by Leah Hope
“I wished you’d checked with me first!” said Bridget curtly over breakfast. “I was really looking forward to a relaxing day at home. This business with the Mayor has really got to me for some reason, I don’t know if I’m in the mood for socialising.”
“I can always ring him back, I could make up some sort of excuse, I don’t suppose they’ll mind.”
“No, don’t do that, you know what Helen’s like, she’ll have gone to a lot of bother, no we’ll have to go now, but I don’t want to stay too long.”
*
“It’s so nice of you to invite us Helen,” Bridget gushed as her hostess ushered her and Gil into the hallway. “We didn’t have any plans for today so it’s lovely to be here, isn’t it Gil?” she continued, deliberately avoiding the look of astonishment which she knew would be on her brother’s face.
“Max and Genni have gone out to lunch with some friends and as you two are on your own we thought you might like to keep us company,” said Helen. “Come on through to the terrace.”
“Hello you two, how’s tricks? Come on sit down, make yourselves comfortable, now what’s your poison?” said Doug eagerly.
“A beer for me please,” said Gil.
“I think I’ll have a gin and tonic please, if I may, I haven’t had one of those for ages, but not too much gin though!” said Bridget.
“Of course you may, coming up!” said Doug as he disappeared into the kitchen.
“The garden’s looking lovely Helen, but it must take quite a bit of looking after,” Bridget began, hoping to avoid talk of the murder.
“It does take up quite a lot of my time but I enjoy it so I don’t see it as a chore,” said Helen, “although at this time of the year the hardest part is trying to stop everything from shrivelling up in the heat. I’ve suggested to Doug that we should invest in one of those sprinkler systems, but he says they use too much water.”
“Quite right too,” said Doug, who had just returned with the drinks. “We get quite severe droughts here most summers and we have to be careful with water so there’s enough for essentials like crops, hospitals and industry. We can’t go chucking it away on a few plants!”
Helen gave him one of her long-suffering glances but knew that he was right of course so there was no point in arguing.
“Well, what do you make of our little murder then, I expect Tony’s put you in the picture?” Doug said excitedly to his guests.
“Really Doug!” said Helen, before either of them could answer. “You make it sound as if you’re asking for a review of an amateur dramatics performance!”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to be insensitive, but you must admit it’s the most excitement we’ve had round here for years!” he replied, clearly relishing an opportunity to talk about the previous day’s events.
“Well I don’t think poor Madame Sellier would see it that way, I’ve heard she’s taking it very badly, as you might expect. It must have been a terrible shock for her, especially as we heard she was away at the time, looking after her elderly mother apparently,” said Helen.
“So he was married then?” said Bridget. “We don’t really know much about him at all.”
“Yes he was, to a bit of a shrew of a woman, but very pleasant all the same, not that we’ve ever had much to do with her, or him come to that, other than on business matters,” Doug answered. “Helen and I used to joke that he’s a bit like Marmite, you either loved him or loathed him but, you can only speak as you find and we’ve had no problems with him at all over the years, have we darling? I know others might disagree and I can see how he might have got up people’s noses. He was very abrupt and didn’t pull his punches, Tony and Heather could certainly vouch for that.”
“So who dunnit then Bridget? I hear you’re a bit of an amateur detective so you must have a suspect in mind,” Doug said, suddenly turning to Bridget.
“Oh don’t ask me,” replied a slightly bemused Bridget. “I may have a knack for solving fictional murders, but this is the real thing, I wouldn’t know where to start, I think we should leave it to the police.”
“Well I think that’s a good point to break off and have lunch, so if you’d all like to sit at the table, I’ll bring everything out,” Helen interjected, seizing the moment before her husband had chance to interrogate Bridget further.
Lunch consisted of chicken in a creamy tarragon sauce with rice and fresh garden peas, followed by a tarte au citron.
“I have to confess I didn’t make the lemon tart myself,” said Helen, “the patisserie does a much better job than I ever could and in France there’s no shame in admitting you bought dessert, unlike the UK!”
“Well whoever made it, it’s delicious,” said Gil, readily accepting second helpings.
Bridget was relieved that conversation over lunch was confined to small talk, carefully orchestrated by Helen, and she was surprised to find that she was actually enjoying herself. After the meal was over, the foursome moved to the big, comfortable garden chairs where they leisurely finished the second bottle of a very good Saumur.
Much to Bridget’s annoyance, it was Gil who steered the conversation back to the murder. Seeing his sister’s glare of disapproval, he was at a loss as to why she suddenly found the subject too distasteful.
“So how long has Sellier been Mayor here?” he asked.
“He was already in post when we arrived and he’s got just over a year of his second term to go, I think he’s done about ten or eleven years altogether,” Doug replied.
“Plenty of time to make enemies then,” said Gil.
“Without a doubt,” said Doug, taking a big sip of wine.
“What’s his history, is he a local man?” Gil asked.
“Yes, his family were quite big landowners and farmers around here years ago. His mother died when Bernard was quite young and his father was so grief-stricken that he virtually allowed the boy to run wild. When the old man died, Bernard had no interest in carrying on the farm and sold up but the money went through his hand like water apparently, usual stuff, cars, women, drink, and he had got into a bad crowd who helped him spend it even faster. He’s not poor by any means, he lives in that big house next to the library, but I think he got through a small fortune over the years.”
“Did he and his wife have any children?” asked Bridget, keen to know more about the personality of a man who had ended up a victim of murder.
“No they didn’t, not that I know of,” Helen replied.
“Where did you learn all of this?” asked Bridget, now clearly intrigued by the life of a man she had seen only briefly.
“Oh we get all the local history from our neighbour, Béatrice Blanchard,” said Helen, “she’s absolutely amazing, I think she must be over ninety now and she’s as sharp as a tack, although I have noticed signs recently that she’s getting a little confused now and then. Sometimes I can’t tell if she’s talking about something that happened yesterday or fifty years ago, but I suppose that’s to be expected at her age. She’s lived in the village all her life and there’s not much she doesn’t know, when you can get it out of her that is. She’s very discrete and doesn’t give up her secrets lightly. But over the years she’s given us little titbits which we’ve pieced together.”
“She sounds fascinating, I bet she’s got some tales to tell,” said Bridget.
At that moment, the phone in the house rang and Helen jumped up to answer it.
“I’ll make some coffee while I’m inside, could you start to clear up Doug?” she said, hurrying towards the house.
When Gil and Bridget were alone, Gil said, “I can’t make you out Bridget, first you’re downright excited to think there might have been a murder, then you’re scared to death and don’t even want to talk about it and now you seem fascinated by the whole thing?”
“It’s not the actual murder that intrigues me so much as why Bernard Sellier was the victim.”
“So you’ve ruled out a gun-toting madman being on the loose then?” said Gil, somew
hat facetiously.
“Yes, I think I have,” said Bridget thoughtfully. “You recall that Nick told us that he had heard from the Deputy Mayor that Sellier left the fireworks early as he had some business to attend to. It seems a strange time to be doing business, don’t you think so? Maybe he was up to something shady.”
“And that ‘something shady’ got him killed? It’s a bit far-fetched, but I suppose it’s possible. Everyone seems to agree he had enemies,” said Gil.
“They say that the clue to every murder lies somewhere in the victim’s past, apart from those awful random killings you hear about of course. I would love to know what Béatrice Blanchard makes of it all, I bet she doesn’t miss thing. Maybe I’ll ask Helen to arrange a meeting.”
“Well you can ask, but from what Helen said, I doubt she’s going to open up to a complete stranger is she?” said Gil.
“Maybe not, but I think it’s worth a try.”
Helen returned to the garden carrying a pot of freshly made coffee and four cups and saucers. Doug followed shortly afterwards still sporting his washing-up apron.
“Who was that on the phone darling, you went into the sitting room so I couldn’t hear?”
“It was Monique,” replied Helen, “you know, she cleans for us,” she added for Gil and Bridget’s benefit. “It seems as if there’s been an arrest.”
“That’s brilliant news!” said Doug. “Did she know who?”
“Yes, it’s Bruno Troussard, they picked him up first thing this morning.”
“Bruno Troussard, they’ve got to be joking!” exclaimed Doug almost choking on his coffee.
“Why do you say that, who is this chap?” asked Gil.
“He’s the local opportunist thief, garages, sheds, that’s his style, I would have thought that murder was way out of his league,” said Doug.
“Well Monique did say that Sellier’s Rolex was missing, and his wallet, so the motive could have been robbery,” said Helen.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it was Troussard, he’s not even brave enough to break in anywhere if he thinks the cat might be at home!” said Doug. “No, they’re barking up the wrong tree there.”
“Maybe he came across the body and took the watch and the wallet?” said Bridget.
“That might be more his style,” said Doug. “Did Monique say if they found the watch and wallet on him?” Doug asked his wife.
“No, she didn’t know any more details.”
“That’s a shame,” said Doug, “but she’s due here tomorrow morning so we’ll give her a good grilling then!”
“We’ll do no such thing!” said Helen firmly, looking up from the cup of coffee she was pouring for Gil.
Doug looked at Gil and tapped the side of his nose.
“I saw that!” said Helen.
“Rumbled again,” he said, rolling his eyes skyward.
“I think we’d better be going,” said Gil, when he had finished his coffee. “I feel an afternoon nap coming on, courtesy of your delicious food Helen!”
“I’ll take that as a compliment then!” Helen replied.
“Yes indeed, it was a lovely lunch, we’ve had a great time, haven’t we Bridge?”
“We certainly have, that’s two meals we owe you, you must come to us soon,” said Bridget.
“We’d love to, but you don’t owe us a thing, we love having you both here,” said Helen. “Oh I’ve just remembered,” she went on, “we’ve invited Béatrice for tea on Wednesday, she loves an English afternoon tea and we like to treat her now and again. As you sounded very keen to meet her Bridget you might like to join us, and you of course Gil, but don’t feel obliged if you’ve made other plans.”
“Oh no, we’ve got nothing on at all, have we Gil? We’d love to come!” said Bridget beaming.
“That settles it, see you at four on Wednesday then!” said Helen.
“I’ll make some little cakes!” said Bridget, as they said their goodbyes.
As they made their way home, Gil asked Bridget why she was suddenly so quiet.
“I was just making a mental note of the ingredients I need for the cakes I’m going to make for tea at Helen’s, I think we’re out of some things so I’ll need to stock up.”
Bridget was making mental notes alright, but they had absolutely nothing to do with baking cakes.
Chapter Eleven
Gil and Bridget both treated themselves to a long lie in the next morning, followed by a late breakfast in the garden. They had booked a table for dinner at the Mirabeau that evening and Bridget was looking forward to having an evening off from the kitchen. As much as she enjoyed cooking, it was a pleasant change to have a free day every now and then to do as she pleased. The morning was very hot again and she and Gil sat on their loungers under the shade of the cherry trees, each engrossed in a book.
“Do you fancy going up to the lake for a stroll a bit later? I could do with stretching my legs,” said Gil, without looking up from his book.
“Yes, what a good idea, we could get a sandwich at the café afterwards.”
The lake in question was about a mile from Saint-Rémy so technically just outside the village boundary but as there was no other village for some miles, the residents of Saint-Rémy had claimed it as their own. Years ago there had been a decent sized forest in the area, which had given the village its full name. Since there were no other leisure facilities nearby, the decision had been taken some years ago to clear many of the trees so that the lake could be widened. An artificial beach had been added five years ago, using imported sand, and picnic tables were placed in the shade of the remaining trees. There were pedalloes and kayaks for hire and a pontoon moored in the middle of the lake gave somewhere for swimmers to rest and children to make believe it was a pirate ship or a castle to defend from invading hoards. Until a few years ago, visitors to the lake had to make do with cold snacks served from a small wooden hut. Thankfully for the visitors, it had been replaced by a smart new café serving the ubiquitous frites and other hot and cold snacks and drinks. The old hut still stood, rather forlornly, at the far side of the lake, partly hidden by bushes which had grown up around it, waiting for someone to decide what to do with it.
Gil and Bridget set off for the lake just after three. Gil had wanted to walk but Bridget would hear none of it, insisting they took the car.
“For one thing it’s too hot to walk that far and besides, my feet haven’t recovered from the other night.”
“Well if you will insist on dancing the fandango with a man half your age, what do you expect?” replied Gil rather unsympathetically.
“It was a waltz actually,” retorted Bridget brusquely as she climbed into the passenger seat next to her brother.
Until that night, Bridget had never suffered with her feet. She put this down to the fact that, unlike her contemporaries, she had never tried to squeeze them into stilettos when she was younger and had spent most of her adult life indoors wearing slippers. She had been proud of her feet. Her hands however were another matter. They had been ruined by years of washing up, until relief came in the form of a dishwasher five years ago, but it was too late, the damage was done. Bridget was ashamed of her hands and never drew attention to them by wearing nail polish or rings.
Gil parked the car in the little car-park and he and Bridget set off for a leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the lake. It was the school holidays and the place was alive with the shouts and screams of children playing and splashing in the water while mothers kept a watchful eye from the banks. Kayaks and pedalloes did their best to keep out of each other’s way and out of the way of swimmers and of a couple of dogs who were determined to join in the fun.
“Shall we get something to eat? I’m starving,” said Gil, after they had arrived back at the spot where they had started.
“Yes, but we don’t want to ruin our appetite for tonight, we’re eating out don’t forget. A small baguette will do me,” said Bridget.
“Ok, you find us somewhere to sit and
I’ll go and see what they’ve got,” said Gil as he made his way towards the café.
Bridget headed for the trees where she found an empty picnic table and bench. She sat down in the welcome shade provided by the overhead branches and took out a tissue from her bag to mop some beads of perspiration that were threatening to run down the back of her neck. Gil joined her after a long wait to get served and put down a tray containing two baguettes, a large bottle of water and two plastic glasses.
“I didn’t know what you wanted so I go one with ham and one with cheese, I thought we could split them so we both get half of each.”
“That’s fine,” said Bridget, “but it’s a drink I need more than anything, it’s so hot and I can’t seem to get cool.”
“Maybe we could have a paddle in the lake after, that’ll cool us off,” said Gil, “might do your feet some good as well.”
Bridget looked disdainfully at her brother and took a large bite out of her baguette.
*
After returning home, Bridget had taken a cooling shower and now sat refreshed on the little terrace at Les Cerisiers sipping a gin and tonic, for which she seemed to have acquired a recent taste. Gil sat next to her with a beer.
“I wonder if there’s been any developments today?” Gil asked.
“You mean to do with the murder? Well if there has, they’re bound to know at the Mirabeau,” his sister replied.
At that moment, Bridget’s attention was drawn to something moving in the shrubs at the far end of the garden. She twisted slightly in her seat to get a better look.
“Oh, it’s only a dog. Shoo, shoo, go on home!” she said, jumping to her feet and clapping her hands. The dog, a retriever type, took no notice and instead came towards her, tail wagging, and with something clearly visible in its mouth. When he reached the terrace, he dropped it in front of Gil, clearly expecting to be rewarded for bringing him such a wonderful “gift”.
“What have you got there boy?” said Gil as he looked at the headless torso of an old doll which the dog had by now picked up again and was shaking excitedly back and fore. “By the looks of your paws, you’ve dug this up from somewhere, I hope you haven’t left a big hole in our lawn!”
