Cezanne's Quarry

by Barbara Corrado Pope

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, my guardian took me to see him. My guardian was a vicar, who was, like half the clergymen in England, an amateur geologist, always tramping about the countryside collecting rocks and stones. I carried the basket.” He smiled again. There were tears in his eyes.

  “Were you an orphan?” Where, Martin wondered, did this amalgam of sentimentality, hero worship, and megalomania come from?

  Westerbury paused for a moment, then came to a decision. “I might as well tell you. I am sure you have ways of finding out. My mother was his housekeeper. He took her in because she had been abandoned by the English sailor who brought her from France and left her pregnant, all alone, in the middle of Liverpool. Reverend Westerbury rescued her from the lying-in hospital. He was a very kind old man. He adopted me and gave me his name.”

  That explained Westerbury’s excellent French. And his resentments.

  “I see. Well, it’s best we move on to other, more relevant matters.” It was getting damnably hot. Whatever Westerbury’s origins, his intellectual interests seemed quite sincere, if a little mad. It remained to be seen what part Solange Vernet had played in all this.

  Martin loosened his own cravat a bit as he glanced at his notes. “You said before that you and Mme Vernet came to Aix to ‘start up again.’ Am I to understand that there was some trouble in Paris?”

  “No, no, none of that,” Westerbury gave him a defiant look. “I am sure you can check. And I’m sure you or your heavy-handed inspector will. But you won’t find anything. Not even,” more quietly, “not even trouble with the ladies. I’ve been entirely faithful to Solange. Entirely.” Desperation clouded over his face. He took a handkerchief out of his vest pocket and wiped his forehead. His hand was trembling harder than before.

  “All right, then, let’s talk about your life in Paris for a moment,” Martin said as he dipped his pen in the ink and wrote down a reminder to telegraph the police judiciaire in the capital, to see if they had anything on the suspect and the victim. “When did you meet Solange Vernet?”

  “I met her five years ago at one of my lectures. Her real name was Sophie Vernet. She was born in some wretched village on the Seine, and she came to Paris to be a milliner’s apprentice. When we met, she already owned her own shop.” Westerbury paused at the end of this recitation. Then he added, “She had taught herself to read and write. She was really a quite remarkable woman.”

  From the little he knew of Solange Vernet, Martin had little doubt that she was, in some ways, quite remarkable. But if she had been a poor, uneducated country girl, how did she become the beautiful sophisticate he had seen in the streets of Aix?

  “You say,” he began, “that she was born in a wretched village and that she changed her name. Do you know why? Was she escaping some trouble?”

  Westerbury opened his mouth, as if considering what his answer should be, then he shook his head. “All I know is that she preferred the name Solange. She never spoke of her native town.”

  “Yet you were together five years. I presume you wanted to know something about her past. Certainly she knew about yours, didn’t she?” Martin prodded.

  “Yes, I told her everything. But she always said that her past, her town was uninteresting,” Westerbury mumbled, “that she only wanted to think about the present and the future. Our future.”

  For the first time, Westerbury held himself completely still. Stubbornly still. Either he did not know or was determined not to reveal anything about Solange Vernet’s past, leaving Martin to wonder if it had given him a motive to kill her. Martin wrote down “S V background” even as he was deciding that there must be many reasons for murder between two lovers that were more obvious. Martin drew several circles around his notation. Who Solange Vernet really was and where she came from were mysteries he could delve into later. He decided to move on.

  “Did you and Mme Vernet marry?”

  “No.”

  “You lived in a free union?”

  “In a manner of speaking. We loved each other and wanted to stay together. We decided to come here so that each of us could escape social prejudice. Especially Solange. No one would take her seriously as an intellectual in Paris, because she ran a hat shop. Here, well, here we could start anew.”

  “But that takes money.” A motive that pointed to premeditation.

  “Ah, yes,” Westerbury answered in a weary tone, as if this were the question he expected. “It is true, the money came from Solange.”

  “She sold her shop, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she was the one who bought the apartment?”

  The Englishman nodded. “The apartment is in her name. You can check. I would not steal from a woman.”

  Martin certainly would check. “Who arranged the purchase?”

  “Picard, the notary. He has an office off the Cours.”

  Martin wrote down the name of his landlord.

  “And—I’m sure you’ll find this out—there was a will.”

  “And you—”

  “Yes, yes, most of it goes to me.” Westerbury pulled hard at his collar. Even the self-proclaimed genius knew this fact did not help his case. A shirt button popped out and bounced along the wooden floor, without his taking note of it.

  “Then you did not make a great deal of money from your lecturing.”

  “Not yet, but when I write the book—”

  Martin cut him short. He had learned enough about Westerbury’s scientific theories for the time being. “Let’s stick with the immediate past, shall we? When did you arrive in Aix?”

  “Just last February.” Westerbury’s voice was almost inaudible. Martin could almost hear an “if only” forming in the Englishman’s mind. If only they had not come here when they did. If only, then what? What fatal series of events would not have occurred?

  “Are there any other members of the household? Children?”

  “Only the maid, Arlette LaFarge.”

  “You hired her here?”

  “No, she came with us from Paris. She had worked in the shop. You see, Solange was worried about leaving her, and—”

  “I will be questioning her,” Martin assured him and wrote down the name.

  “You see,” Westerbury explained, “this shows the kind of woman Solange was. She was helping Arlette escape from a brutal marriage. She was very, very kind.”

  Martin shook his head. Was Westerbury’s praise for his lover a sign that he was trying to cover up his own murderous rage? Or was it an indication of his undying love? And had Solange Vernet felt the same way? That’s the issue that Martin was about to probe.

  “And your days?” Martin asked, still in an even voice. “How did you spend them?”

  Westerbury shrugged. “I wrote my lectures. Tramped around the countryside, looking for the best sites for geological investigations. Worked on my book on the beneficence of nature.”

  “And Mme Vernet?”

  “She managed the household. She read. She hoped to get involved in charity work. But her greatest passion was putting together our social circle, a salon to discuss the great questions of the day on a regular basis. You see, she was truly a Frenchwoman. She told me she would not be following me about, like Lady Lyell or some other Englishwomen, ‘holding a basket.’ But she was learning how to mark and classify my finds.”

  Solange Vernet and a pile of rocks. It seemed an unlikely image. But what of Solange Vernet, the salonnière—trying to create a little bit of Paris in the provinces? “I’m interested in your acquaintances in Aix,” Martin said. “Did you succeed in putting together this circle?”

  “We met every Thursday. But,” Westerbury paused, “you probably know that. You were the young judge she invited, weren’t you?”

  For a moment their eyes locked. Then the Englishman gave him a lopsided grin. “Solange and I did not have any secrets.”

  Just as in the quarry, Martin felt somehow found out by the recollection of his chance encounter. Westerbury’s attit
ude did not help. The Englishman’s squinting expression indicated that he was trying to piece together what Solange Vernet had said about Martin. The fact that Joseph chose this moment to clear his throat only increased Martin’s discomfort. He had to keep on the offensive.

  “I know this may be painful, but I need to ask if you and Mme Vernet were having any difficulties.”

  “No,” Westerbury replied, a bit too quickly.

  “I mean,” Martin decided to work his way up to specifics, “did you ever quarrel? What about religion, for example? You yourself said that Frenchwomen were funny about that, and we found a religious medal on the body.”

  Westerbury winced and then recovered by going on the attack. “I’d like that back. It was her favorite. In fact, I would like all of her ‘effects’ back.”

  Martin sighed, to signal that his patience was coming to an end. He had to make it clear that in his chambers, only he, the judge, had the right to be the aggressor. “I would like an answer to the question: did you quarrel about anything? And more especially, did you quarrel recently? Within the last week?”

  Westerbury shook his head.

  “Well, that is surprising, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “From what you said, Mme Vernet was a strong-willed woman. Independent. Yet a Catholic. You, however, are a promoter of science. And a man with no visible means of financial support. What was the basis of your relationship?”

  The Englishman rose, put his two hands on the front of the desk, and leaned toward Martin. “We loved each other.” Martin caught a whiff of alcohol on Westerbury’s breath, and saw a faint sneer pass over the Englishman’s pale face. Martin could felt his own face redden.

  “Come now. This is a murder investigation. More to the point,” Martin pronounced each word with great precision, “you are a suspect. You can either answer my questions or I can hold you in prison for the next forty-eight hours.”

  “Barbaric country,” Westerbury muttered to no one in particular as he resumed his seat.

  “If I decide you are the murderer, you will rot in your cell until the trial,” Martin added. This was more brutish than he liked to be, but he did not like Westerbury’s attitude. He seemed to think that Martin had been some kind of coward or hypocrite because he had not come to their salon.

  “Look,” said Westerbury, retreating a bit, “Solange was an independent woman. And tolerant. She could believe in me and science at the same time that she believed in the saints and the Virgin Mary. It gave her comfort to think of them watching over her. She knew I was not here to tear down religion. I’m a deist, not an atheist. It doesn’t have to be like it is, here in France. Here, if you declare yourself a republican you feel it necessary to reject not only the Church but any semblance of religious feeling. And yet men of your party like your women brought up by nuns. So they’ll obey you, I suppose. But whom do they obey in the end? Their anti-clerical husband, or the parish priest who has the power to save their souls? Solange and I were striving for middle ground where science and religion, and men and women, could truly meet.”

  Although he did not like being lectured to by a foreigner, Martin had no riposte for this. He knew from his own experience that what Westerbury was saying was not far off the mark. But how in the world did a foreigner and a Parisian hatmaker come to believe they could change things?

  “As for money,” the Englishman continued, “it really wasn’t an issue. You don’t fall in love with a milliner for her money.”

  Not unless you yourself are penniless, Martin thought. Then he asked, “What about other men?”

  “Solange was faithful to me, I’m sure of it. We told each other everything.”

  Martin gave Westerbury time to go on, but the Englishman chose silence. He picked up his hat and ran his fingers around the brim, turning it slowly. All that could be heard was the scratching of Joseph’s pen, and then the scrape of the clerk’s chair along the wooden floor as he shifted his position. Given Westerbury’s eagerness to expand on other topics, Martin was sure the Englishman was lying about this one.

  “Even if what you say is true,” he paused so that Westerbury could absorb his skepticism, “we will still need a list of all your acquaintances.”

  “Surely you don’t believe that any of them would—”

  “Please give their names and professions slowly so that my clerk can record them accurately.”

  Resigned, Westerbury began describing his circle quietly and mechanically. The only women who attended the salon were an aspiring artist and the wife of a law professor, who attended with her husband. The other men, a dozen writers and professors and a bookdealer, seemed respectable enough, and probably all republicans.

  When Westerbury stopped, Martin laid down his pen and waited. Westerbury kept turning his hat slowly in his hands. Finally, Martin insisted that he did not believe the list was complete. When the Englishman shrugged, Martin pounced. “What about Cézanne?”

  Despite Westerbury’s best efforts, Martin detected a flinch. Even Old Joseph turned around, sensing a dramatic confrontation in the offing.

  After glancing from Martin to his greffier, Westerbury began. “We knew Paul Cézanne, but he was not, precisely speaking, a member of the circle. If you knew him, you’d know he is a misanthrope, a bear, someone who. . . .” The Englishman groped for the right words. “Someone who is not really fit for the kind of world that Solange wanted to create. She liked laughter. She loved what you French call esprit. She thought that if we all took ourselves too seriously, we would never agree on anything. Cézanne, God knows, takes himself very seriously.”

  Martin wrote down and circled the artist’s name several times. “Then why was he a friend?”

  “There you go,” said Westerbury, pointing his hat at Martin’s pen. “There you go. Here’s an example of something that Solange and I could disagree about without getting angry with each other. She thought he was a misunderstood genius. She felt sorry for him. She wanted to encourage him. She was that way, you know, generous. There was nothing to be jealous of. I would not have minded even if . . . even if she had agreed to sit for him.”

  “Quite generous of you,” Martin mumbled and looked up in time to see Westerbury scowl. “And what,” he continued, “do you think of Cézanne?”

  “Frankly, I think he is a bore.”

  “Capable of murder?”

  This question seemed to catch the Englishman off guard. One could almost read his thoughts: Should he try to save himself by accusing his rival? Or would that be admitting to his jealousy? Martin sat very still as he waited for a response, hoping against hope for some reaction. A rash accusation. Or a theory of the crime. Anything. Even Joseph’s pen did not move. Finally, Martin added, “What would you say if I told you we found a piece of a canvas in the quarry and that it may have been painted by Cézanne?”

  “Nothing.” Westerbury was breathing hard. “I would say nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The Englishman only nodded. Once again he began to stare out the window, drifting away into a sea of private troubles.

  Martin straightened his position in his chair as he frantically rehearsed in his mind what he needed to ask about the days immediately surrounding the murder. “Mr. Westerbury, where were you on August 17th and 18th?”

  “Tramping about Mont Sainte-Victoire. Trying to decide whether it should become the cornerstone of my work. I camped there overnight.” This came out in a monotone.

  “Alone?”

  “Quite.”

  Martin wrote down “no alibi” and gave Westerbury time to consider his vulnerability on this issue. Silence.

  “And Mme Vernet? Where do you think she was?”

  “At home. The only thing she had planned for the week was to follow the Procession on the Feast of the Assumption. Most of our circle was out of town. So she was going to take the time to read and to write.” He hesitated. “Letters.”

  “Do you have any of these
?” said Martin, alert. The letters might offer some clues about Solange Vernet and her past.

  “No, they were sent.”

  Sent. Gone. “You don’t know what these were about.”

  “No, I don’t.” The Englishman’s eyes were fixed on the floor.

  “Then, when was the last time you saw Mme Vernet?”

  “We were supposed to sup together, late, when I returned from Sainte-Victoire. But Arlette said she had gotten a message—”

  “A message?” Martin asked sharply.

  Westerbury shook his head. “There’s no hope there. I got so worried when Solange was still gone this morning that I asked Arlette to tell me everything that happened before Solange left. She only told me that Solange had read the note, dressed, and rushed out of the house. She didn’t recognize the boy who brought it, either.”

  “Did the maid see the note? Would she recognize the handwriting?” Martin’s excitement was mounting.

  Westerbury looked up at Martin. “She doesn’t read.”

  Taking up his pen again, Martin wrote, “Search for message in Vernet apartment and at the scene. Look for the messenger.” Then he set it aside. “Do you think that the note summoned Mme Vernet to the quarry?”

  Westerbury shrugged.

  “Were you in the habit of going to the quarry?”

  “I’ve taken my students there to hunt for fossils and to show them the strata formations,” the Englishman said with a weary sigh, “to give them some idea about the age of the earth and its powers of regeneration.”

  “Women?”

  “Yes, women.”

  Cartloads of corseted women wandering with baskets and pickaxes? What did this man think he was doing? “And Mme Vernet? Did she ever go there?”

  Westerbury’s “yes” was barely audible. He was still clinging to his hat, which now hung between his legs.

  “When? Why?” Martin spoke in short jabs to penetrate the pall that was fast descending over his suspect.

  “A few times. For picnics. She considered it a good healthy walk. We’d picnic under the trees and then I’d take her to the rocks. She always laughed about all the adventures I must have had there with ‘my ladies.’” Each word dropped from Westerbury’s lips more slowly and more quietly, until he burst out again. “Oh God,” he gasped in English. “Oh God, my beloved in that quarry. Do you know if she was violated? If she struggled?”