by Leah Hope
“Come on, let’s get a table, Pete or Nick will fill us in I’m sure.”
They sat down at their favourite table on the terrace and waited to be served. A breathless and rather flushed looking Pete McNally arrived several minutes later.
“Heard the latest?” he said excitedly. Gil and Bridget both shook their heads. “There’s been another murder, Martha Clifford, sometime last night according to my Gendarme mates.”
Gil and Bridget looked completely stunned. “You’re joking,” said Gil, “sorry, stupid thing to say, but another murder, I can’t believe it, who’s Martha Clifford?”
“She’s English, been here a good few years, a retired teacher I think, she kept herself pretty much to herself,” Pete replied. “But,” he added, “she used to dine here though, regular as clockwork, tenth of every month, I guess that’s the day her pension arrived. Same order every time, steak frites and two glasses of house red. Her little treat I suppose. You may have seen her cycling round the place, always wore a battered straw hat whatever the weather. The locals thought she was a bit loopy, but she was a nice lady, very intelligent despite appearances.”
“Oh, I think I know who you mean, the poor woman, do you know how it happened?” asked Bridget.
“She lives in a little row of cottages on the road up to the lake, her neighbours heard some strange noises late last night but didn’t bother going around as they didn’t want to intrude, can you believe it? Anyway, they went around this morning to make sure the old bird was ok and they found her on the kitchen floor, dead. Looks like she was strangled.”
At that moment, a half a dozen Gendarmes crossed the square and headed for the Mirabeau. “Sorry, have to go, this lot’ll want feeding. I’ll catch you guys later.”
As Pete hurried into the hotel, Nick Webster was just coming out.
“Hi there,” he said to Gil and Bridget in his usual cheery manner, “I suppose Pete’s given you the grizzly details. It’s getting like the Bronx around here, I wonder who’ll be next?” Nick stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth and put his hands around his throat miming strangulation.
“I don’t think you should joke about it like that, a poor woman’s dead you know,” said Bridget who was visibly upset.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make light of it. It is worrying though, you must admit, first Bernard Sellier and now this old woman. Anyway, I can’t stop, it’s my day off and me and my girlfriend are heading for the coast. Catch you guys later.”
Gil and Bridget had to wait a good twenty minutes for their breakfast while Pete lavished his attention on the Gendarmes. By the time it arrived, Bridget had long since lost her appetite.
“Just coffee for me” she said to Gil, waving away the basket of croissants he had pushed towards her. “This is absolutely awful, what on earth is going on in this place?”
“I can’t take it in either,” said Gil, “but you know what it means don’t you? As that Janot chap is still under lock and key, well as far as we know he is, it means there’s another homicidal maniac on the loose!”
“Don’t be silly Gil, it doesn’t mean that at all. What it does mean is that Jean-Paul Janot is innocent. They’ve got the wrong man locked up!”
“How do you make that out, Sellier was shot, this Clifford woman was strangled, well according to Pete anyway, I thought murderers always used the same modus thingamajig.”
“Operandi,” said Bridget helpfully.
“Yes, whatever it’s called. Surely that means there are two killers, Janot certainly couldn’t have carried out the second one.”
“Do you really believe there are two murderers in a tiny place like this?” Bridget asked incredulously. “There’s only one killer and it’s definitely not Janot, so whoever it is, they’re still out there. Oh Gil, I’m so frightened, can we go home now please?”
“Yes of course, just let me finish my coffee.”
“No I mean home, back to the UK and Whytecliffe. I don’t think I want to stay here any longer, not until all of this is over.”
“Look, I can understand why you feel scared, I must admit it’s unnerved me a bit too, but if you’re right, and both of these murders were committed by the same person, then they must be connected in some way and that connection has nothing at all to do with us.”
“Do you really think so, but what if I was wrong, what if they are random killings after all?” After a pause, Bridget continued, “Bernard Sellier was robbed, wasn’t he? So that may have been the motive for his murder, I wonder if that was the motive for killing poor Martha Clifford too?”
“But I thought you were convinced that the reason that Bernard Sellier was killed was to do with something in his past, this second murder seems to have put paid to that theory.”
“Oh I don’t know Gil, maybe I’ve just been stupid, allowing myself to get caught up in the romantic notion of being involved in a real-life crime. Béatrice Blanchard really got to me you know, I was convinced she knew what was behind Bernard Sellier’s death, but now I think I’ve been taken in by, what was it you said, the ramblings of a confused old woman. I don’t know what to think any more.”
“Come on, let’s get back to the house and if you really want to go home, then we will. We can always come back when this has all been cleared up.”
As they got to their feet, Pete returned to clear their table.
“Is there any more news?” Bridget asked him.
“Not really, it’s still early days, but if you call in tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll be able to give you an update.”
The way he winked at her made Bridget feel, at best like a curtain twitcher and at worst a tricoteuse at a public execution during the French revolution.
“There’s just one other thing,” Bridget said, trying not to look or sound remotely like a busybody, “is Jean-Paul Janot still under arrest?”
“He sure is,” said Pete with the smug look of someone ‘in the know’. “And what’s more, my Gendarme mates have just told me he was charged this morning with Bernard Sellier’s murder!”
Gil and Bridget walked back home in silence. “That poor man,” said Bridget, as she put her keys down on the kitchen worktop, “how could they be so stupid as to charge him when there’s been another murder?”
“Well they must have some quite strong evidence against him, or maybe there were clues at the second killing to suggest it was carried out by a different person,” said Gil.
“Yes, maybe you’re right but my head’s spinning with all this, I’m going to have a lie down. There’s some cold chicken in the fridge for your lunch, I don’t think I can face food at the moment.”
Bridget tossed and turned for half an hour but eventually dropped off to sleep. When she went downstairs two hours later there was no sign of Gil so she went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. A note on the fridge door said, “Gone to Chateau–Clermont. Back for lunch”. What on earth is he up to now, Bridget said to herself, but she didn’t have long to wait.
“Give us a hand Bridge,” shouted Gil when he opened the front door ten minutes later.
Bridget followed him outside to the car where he was unstrapping a large, cardboard box from the roof-rack.
“What have you got there?” Bridget asked, craning her neck to see if the outside of the box gave any clues.
“I know you said you wanted to go home, but we promised to entertain our friends on Saturday night remember?”
“Of course I remember, we can’t go back on that,” Bridget snapped angrily, incensed that Gil could even think that she would deliberately break a promise.
“So we’ll need a bigger table for the garden, our little one won’t do.”
“Oh, aren’t you clever, I hadn’t thought of that!” said Bridget, rather sarcastically.
“I have my uses” said Gil, trying not to look too smug. “Now you take that end and we’ll take it straight around to the back, but be careful it’s quite heavy.”
They laid the box gently on the
terrace and Bridget started to undo the tape that was wrapped around it while Gil went back to the car to fetch six chairs and an umbrella.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” said Bridget as she caught sight of the dark green and white striped umbrella and matching cushions. “This will look very smart, very Helen Faulkner!”
“Come on” said Gil after he’d assembled the table, “let’s christen it, put the kettle on Bridge.”
“Are you feeling better now?” Gil asked after they had finished their tea. “Sorry, I forgot to ask earlier.”
“I think so, but I had a really vivid dream which unsettled me a bit. It was about Dad, I haven’t dreamt about him for ages. He was in a church somewhere, I didn’t recognise it, and he was on his knees, praying.”
“That doesn’t sound much like Dad,” said Gil, smiling.
“The next thing he was in the middle of a street handing out leaflets to passers-by but no-one would take them from him and he was getting more and more insistent that they take one, but nobody would. Then it got all muddled up and the next thing we were here, in Saint-Rémy I mean, and he was in the back of an old-fashioned police van, you know the sort you see in cartoons with bars at the windows. He was shouting at me but I couldn’t hear him, it was as if his words were being carried away on the wind. I ran towards the van so that I could hear what he was saying but when I got nearer, it wasn’t Dad inside at all, it was Jean-Paul Janot.”
“Blimey Bridge, that sounds quite disturbing, are you sure you’re alright?” said Gil, shuddering slightly.
“Yes, it was a bit. But the strange thing it that I don’t feel frightened any more. I’ve decided I want to stay here and help that poor man, if that’s alright with you of course?”
Gil nodded but inwardly his heart sank. He was pleased of course that Bridget didn’t want to go home but he was far from sure that either of them should get mixed up in whatever was going on in Saint-Rémy. He wondered how he could tell her that they should leave well alone without scaring her half to death again. That would take some carefully chosen words.
Chapter Nineteen
The following morning, Gil and Bridget breakfasted on the terrace, as they usually did on warm days, which, thankfully, was most of them.
“Do you fancy a trip out somewhere today?” Gil asked, hoping to side-track Bridget from the events in the village.
“No thanks, I need to start thinking about what I’m going to feed our guests at the weekend. It’ll be the first time we’ll have had Doug and Helen and Tony and Heather here together so I want to make it special. Oh, that reminds me, I must give Helen a call to see if she and Doug can make it. I wonder if they’re back yet? I’ll give her a ring while you clear up,” said Bridget.
Bridget rang Helen’s number but there was no reply so she made a mental note to try again later. She spent the next half hour looking through her store cupboards, checking “best before” and “use by” dates and discarding anything out of date. Then she started to compile what looked to Gil like a list of enough ingredients to feed an army.
“Do we really need all this?” he asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Oh that’s nothing, that’s just the basics, I haven’t decided what we’re eating yet. I tell you what, let’s pop into the village and get the things on this list, then I’ll need to make a list of fresh ingredients which we can pick up on Friday.”
Gil agreed, even though he knew the real reason for the trip to the village was to get an update from Pete.
After they bought up what seemed like the entire contents of the mini-market, Gil saved Bridget from having to make an excuse for visiting the Mirabeau by chivalrously claiming a sudden thirst. He and Bridget crossed the square and entered the hotel by the main front door, which, as usual, was open. They turned left at the reception desk, where Nick Webster was looking rather flustered as he checked in a rather elegant French woman, and went through to the bar. Pete was bidding goodbye to a couple of Gendarmes and gestured to Gil that he would be with them in five minutes. After the Gendarmes had left, Pete wiped down the bar and looked up at Gil and Bridget. “What’ll it be folks?”
“A large coffee for Bridget and a beer for me please,” said Gil.
“Coming right up.”
Pete brought the drinks over and without waiting to be asked, sat down next to Bridget with a coffee of his own.
Oh no, Gil thought, looks like he’s in for the long haul.
“Well,” said Bridget, eyes widening, “any news?” She was past caring if Pete thought she was a nosey old busybody or not and was determined to find out all she could.
Pete leaned towards Bridget. “She was strangled all right, around midnight, according to the autopsy, and that ties in with what the neighbours said about hearing noises at that time.”
“Was anything stolen?” Bridget asked.
“Doesn’t look like it, her bag was on a chair and her purse and credit cards were still there. There was some jewellery in a box upstairs, nothing fancy but a couple of nice pieces, but there were no signs it had been touched either.”
“Were there any signs of a break-in?” Bridget asked.
“Apparently not. Besides, the neighbours said she rarely locked her door, like most folk in these parts, so whoever did it could have walked straight in. Makes you think, doesn’t it,” said Pete with a shudder.
“Do you know if Martha Clifford knew Bernard Sellier or was she connected to him in any way?” Bridget asked.
“Now that I couldn’t tell you. Most people in the village have dealings with the Mayor at some point in their lives so she would probably have come across him, in his official capacity. She kept herself to herself as I’ve said and I doubt she would have moved in his social circles, he liked to schmooze with the local bigwigs and I can’t see Martha Clifford falling into that category.”
“So she was killed for no apparent reason, sounds like the work of a nutter to me?” said Gil, who had remained silent up to now.
“Oh, there was a reason alright,” said Bridget seriously.
“Excuse me, customer,” Pete said, leaping to his feet as the French woman they had seen in reception entered the bar and sat down at an empty table next to Gil and Bridget. Pete took her order for a coffee. A crowd of early diners were making their way from the bar into the restaurant, and Pete followed them, shouting for Nick. Gil was relieved that Pete would be occupied with them for a while and would be far too busy to further fire up Bridget’s imagination, which Gil knew would by now be heading into overdrive.
The French woman leaned towards Bridget and asked if she could borrow the copy of the local paper, which had been left on the table by the previous occupant and which rather sensationally sported large photos of both murder victims on the front page.
“Please keep it, it’s not ours,” said Bridget smiling, before adding, “your English is very good,” relieved that she didn’t have to speak French.
“Thank you, I teach English, so it should be.”
“So are you here on holiday?” Bridget asked.
“Not exactly,” the woman replied rather tersely, and buried her head in the newspaper.
Bridget took that as an indication that the conversation was over. Disappointed, she took consolation in the fact that she now had an opportunity to study the woman more carefully. She estimated she was in her forties, probably middle forties, certainly no more, attractive, but in an understated rather than an obvious way. She was above average height and slim. Are there any overweight Frenchwomen? Bridget thought, somewhat despondently. Her dark hair, which was cut in the fashionable bob so beloved by French women, was pushed behind her ears. Her makeup was immaculate and her skin tanned to just the right colour, but it was her shift dress, in a gorgeous shade of deep orangey coral, that took Bridget’s eye. As the woman placed an olive-green clutch bag on the table, Bridget could see that her expensively manicured fingernails were painted in a slightly paler shade of coral to her dress. Glancing down to the floor, Bri
dget noticed that her high heeled strappy sandals were a perfect match for the bag. What lovely colours, she thought, I wish I was brave enough to wear those colours together, no reason why I shouldn’t of course, she thought cheerfully. Then reality set in. Oh come on Bridget Honeyman, she said to herself, you must be mad to think you could get away with those colours, besides, they wouldn’t look nearly as good on a grey, gloomy day back home. No, those are definitely colours of the south, she thought, definitely colours of the south.
Bridget was woken suddenly out of her study of sartorial elegance by an enormous sneeze. She turned to Gil, clearly annoyed, and asked him like a mother might speak to a small child if he had a hanky in his pocket. She knew very well that he wouldn’t. Gil suffered from chronic heartburn too but he never carried peppermints either so Bridget made sure she always had a supply at the ready. She fished in her bag for a packet of tissues and almost threw them at her brother.
“Here you are, make sure you put some in your pocket next time,” she hissed.
Gil gratefully accepted the tissues but continued to sneeze violently.
“I think I must be coming down with something,” he said rather pathetically, rubbing his throat.
“Don’t exaggerate Gil, it’s only a touch of hay fever, we’ll get something at the pharmacy later.” But looking at her watch she went on, “If we hurry, we may be able to catch them before they close for lunch. Make sure you’ve got all the shopping.”
And then a bizarre incident occurred which horrified Bridget at the time, but when she looked back, she was convinced it was fate stepping in. As she stood up to gather her shopping bags, Pete popped his head around the bar door to tell the French woman that her room was ready. Just as both women were getting to their feet, Bridget felt the strap of her bag catch on the arm of her chair. Instead of stopping to untangle it, she gave it an almighty, impatient tug and the strap came free. Unfortunately, the rest of the bag didn’t come with it and it fell upside down on to the floor, spilling the contents everywhere. For Bridget, there was worse to come. She had tugged at the bag with such force that she momentarily lost her balance and fell backwards, right into the path of the French woman. She too was knocked off balance and her beautiful olive-green clutch bag, which too had flung open, was sent flying to the floor as well. Bridget was mortified. In an instant, she was scrabbling under the table frantically picking up the contents of her bag and helping the French woman pick up the contents of hers. Gil gallantly chased after a lipstick which had rolled the length of the bar and handed it to the French woman. She looked disdainfully at the cheap case before declaring that it could not possibly be hers and that it must belong to his “wife”. By now Bridget was on her feet, her shiny face the colour of a beetroot and was apologising profusely to the French woman. “It is no matter,” said the woman as she walked coolly towards the door to reception which led to the bedrooms, “no harm has been done.”
