the apartment, glad to be escaping the subtle attempt at French lessons from his wife but disgruntled that the weather outside was blowing a gale.

  “Hey, Gabriella,” Jack smiled, climbing into his colleague’s Mini, “awful night to be on call, and what’s this about Max not picking up?”

  The blonde police officer shrugged and manoeuvred the car out of the parking space and into the street. “I have no idea, but yesterday he left early and asked if I could handle anything that came up over the weekend. He must have a woman.”

  Hobbs had been at the dentist the previous afternoon, so hadn’t seen his boss since the morning meeting, and thought it the most reasonable explanation, although in the few months that he
’d worked with Inspector Max Mallery there had been no hint of romance in the Parisian’s life whatsoever.

  “I guess we’ll find out sooner or later. So, where are we off to?”

  Gabriella pointed at a scrap of paper on the dashboard. “A house in Saint Margaux… how to say… a domestic incident? A woman has stabbed her husband.”

  Jack flinched. “Ooh, nasty. Is it fatal?”

  “I don’t know. Paramedics were called by the husband, but his wife has refused to let them in. They need someone to talk to her, diffuse the situation?”

  Hobbs noted the perfect structure of Gabriella’s words. Instead of him improving his French on moving to Bordeaux, it seemed that his colleagues were doing a better job of perfecting their English.

  “At least that’s something,” came the response. “He was at least able to ring for help, so maybe the injury isn’t too bad.”

  Gabriella changed gear and put her foot down hard on the accelerator, leaning forward in her seat to see through the driving rain that lashed against the windscreen, slightly impairing her view of the road ahead.

  Michelle Bouchon stood by the sink with an upended broom in her hand, her husband of almost thirty years in tears at the pine kitchen table.

  “Dis-moi la verité!” she yelled, going red in the face with anger. Tell me the truth.

  “Ma chérie…” the man began, a large right hand rubbing at his face, before he was cut off by the shake of the wooden implement as Michelle wielded the broom in front of her.

  “Tu es un menteur!” You are a liar!

  There was a rattle of the letterbox, stopping the argument in mid-flow as an ambulance team tried to get the woman’s attention. Eyes peered down the hallway and into the neat kitchen, where they could see Leo Bouchon sitting with one hand on his knee and the other pinned to the table by a fork.

  Jumping out of the Mini, the two detectives raced up the short garden path leading to a picture-perfect cottage just off the main village street. It wasn’t a large property but appeared well-maintained and cared for. They ran past a dark red Renault car parked on the small driveway, noting that the tyres were covered in mud and leaves.

  “What’s going on?” Jack asked, as soon as Gabriella had finished conversing with the paramedics.

  “Apparently, Madame Bouchon believes her husband has been cheating on her and has stabbed him in the hand with a dinner fork. She’s refusing to let anyone in, although she did give him the telephone to call for help after seeing all the blood.”

  Hobbs rubbed two fingers across his lips, stifling a laugh. “So, who gets the job of negotiation then?”

  Gabriella was already on her way to the front door of the cottage, boots crunching on the gravel. “It’s hardly going to be you, is it? Monsieur and Madame Bouchon probably don’t speak English!”

  Max Mallery padded into the bedroom in his boxer shorts, two glass flutes and a bottle of champagne filling his hands. He gazed upon the ravishing sight that met him and a stirring in his loins caused him to quicken his step. A dark-haired woman lay propped against the pillows with a satin sheet covering her modesty, reminding him of Elizabeth Taylor in the film, Cleopatra. She smiled coyly, allowing the sheet to fall slightly so that a perfectly formed pink nipple protruded from the shroud.

  “Max, je ne peux pas boire trop.” I can’t drink too much.

  The policeman sighed, pushing the glasses and bottle onto a side table before bending to slide his tongue over the woman’s exposed breast. He wondered whether another round of passion might convince his lover to stay in Bordeaux longer than arranged. Max soon got his response in the form of a shudder as the woman slipped off the sheet and positioned herself beneath him. It wouldn’t hurt to be a little later going home, she thought, although she must err on the side of caution and get back to Paris before her husband.

  Jack Hobbs stood with his hands deep in the pockets of his waterproof jacket, trying to keep warm, as his female colleague knelt to shout through the letterbox of the whitewashed Saint Margaux cottage. Rain dripped down onto Gabriella’s head as she called out to the couple inside, causing her to give an involuntary shudder.

  Hobbs watched and listened intently, hearing soothing tones and professional tact in the woman’s voice. The last time he’d set foot in the village was at the beginning of the summer, during his trial period with the Bordeaux police. It was a messy case, he recalled, and bittersweet, too. They’d believed that Isobel Gilyard, an Englishwoman working in the village, was guilty of murder, and had held her under wrongful arrest until the real culprit had been caught. Jack still hadn’t forgiven himself for ignoring his own instincts. He’d felt all along that Miss Gilyard was innocent, although she had shocked them all with revelations of her past.

  That had been Hobbs’ first and only taste of a murder case with Max Mallery as his new boss and, after a few hiccups along the way, the Inspector had seen enough potential in Jack to invite him to stay as a more permanent member of the team. The arrangement suited Hobbs well and, although he missed his native Yorkshire, he was thought of as a valuable asset in this strange new vocation. It suited Jack’s domestic situation to have found employment in Bordeaux, too, as this was where his wife, Angélique, had her roots.

  “Okay,” Gabriella called to the paramedics, “elle ouvrira la porte.”

  Two medical assistants ran forward with their equipment, as soon as the young detective announced that Madame Bouchon was going to open the door, which she did slowly and with a degree of trepidation. There was a slight hesitation as the housewife peeked out, her eyes taking in the blonde detective, soaked from the storm, before pulling the door wide and allowing her inside.

  “Entrez.”

  A flurry of high-visibility jackets pushed through the hallway of the cottage as Gabriella stepped inside to arrest Michelle Bouchon, who had by now calmed down considerably. Jack idled behind, his eyes switching between the handcuffs that were clasped on the woman’s wrists and the shouts coming from the kitchen as Monsieur Bouchon was painfully extricated from the stainless-steel fork that rendered his left hand immobile.

  A patrol car sat at the side of the narrow street, its blue light flashing, as two uniformed officers attempted to keep curious villagers from getting too close to the scene. Several onlookers were still in their nightwear with raincoats and wellington boots thrown over the top, while others peered out through bedroom windows at the commotion outside.

  Gabriella gestured to Jack with a flick of the head. “Look after Madame Bouchon for a moment. I’ll ask those two officers to take her back to the station to cool down and we can interview her later, after a hot cup of coffee and a chat at the hospital with her husband.”

  “Good idea,” Hobbs countered, switching places with his fellow officer and watching the arrested woman as she sat down resignedly on the bottom step of the staircase. It didn’t look as though Madame Bouchon were going to cause any trouble; her face was certainly filled with regret, Hobbs considered. With a bit of luck, they could have things wrapped up in a couple of hours and he’d still have all day Sunday to relax – unless Angélique had a list of chores for him, Jack mused.

  “Max,” Vanessa murmured, tracing a perfectly manicured finger along the man’s perfectly toned chest, “Je dois partir tôt demain.”

  Mallery pretended not to hear. He knew that his lover had to return home on the first train the next day; he didn’t need reminding of how little time they had left together. The man imagined his sexy companion throwing a few magazines around the city townhouse and hiding her sullied weekend clothing, in order to fake residence at the home in Paris whilst her husband was away on a golfing trip in Spain. It grated on Max’s nerves to acknowledge that this time tomorrow, his beloved Vanessa would be sharing a bed with the Commissioner, her husband and the thorn in Mallery’s side. The inspector knew that he’d have no career left if word of his secret tryst with the man’s wife came out. It had taken Max a good deal of effort to persuade Vanessa he was worth the
risk and, if her husband found out, all hell would be let loose.

  “Je sais...” he murmured, stroking the woman’s silky raven hair. I know.

  On their drive back to Bordeaux, the storm had worsened, not only pelting heavy rain down onto the Mini but making excessive speed dangerous due to the gale force winds blowing across the highway. This was the worst weather the Yorkshireman had encountered since his move to the French town.

  “Jeez,” Jack muttered, sucking in his breath, “I’m not only soaking wet from standing outside that cottage for an hour, but my hands are as stiff as Cadbury’s fingers, too.”

  Gabriella giggled at the analogy, imagining the Yorkshireman with chocolate digits, and immediately turned up the car heater a couple of notches.

  “I can’t put it too hot,” she warned, her accented French smooth and enchanting, “or the windows will… erm…”

  “Steam up,” Hobbs supplied, rubbing his palms together next to the fan.

  “Yes, exactly. We should be able to get a coffee at the hospital, though.”

  The detective at her side nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the flashing blue light of the ambulance speeding ahead of them in the distance.

  “A funny affair, don’t you think?”

  Gabriella shot him a sideward glance before returning her attention to the road. “What?”

  “Well, of all the things to stab your husband with, Madame Bouchon chose a fork. It’s funny in a bizarre kind of way.”

  “Did you see his hand?” The blonde woman grimaced. “The fork went straight through and got stuck in the table. There was blood everywhere.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows and considered the situation. “She must have been in a right temper to use that much force. Could’ve been worse, though. I know there are certainly sharper things in my kitchen.”