Noel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Paul Theron raised one of his large hands and strode over to speak to Max, his smart black leather shoes picking up a mulch of dirt and wet leaves as he walked. The cuffs of the man’s pin-striped trousers were already damp from the wet grass and had caused the grey fabric to look darker around his ankles.

  The slightly-built frame of Luc was hunched over, shoulders rounded, head down, looking intently at something as Thierry’s muscular arms worked the shovel, a trickle of sweat soaking through the back of his denim shirt.

  “Hey!” Gabriella smiled, turning to greet Max and Jack before noticing the woman behind them treading carefully over the grass in kitten heels. “Hello again, Madame Van Beek.”

  “Is this it?” Hobbs grinned excitedly. “Is this definitely Bianca’s grave?”

  “According to the records and the map with both parts put together,” the blonde detective answered excitedly. “Poor Thierry got the short straw.”

  No sooner had the words been spoken than Hobbs took off his coat and began rolling up his shirt sleeves.

  “Thierry, mate,” he called, walking towards the burial site, “let me take a turn.”

  It took a further hour to remove the compacted earth from the grave, leaving a huge mound of peaty soil and other debris piled at the side of Bianca de Fontanges’ final resting place. With a struggle, the two detectives had managed to slide support straps underneath the fragile wooden coffin, and now Jack and Thierry guided it upwards for the policemen to lift and set upon solid ground.

  “Jeez, that was hard work,” Hobbs commented, climbing out of the deep hole with Mallery’s help, his white shirt now looking as though he’d just spent the day on his uncle’s farm in the Yorkshire Dales. “I hope it was worth it.”

  “Paul, Monsieur Pelletier,” Max said to the Coroner and priest, the latter hovering in the background, “perhaps you two could remove the lid? I’m not sure if there’s anything anyone wants to say before we…”

  The clergyman stepped forward, pushing his gold-rimmed spectacles further up the bridge of his pointed nose. “Let’s just get on with it.”

  “The lid looks very loose already,” Theron indicated, pointing at the rusted nails and rotted wooden panels. “It won’t take much to prise it open.”

  Despite his repulsion at the odour of dead bodies within autopsy environments, Mallery’s childhood fascination with graveyards stretched to the corpses that lay within the plots, too, and he stared down at the corpse with a look of complete captivation. A fetid odour permeated the air, preventing anyone save the Coroner wanting to get too close, and they waited patiently for the large man to give his professional verdict.

  The skeleton itself was almost devoid of skin, save for several odd leathery shreds that lay like dried-out leaves upon the bones. Teeth protruded from an open mouth, almost as though the owner was stuck in perpetual mid-sentence, but it was the condition of the hair that caught Paul Theron’s eye. Bianca de Fontanges’ tresses were long and, although porous with having been enclosed in a dark, damp space for centuries, the colour was still recognisable as the vibrant red that she’d boasted in life. Max took a step forward, his eyes following the high cheekbones and then down to the thin figure, feeling assured that centuries ago Bianca truly must have been quite a beauty.

  It was Annalise Van Beek who finally broke the silence.

  “Do you see it?” she said excitedly, almost in a whisper, venturing towards the remains and tugging at Jack Hobbs’ arm. “Inside the ribcage, there’s something down there, I see it shining.”

  Jack leaned forward, his body brushing against that of the priest as he strained to see what the Dutchwoman was pointing at, but then he saw it – a flash of gold and the sparkle of several bright green emeralds.

  “Monsieur Theron,” he said, eyes fixed on the decomposed skeleton, “there’s a necklace inside the body. It must have fallen inside when the flesh fell away.”

  “I see it,” Paul remarked, reaching out a gloved hand to retrieve the jewels. “What a find!”

  Finally, they had discovered the treasure that Abbot Arnaud was so desperate for his child to locate.

  “What will happen to her now?” Annalise queried, as she sat perfectly still in the back of the saloon. “Will the body be reburied there or somewhere else?”

  “After examination by the Coroner,” Max explained, “we will work together with the authorities to ensure that Madame de Fontanges is buried in a marked grave in a different spot. Perhaps in the crypt of the Cliquot family, if Louis’ ancestors are agreeable. Jacques discovered that the Cliquot family still own the château, so it shouldn’t be difficult to contact them.”

  “That would be romantic, wouldn’t it?” The woman smiled, then added, “Although I can’t imagine that Monsieur Cliquot’s wife would like it that way, having her husband’s mistress buried in the family tomb.”

  “She’d most likely turn in her grave,” Jack spluttered without thinking, a cheeky grin on his face. “Sorry, I just couldn’t help it.”

  “You get used to Jacques’ unique English humour, Madame Van Beek,” Mallery tutted, “after a while.”

  The woman turned to smile at the red-haired Yorkshireman. She had grown fond of the young man in the short time she’d been in France and knew that, under very different circumstances, Jack and her grandson would have made great friends.

  “I find it quite entertaining,” Annalise replied. “The English always have a very pragmatic way of dealing with difficult situations and it will serve Detective Hobbs well in his career here in France.”

  “So, you think we French are too serious?” Max quipped. “With no sense of fun, perhaps?”

  “Not at all, Inspector, but unfortunately, on this visit I haven’t had much to smile about and this young man is like a ray of sunshine amidst the storm.”

  Jack blushed, appreciating the compliment. He had a great deal of time for the Dutchwoman and wished that they could turn the clock back and save Noel.

  “Now,” Annalise continued, “you’d better put your foot down and return me to the hotel. I’m sure there will be a great deal of paperwork involved with exhuming a body. I’m sure your boss will want an update, too.”

  The detectives looked at one another. Commissioner Ozanne was the last person on either of their minds.

  A couple of days later, a card arrived on Inspector Mallery’s desk. It was written in a perfect cursive hand and bore the picture of a yellow rose on the front.

  Dear Inspector Mallery,

  I thank you and your team for your dedication and hard work in finding my grandson’s killer. Having put my dear Noel to rest, I realise that in my hurry to leave Bordeaux I forgot to explain our unique family motto to you, the one which all three of us, Noel Senior, Noel and myself bore as an inked tattoo.

  ‘Advocatus Diaboli’ or ‘Devil’s Advocate’ in English, was for the desperately heart-breaking circumstance under which my son was born and for the decision made to keep our address from his father. As it happens, I was wrong to do so.

  Yours,

  Annalise Van Beek

  Max slid the card back inside its envelope and popped it into an open drawer. He then lifted his legs up onto the desk and put his hands behind his head in contemplation.

  Annalise is a remarkable woman, he mused. It must have taken all her inner strength to bring up her son alone. What would have happened if Benoît had been able to find her in those early days? Would they have become a family, or would his religion have drawn the monk away from his responsibilities anyway? I couldn’t imagine having a child and not being a part of their life.

  A knock at the door roused Mallery from his reverie.

  “Inspecteur, Paul Theron est ici,” Gabriella told him.

  Max nodded his thanks and ran fingers through his thick head of hair before bringing his feet back down to the floor with a thump. The crisp white envelope sat within view and, with one finger, the detective closed the drawer.

  Annalise Van Beek had st
irred something inside him. The way she had carried on, despite being in Bordeaux under tragic circumstances. The woman could hardly have known that, on arriving in France, she would not only be confronted with the death of her grandson, but also the passing of a man whom she had loved dearly but hadn’t set eyes on for over fifty years. Max wondered how it must feel to be so deeply in love that you never contemplate another relationship. One thing the inspector was certain of, he was unlikely to find out about true love in his lifetime.

  “Bonjour, Paul,” Max smiled, a few minutes later, “good to see you.”

  “Max,” the Coroner returned, patting his friend’s shoulder. “As I was just telling your team, we are all finished with Bianca de Fontanges’ body.”

  “So, what happens now?”

  “Surprisingly, the Cliquot family have agreed that she should be interred in the family crypt at Riberon.”

  “That’s good news, isn’t it, sir?” Hobbs grinned. “She can rest in peace near her lover.”

  “Mmm, oui. What about the gold and emerald necklace?”

  “Well, it is such a magnificent piece, supposed to have been a gift to the Cliquot family from the King himself,” Theron explained, “so now the family are in negotiation with the Louvre Gallery where, after some restoration, the necklace will be displayed indefinitely.”

  “Brilliant!” Gabriella squealed. “It’s like we’ve had a part in finding buried treasure. We should take a trip to Paris to see the necklace on display.”

  “Quite literally buried treasure,” Hobbs told her, always glad to get the last word in, “and a day out at the Louvre sounds like a great idea.”

  “There is more,” Theron continued, warming to his subject. “Brother Bénédict had Type Two diabetes which was left undiagnosed.”

  “What are you saying?” Max pressed, tilting his head slightly.

  “It means that the monk wouldn’t have had long to live. His body was in very poor condition. The man was suffering all kinds of issues because of the diabetes. I should imagine it is quite rare amongst Benedictine monks, given the fresh and frugal diet they eat. His death is tragic but maybe just as well under the circumstances, as he never would have coped in prison.”

  The detectives fell silent as they took in the Coroner’s words.

  “Thanks, Paul,” Mallery finally said. “It’s been a long couple of weeks, and I think I owe you a beer or two.”

  “Make it a bottle of wine and I agree,” the taller man laughed. “I’m just doing my job, and now I’ll leave you all to do yours. There must be a heap of paperwork to complete after a case like this, oui?”

  Thierry coughed and held up a blue folder. “All done, Monsieur Theron.”

  Heading to the local bar for a celebratory drink later that day, Inspector Mallery and his team chattered incessantly as they strolled to the venue. The wind whipped at their heels as they manoeuvred the busy street and dark clouds overhead threatened to burst with rain. They had arranged for the Coroner to meet them, seeing how he and Max were becoming good friends, and the tall Frenchman was already propped up on a stool waiting for them, his long legs reaching easily to the floor.

  “Sir,” Jack said softly to his boss as Luc ordered the round, “can I have a word in private, please? It won’t take long.”

  Max pressed a twenty euro note in the computer geek’s hand and held up a finger. “One minute.”

  “It’s about the spa voucher,” the Yorkshireman explained as they turned away from the noisy group. “It’s too much, I can’t accept it.”

  “Of course you can!” Mallery shrugged. “I bought it without thinking and cannot get a refund. So, you should take your wife, to make up for having to work such unsociable hours. Okay?”

  Hobbs jerked his head towards where the other three detectives and the Coroner were talking amongst themselves. “It doesn’t seem fair. What about the others?”

  “Jacques, oh Jacques,” the Frenchman sighed, “there will be other treats at other times. I appreciate all of my team, but this time the reward is yours.”

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Hobbs continued, feeling his confidence grow slightly, “but did you, like, intend to take someone special when you booked it?”

  Max paused, weighing up whether to tell the truth.

  “Honestly, yes. I did intend to take someone, but someone special? Non!”

  Jack felt better for the knowledge that his boss had changed his mind about the weekend away for personal reasons and wondered who the mysterious woman could be. Ever since he’d joined Mallery’s team in the early summer, the inspector had been taking discreet phone calls and occasionally walking with a spring in his step.

  “Now,” Max added, steering Hobbs back towards the bar, “let’s get a beer.”

  Later that evening, Jack Hobbs revealed the surprise to his wife. Tearing at the brochure inside the white envelope, she squealed in delight and flung her arms around her husband’s neck, nuzzling her lips against his jawline.

  “Oh, Jack. This is fantastic! I never imagined you would book something like this. Let me ring my parents right now, to see if they can look after Thomas again. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

  Jack let the moment hang in the air. He wasn’t about to confess to how he had acquired the spa break and lose the much-needed brownie points that he’d just gained by getting into Angélique’s good books. It was unlikely that word would ever get back to her about Mallery’s generosity and for now, he was keeping quiet.

  A high-pitched, excited voice from the lounge announced that his wife was speaking to her parents, and Hobbs lifted a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge. He noticed that the label showed swirling lettering and the iconic logo of Vidal’s Vineyard and stood looking at it for some moments. It was funny how some murder investigations stayed with you, he thought, no matter how much time passed by.

  It was six months since they’d investigated Cecile Vidal’s horrific murder, and the period also marked the team’s wrongful arrest of Isobel Green. It was something that all of them undoubtedly regretted, especially Max, who had been certain of the Englishwoman’s guilt. According to the boulangerie owner, Maurice Fabron, Isobel had found a position in Spain and sent the occasional postcard, but she obviously had no intention of returning to the village of Saint Margaux where so many painful memories had been left behind.

  “They said no problem,” Angélique trilled from the doorway. “Open the wine, let’s celebrate. I can’t wait for our romantic getaway.”

  Jack stirred from his thoughts and uncorked the bottle. Life still went on.

  Streets away, Max Mallery sat on the sumptuously soft bed and clasped a mobile phone to his ear. This was the fourth time that he’d tried to ring Vanessa and each time he’d faltered before pressing the ‘call’ button. Now, alone in his chic apartment, the Frenchman knew that delaying the moment would make things ten times worse. It was answered on the second ring, the recipient speaking in a low, almost secretive voice.

  “Oui, mon cheri?” she purred.

  “Vanessa, écoute-moi,” Max began, the words catching in his throat. “C’est fini.”

  There was an audible moan on the other end of the line as Vanessa pleaded. He could hear the click of her heels on polished floors, occasionally pacing as she moved from room to room for fear of her husband overhearing the conversation.

  After several minutes of futile begging on his lover’s part, Max told her that he was changing his number and not to bother calling again. Naturally, the sobs echoed down the speaker as Vanessa asked for reasons, accusing him of seeing someone else and then finally insisting that her maturity was to blame.

  “C’est moi,” he concluded, sounding like the old cliché. It’s me. The police detective hung up, still gripping the device in taut fingers.

  Max Mallery then curled up on his side and let the tears flow.

  Hundreds of miles away in the centre of Amsterdam, Annalise Van Beek returned home from her office and picked up the mail fro
m the highly polished floor of her three-storey townhouse. Flicking through the pile of letters, her fingers pulled out a small brown padded envelope postmarked France.

  The Dutchwoman slipped off her court shoes and wandered into the kitchen, placing the post on the breakfast bar, before making herself a large gin and tonic with ice and lemon. As she took the first sip, the small package called to her, drawing her attention like a magnet and, after taking a sip of her drink, Annalise turned it over and ripped open the seal.

  Inside, a white envelope held a small card printed with a single yellow rose. It lay on top of a padded box. Annalise opened the card and read:

  Madame, I believe that Benoît wanted you to have these. M.M.

  The woman reached for her glass, letting the alcohol slide slowly down her dry throat before picking up the small box. Lifting the lid, she let out a gasp. Set against black velvet padding were a pair of square emerald earrings surrounded by tiny, perfectly formed diamonds, all set in gold. As Annalise tilted the box, the jewels sparkled under the bright overhead kitchen lights, creating a rainbow of beautiful colour. She pressed a finger to the centre stone of one of the earrings and closed her eyes, trying to remember.

  Yes, she was sure, these were identical to the necklace that Bianca de Fontanges had been buried with, the gift from her lover, Louis Cliquot. She had been the one to point it out after the opening of the coffin. But how was it possible? Could these really be the precious gemstones that Benoît had wanted her to have? She closed her eyes and thought back to the day when her lover had proudly told the story of his family jewels, for Benoit came from a strong line of Cliquot’s and had known about the buried treasure his whole life. That day in the Gambia, lying alone in her hut, Benoit had entrusted his sweetheart with the family secret.