Breakfast lifted my mood. In keeping with the excellence of our supper, the Auberge provided a rich assortment of freshly baked croissants, bulbous brioches, a kind of cream cheese, bowls of luscious apricot jam and even additional sticky pastries. I have a sweet tooth, and along with the real coffee such fare more than compensated for the absence of an English ‘cooked’.
‘Doesn’t stint himself, does he?’ observed Nicholas to Primrose as I returned from the sideboard to our table with laden plate.
‘Never did,’ she replied, ‘even on Cook’s day off when we had to endure Mother’s burnt offerings … disgusting really.’
I took no notice, enjoying the novelty of cakes at breakfast and thinking that at least I might as well reap some small benefit from Ingaza’s avarice.
After a brief discussion about our itinerary, the others went off to finish packing and settle the bill, while I poured more coffee and pondered the merits of brioche or a second pastry.
Thus occupied, I did not at first see him. Indeed, when I did he had already seated himself across the table in the chair Primrose had just vacated. I was startled and distinctly peeved by the interruption. The pastry lost its savour.
‘Ah,’ said Mullion, ‘Ken said he thought you were leaving pretty soon. Long journey, I expect.’
‘One could say so,’ I replied vaguely.
‘Oh yes, like ourselves … very like ourselves.’ He paused, smiling but eyeing me intently. ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘I think we’re all set on the same route.’
‘Really?’ I said with some indifference.
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘really.’ The tone was pleasant enough but the words were pointed, and I began to feel a gnawing discomfort. ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘according to our Mr Crumpelmeyer, it looks to me as if we might be heading to the same area, somewhere high up in those French mountains.’ Discomfort ceased to gnaw and became a ravening wolf.
‘Ah,’ I said faintly, ‘Mr Crumpelmeyer … you, er, know him, do you?’
‘Oh yes. Well, we would, wouldn’t we … I mean, us all coming from the one place. We’re what you might call his special mates – look after him, if you get my meaning.’
‘At Crowthorne.’
He nodded. ‘At Crowthorne.’
There was a silence. And then I said stiffly, ‘Well, I hope Mr Crumpelmeyer is doing well … must be rather difficult, I imagine …’
‘Oh no,’ Mullion exclaimed, ‘not difficult – more what I’d call interesting.’ He continued to stare hard.
‘Yes, I suppose it is … the er, the psychology of it all …’
He laughed. ‘You could say that – though of course it rather depends on whose psychology we’re talking about, doesn’t it?’ I made no answer, trying to make out where the hell we were going and not liking it one jot. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘he’s very talkative, is Mr Crumpelmeyer. Likes nothing better than a good natter … Oh yes, old Victor will talk the hind leg off a donkey once he gets going!’ I said nothing and rather pointedly looked at my watch.
It had no effect, for he went on: ‘Yes. And do you know, the funny thing is he talks a lot about you … Odd that, isn’t it? About you having got some documents which rightly belong to him.’ And he had the nerve to stretch out a hand for one of the croissants. Had I been Primrose doubtless I would have slapped his fingers, but being her brother I merely looked po-faced and tried fruitlessly to cast my mind elsewhere.
He leaned further forward and with a slow wink said, ‘I think you know the ones I mean – those papers the old girl had, that old girl found strangled in the wood just near you, the one you were so friendly with. Or at least, that’s what the press said at the time … Of course, Victor’s always had that bee in his bonnet about you and his wife’s money – it’s why he knifed you. But we rather get the impression it’s not the only thing on his mind. It’s as if he suspects something else, something in the past … silly really. But then that’s Victor, you can never be sure what’s fact and what’s fiction. It’s the madness, makes things difficult to sift … On the other hand, sometimes he’s right on the ball, right on it. You’d be surprised.’ He relaxed his elbows and sat back, face in repose.
I opened my mouth to utter I knew not what. But at that moment Nicholas appeared in the far doorway impatiently signalling me to hurry up. I don’t think I had ever been so pleased to see him and, despite his obvious irritation at my leisurely breakfast, I gave him an eager wave. And with a curt nod to Mullion left the room as fast as dignity would permit.
Once in the haven of the car and clutching the cat on my knees with Bouncer heavy on my feet, I crunched peppermints obsessively.
‘For God’s sake,’ drawled Nicholas, half turning, ‘can’t you stop that racket? It’s like having a wildebeest in the back.’
‘Or a gnu,’ said Primrose, ‘and you’ve only just breakfasted!’
‘So what’s a gnu?’ enquired Nicholas.
‘Much the same, I think,’ she replied. And they launched into an earnest debate about the variety and habitat of giant antelopes, while I closed my eyes and tried to digest the import of my recent exchange with Mullion. Later I would recount it to my companions, but at that particular juncture all I wanted was amnesia and a smooth ride.
To begin with, the ride proved smooth enough; but amnesia was less achievable, and despite the muted snoring of Maurice I was only too awake to the memory of my encounters with Climp and Mullion. There was something smooth and knowing about the pair of them, and I was unnerved by Mullion’s brazen innuendoes and his pointed surmise that they were travelling to the same area. Ingaza’s earlier disquiet had now infected my own imagination, and I felt as if I were being shadowed, taunted … targeted.
I eased my foot from under Bouncer’s dead weight, and brooded further. At best their close link with Crumpelmeyer was an uncomfortable coincidence – his attack upon me and connection to Mrs Fotherington being something I preferred to forget. But at worst – and I was beginning to fear the worst – there could be something really sinister in their purpose … What exactly had mad Crumpelmeyer been saying to them? Clearly that I possessed the wretched deeds to Elizabeth’s property – but what else might he have alleged in those crazed babblings? Anything and everything!
Such was my agitation that I very nearly asked Nicholas to stop the car and return to Dieppe. The whole enterprise had been absurd from the start, and now, with this latest set of events, it was distinctly alarming. However, even as the impulse came upon me I knew it to be futile. Ingaza was hell-bent on getting something out of that ruin – whether gold or equity – and to believe he might abandon the scheme now was like expecting Canterbury to turn Muslim. Besides, I thought, suddenly riled, why should I permit myself to be intimidated by those two leering jokers? They might be used to browbeating the lunatics in Broadmoor, but the lunatic from Molehill was another case altogether! Thus temporarily emboldened, I ruffled the dog’s fur, lit a cigarette, and gave myself up to watching the rolling pleasures of the French countryside.
As we moved further south the terrain became rugged, the road winding, and what had been blurrily distant hills were now rearing craggy peaks. Our valley was green and wooded but up on the heights the vegetation appeared sparser and the early autumn colours were largely veiled in a pall of grey.
‘Looks a bit murky up there,’ observed Nicholas cheerily. ‘Poor old Henri won’t like that when he arrives – gets tetchy in bad weather. He’s difficult enough at the best of times.’
‘Well, if that curé starts getting difficult with me,’ observed Primrose tartly, ‘he’ll soon learn otherwise. There are quite enough fractious clergy as it is.’ She turned in her seat and gave me a dazzling smile which I returned with appropriate gestures. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘apart from being useful for his French, I don’t really see why he should be with us at all. From what I recall he wasn’t exactly a tower of strength over those ridiculous hidden paintin
gs last year.’*
‘No, not a tower,’ agreed Nicholas, ‘just marginally less cack-handed than the other one.’
‘Oh, very funny,’ I said, and was just about to make a scathing comment about his own part in things, when he continued:
‘But you see, Henri is bringing something of essential value.’
‘Oh yes?’ I said doubtfully. ‘So what’s that?’
‘His contraption.’
‘His what?’ cried Primrose.
‘His gold-digging contraption, his metal detector.’
‘Oh no,’ she groaned. ‘Are you really serious? I thought we were just going to have a little potter around – make a general surveillance for future exploration and see if the place was saleable. I didn’t really think you intended hacking into the ground at this stage.’
‘Grass doesn’t grow under Old Nick’s feet,’ he replied blithely. ‘No time like the present. Get in there while the sun shines – before our friend in the back has another turn.’
‘I do not have turns!’ I said testily. ‘And besides, we don’t have any shovels.’
‘Ah, but we soon shall, he’s bringing those as well.’
There was a silence as we reflected upon the curé replete with shovels and his contraption. And then Primrose said, ‘I think I need a large drink – and I dare say the dog could do with one too. Perhaps, Nicholas, you would be so kind as to stop at the next likely place.’
The next likely place proved to be a good ten miles further up the valley on a road of tortuous bends; and by the time we arrived Primrose was not the only one in need of sustenance and a breather.
We parked in the village square, an attractive space with an ornate war memorial at one end and fountain and flower beds at the other. While Nicholas and Primrose went ahead to a café, I introduced the cat to the flowers and exercised Bouncer. Then, fearing he might cut up rough in the car, I shoved Maurice under my arm and joined the others. They were sitting in front of three large Pernods and had ordered bowls of pommes frites accompanied by thick, heavily garlicked mayonnaise – a dressing as deliciously different from our native salad cream as Münster cheese from blackboard chalk.
We ate and sipped in appreciative silence. Eventually, clearing my throat, I broached the subject of Climp and Mullion.
‘I don’t entirely trust them,’ I said.
‘Hmm,’ observed Nicholas drily, ‘took you a bit of time to reach that conclusion, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, well, we’re not all au fait with the criminal classes,’ I replied irritably.
The moment the words were out of my mouth I began to flush to the roots of my hair, feeling a prize fool; and was grateful that Nicholas merely gave a lop-sided grin and murmured, ‘No, of course not, old bean, of course not …’
‘Look,’ broke in Primrose, ‘just because that Mullion man was impertinent at breakfast doesn’t mean to say that he’s harbouring sinister intentions. Doesn’t know how to conduct himself, that’s all. You’re being oversensitive, Francis, always have been … Besides, even if we do meet them again – which I very much doubt – what on earth do they hope to achieve? Rob you of the gold?’ She laughed derisively and turning round tickled Maurice under the chin.
‘As a matter of fact, Primrose, I suspect that is exactly what they are hoping to do, given half a chance,’ said Nicholas quietly. ‘Or at any rate, get hold of that plan to the property. You may remember that Mullion was in the Berceau-Lamont area during the war and probably knows the château, and is quite likely to have heard local tales about the legendary Nazi loot.’
‘Oh, come on!’
‘Just think about it,’ he said. ‘They made a point of getting into conversation with you on the boat, showed keen interest in where we were going, turned up at the Cheval Blanc just as we also happened to be there and tried to insinuate themselves into our company. It’s now confirmed that not only are they warders from Broadmoor where Crumpelmeyer is banged up, but they’re his own allotted minders and obviously familiar with the original case and his connection with Francis. But what is even more to the point is what Mullion revealed at breakfast, i.e. that they know all about these deeds and the plan marking the supposed location of the rumoured gold. They also believe – according to the ranting Crumpelmeyer – that Francis deliberately curried favour with Fotherington, overturned Violet Pond’s claim to her mother’s property, smartly whipped the deeds and is hoping to reap the benefit while keeping it all deadly secret.’ He paused, lit a cigarette and turned to me. ‘You see, old chap, with you sniffing around in the grounds of that ruin flourishing the vital map they think they’re in with a chance; especially as they suspect you’re not quite straight, a weakness which of course they hope to fully –’
‘But Francis is straight,’ protested Primrose. ‘He never wanted to get his hands on those papers! If anything it was you who –’
Nicholas raised a quizzical eyebrow and coughed discreetly. ‘Straightish perhaps. But there is that other little problem which he’s not too keen to bruit abroad. And unfortunately that one is fact and not merely a supposition … Makes you a trifle vulnerable, dear boy.’
Vulnerable, my foot! Ingaza should know! But for a moment my persecutor looked almost sympathetic, while I inwardly quailed to hear him echo my own nagging fears about our fellow travellers.
‘Yes,’ I murmured faintly, ‘ but there’s more than that. Clearly Mullion is intrigued by Crumpelmeyer’s suspicions and thinks the château claim is not the only thing I may have been involved in … You’re right, Nicholas – they are after the loot. But what’s far worse is they’re determined to get me anyway – probably banking on a whopping reward. Think of the headlines: “Violent Vicar Brought to Noose by Her Majesty’s Bold Prison Officers.” Oh my God, it’s ghastly!’ I leapt from the table, frightening the cat and spilling my drink.
‘Francis is not well,’ cried Primrose. ‘We must go home immediately.’
‘Like hell,’ muttered Ingaza. ‘If you imagine I’m going to be unsettled by this pantomime, you’re wrong. Mullion, Climp, poor old Francis – I’m not budging. We shall continue as planned: hunt the treasure – or at the very least lay claim to the château – get back to Blighty and keep our heads down. Damned if I’m going to be buggered about by a pair of thieving mercenary screws from a godforsaken lunatic asylum.’ He polished off the dregs of his Pernod, glared at Maurice and told me to sit down. I did as ordered, but this time it was my turn to raise an eyebrow …
And thus, quitting the café, we proceeded on our merry way up to Berceau-Lamont: me nervous as a kitten, Ingaza grimly obstinate, Primrose resigned, and the animals snoring their heads off.
* See Bones in the Belfry
13
The Vicar’s Version
Eventually we arrived at the village, and drew up outside its only hostelry, La Truite Bleue, a small undistinguished place where Nicholas had somehow managed to make an advance booking. How he had found its reference I had no idea – clearly not from the Michelin Guide, that was for certain! We got out of the car and began to unload the luggage. I was nervous about the reception of Bouncer and Maurice and left them temporarily on the back seat while we went in to announce ourselves. Nobody was in evidence, and we hung around awkwardly in the small shabby foyer, coughing politely in the hope that our presence would eventually be registered. Nothing happened.
‘Surely there’s a bell or something,’ muttered Primrose. ‘We can’t stand here all day. Absurd! Go and look in the bar, Francis, somebody must be around.’ I was about to do her bidding, when from the nether regions came a cacophony of wild violent barking, followed by an ear-splitting blast of the Marseillaise and what sounded like a door being targeted by a battering ram.
‘Tais-toi, méchant chien! Tu veux une claque?’ shrieked a female voice. The pounding of the door came to a shuddering halt, the barking trailed off; but the music – martial and magisterial – played on. And then that too was abruptly halted.
In the m
erciful silence we regarded one another with startled eyes. ‘Well, something’s stirring,’ observed Nicholas.
A door at the back finally opened, and down the narrow passage advanced a thin woman in a flowered pinafore and with greying hair pinned in an impressive bun. She greeted us affably enough, announced that she was Madame Vernier the patron’s wife, and requested that we sign the hotel register. This was produced from a rickety side table artistically graced by a vase of virulent plastic flowers and a sheaf of faded tourist leaflets.
As we completed the signing ceremony, supplying the usual details and passport numbers, there was a further canine thudding from the rear, and loud snatches of the French national anthem could again be heard. Madame must have seen my look of puzzlement for she embarked on a voluble explanation far too rapid for my untuned ears. The distinguished name of President Clemenceau featured largely in her discourse, as did the words ‘pour la patrie’, ‘très musicale’ and ‘méchant garçon’.
Frankly I couldn’t make head nor tail of it but, seeing Nicholas grinning to himself, asked him if he could broach the subject of Bouncer and Maurice. He nodded, and in his usual mix of floral French and absurdly flattering English indicated that we had brought two animal companions and would be eternally grateful if Madame could possibly accommodate them. As hint of such gratitude, he said that should anyone be remotely interested, there were a few samples of best Scotch in the car boot taking up valuable space.
I thought she might not understand, but quick as a flash came the response: ‘Alors, combien de bouteilles?’ Nicholas said that for the time being there were three. This evidently satisfied her, for to my relief she shrugged indifferently and replied that since the inn already had a dog, horse, two pigs, hens, goat and donkey, additional creatures would be of little account.
Bones in High Places Page 7
