Colours of the South

by Leah Hope

  “Oui Monsieur. We do not have more to tell you at the moment.”

  The Gendarmes stood up to leave and Gil went to show them out before one of them turned and said, “Oh I forget, Madame Dubreuil she say thank you very much for saving her life.”

  “Well I didn’t expect that,” said a still stunned Bridget after they had left. “So who on earth is Marguerite or Rita, or whatever she’s called?”

  “No idea,” said Gil, “looks like you’ve got a bit more sleuthing to do before you get to the bottom of this.”

  “My head is spinning already, I’m not sure I want to get involved any more, maybe I’ll just leave it to the Gendarmes.”

  “I think that’s a very wise decision, if you don’t mind my saying,” said Gil, inwardly breathing a big sigh of relief. “But before you hang up your deerstalker hat and magnifying glass for good, I’d be interested to know if you have a theory about how Nick actually carried out the murders.”

  “Well yes, I did have a theory, but as I was wrong about his mother, maybe I’ve been wrong about everything else too.”

  “I doubt that, the only person who knows what really went on is Nick Webster himself, but we aren’t going to hear from him any time soon, so over to you Miss Marple, or should that be Mademoiselle Poirot, since we’re in France?”

  “He was Belgian, but never mind. I can only guess at what brought Nick to France and to Saint-Rémy in the first place but I think there are two likely theories. The first is that he came here by chance and only discovered some time later that this was where his real father lived. I think that would have been too much of a coincidence though. Don’t forget, he found out that his old boss Pete McNally lived here too, so to find two people he knew in a small village, I think that’s stretching things. The second theory is that he came here because he knew his real father was here.”

  “So you think he came here with the sole intention of killing him?”

  “I think that depends on how much he knew about his past. Béatrice spoke about the family having to move away, if Nick knew all about that, then maybe he came to get his revenge on the man who ruined his family. Or perhaps he thought there was money in it somewhere, blackmail or extortion that sort of thing, don’t forget, the Sellier’s were quite a wealthy family at one time.”

  “But as Sellier’s son, wouldn’t Nick have inherited his father’s money one day, why not just wait until he died? It seems a bit of an extreme thing to do, I mean, killing your own father. But how do you think he actually set about it?”

  “Whatever his reasons, I think it was the very public row that Sellier had with Jean-Paul Janot that gave Nick the opportunity, and he took advantage of it. All he had to do was steal Janot’s gun, it was probably left lying about in a barn somewhere and he saw it when he went to collect vegetables for the restaurant. It wouldn’t be that difficult to do, and he had the perfect scapegoat.”

  “Do you think he planned the murder for Bastille night?”

  “I think he planned to speak to his father that night, maybe to get money out of him, and arranged to meet him at the back of the Mairie.”

  “But why take a gun?”

  “Probably to threaten him if he didn’t pay up, he could easily have hidden it in the bushes earlier in the day or even the previous night. Whether he planned just to frighten him and it went wrong or he intentionally set out to kill him, who knows. But whatever motive he had in mind that night for meeting his father, it certainly wasn’t an innocent one.”

  “But he was our waiter that night, he must be quite a cool character to keep his head on the busiest night of the year knowing that he was going to bump his old man off after he’d served coffee! Although now I come to think of it, he did get very flustered didn’t he, remember the incident with the Parisians when he got their bill wrong? And then he dropped that tray and tipped red wine all over himself and…”

  “But that’s it Gil, aren’t you clever!”

  “Why, what’ve I said?”

  “That he tipped red wine all over himself, he did it on purpose!”

  “But why on earth would he do that?”

  “To give himself the opportunity to change his clothes! If he was seen anywhere near the Mairie, he couldn’t risk anyone noticing the claret and blue polo shirts the staff wear. They’re so distinctive, it would be easy to trace the killer back to the hotel, so he made a big thing about having to change his shirt. Remember, he came back a few minutes later in a plain black tee-shirt? I think half the men in the square that night were wearing black tee-shirts, so he would have blended perfectly into the background. You’ve got to hand it to him Gil, he’s been very clever.”

  “What about Martha Clifford, how do you think he killed her?”

  “I think he probably just walked in that night and strangled her, simple as that. He must have been so desperate to keep his secret that I think he’d probably lost all sense of reason by then. They say that desperate people do desperate things. Do you know Gil, almost the hardest part of all of this is to think that the killer was someone we knew. We laughed with him, joked with him, drank a glass of wine with him after he’d finished his shift. It makes me shudder to think we were in the presence of a killer. You read about these things in the papers and they always say ‘he was such a nice man’ or ‘he kept himself to himself, never caused anyone any trouble’, that sort of thing. But when it happens in your own little world, you can’t quite believe it, how you could have been taken in.”

  “I feel much the same, take the first time I met him, remember I had a drink on my own at the Mirabeau the night we arrived? He seemed such an affable sort, maybe not the most efficient barman in the world, but a nice bloke, easy to talk to. I’m not trying to justify what he did for one minute, nobody in their right mind would even attempt to, but whatever happened in his past, it must have been pretty awful to drive him to do what he did.”

  “I suppose well find out one day, after the trial.” Bridget suddenly stopped short. “Oh Gil, I’ve just had a thought, do you think we’ll be called to give evidence?

  “I would have thought so, we’ll have to testify about how we found Agnès.”

  “Oh dear Gil, I don’t know if I fancy that, I’ve read enough detective stories to know that those barristers always seem hell bent on tying everyone up in knots. I’m sure I’ll get myself in an awful muddle.” To add to Bridget’s discomfort, the ‘interrogation’ by Capitaine Giraud and how she had almost buckled under the pressure of his intense gaze was still very fresh in her mind.

  “Don’t worry about that now, you’ll be fine, anyway he hasn’t even been charged yet, the trial won’t be for ages,” said Gil looking at his watch. “I think I’ll nip into the village to get a few things for tonight’s supper. Why don’t you relax and put your feet up? I won’t be long.”

  “Oh my goodness,” said Bridget suddenly, “talking of cooking, that’s reminded me, we’ve got people coming for dinner tomorrow and I haven’t even decided what we’re eating!”

  Bridget looked flustered. “Oh, I don’t know if I’m up to entertaining Gil, not just yet, would you mind having a word with Doug and Tony, tell them that we’ll fix another date soon?”

  “Leave it to me, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “Thanks, you’re an angel. Besides, there are a couple of extra guests I’d like to invite, if they’ll agree to come that is.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As might be expected, the killing of Bernard Sellier had gone largely un-reported in the UK, but the murder of ‘reclusive ex-pat’ Martha Clifford had understandably sparked quite a bit of interest. There had been a handful of journalists from the UK tabloids based in the village hoping for an ‘exclusive’ insight into the retired teacher’s life. When they discovered that there were no skeletons in poor Martha Clifford’s closet, they soon left, empty-handed. The ‘Saint-Rémy slayings’ were soon relegated to page four or five as the saga of the soap-star’s life, this time centred on her
admission to a rehab clinic, dominated the front pages of the tabloids once more. Until Gil and Bridget’s dramatic rescue of Agnès Dubreuil and of Nick Webster’s arrest that is. It seemed not only the entire tabloid press but the broadsheets and TV wanted a piece of the ‘elderly’ (“Elderly, how dare they!” Bridget screeched) brother and sister from a small provincial town on the south coast of England. Following police advice, requests for interviews were declined in case something was said that might prejudice the trial. As the army of press and photographers grew, Gil and Bridget began to feel like prisoners in their own home. Even the briefest of forays to get bread or milk was met with a flash of a camera or a microphone thrust under their noses. Bridget in particular became so fearful of saying something inappropriate that she rapidly became afraid to set foot out of the door. When Doug offered to deliver regular supplies of fresh food, Bridget could have kissed him. Doug took little heed of Gil’s warning that he would have to run the gauntlet of the press and took on the task like the head of a commando unit leading a daring mission. Bringing bread and croissants one morning, he intrepidly barged his way through the throng of journalists camped outside Les Cerisiers shouting, “No comment,” at the top of his voice. “I’ve always wanted to say that!” he said as he launched themselves through the front door which Gil was holding open for him. “You’ll have to get yourselves one of those PR gurus and sell your story, make yourselves a fortune. I think I’ve got a contact number somewhere for that chap that’s always on the box, a business colleague gave it to me years ago when we were re-launching the company. I’ll dig it out for you.”

  “No thanks,” said Gil holding up his hands, “I think we’ve had enough publicity to last us a lifetime!”

  After careful thought, Gil and Bridget decided to give one interview, to a rooky journalist from their own local paper, ‘The Coastal Courier’ who couldn’t quite believe his luck. They would speak to him on the strict understanding that they would not answer any questions relating to the murders or their part in finding Agnès Dubreuil. They would be more than happy though to talk about themselves and their lives in the UK and Saint-Rémy. The ecstatic journalist left several hours later having obtained the biggest scoop in his and the Courier’s history.

  There were three visitors however that Gil and Bridget were delighted to receive. Madame Sellier and Monsieur and Madame Janot arrived, separately, at Les Cerisiers two days after Nick Webster was formally charged with murder. None of them spoke any English but no words were necessary to understand the enormous debt of gratitude they felt for the two strangers who had affected their lives beyond measure. For Marie-Claude Sellier, it meant that her husband’s killer would be brought to justice. For Jean-Paul and Céline Janot, it simply meant they had their lives back.

  *

  Exactly one week after the cancelled dinner party, Gil and Bridget prepared to entertain their guests at Les Cerisiers. A lot of the fuss had died down and the press had largely left, until the trial anyway. Life for Gil and Bridget returned to some sort of normality although Bridget questioned if things would ever be the same for either of them again. Cooking had been a large part of Bridget’s life and preparing for a dinner party was her way of telling herself that life was getting back on track, that order had been restored. How could there be anything wrong if there was nothing else to do but bake a cake or try out a new sauce? In reality, both Gil, but more so Bridget, had been shaken to the core by what had happened and what they really needed more than anything was the comfort and familiarity of friends.

  Tony and Heather were the first to arrive.

  “Are we the first?” Heather asked, handing Bridget a large box of chocolates.

  “Yes you are, come on in both of you,” said Bridget taking the chocolates. “Thank you so much for these, how did you know they’re my favourites?”

  “A little bird told me!” said Tony, winking at Gil.

  Heather, who was looking very smart in black cropped trousers and a pistachio silk shirt, looked happier and more relaxed than she had done for weeks. Gil had just poured everyone a glass of champagne when there was a loud knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” said Bridget, putting her glass down. She opened the door to find Doug and Helen on the doorstep and behind them, to Bridget’s obvious joy, stood the tiny figure of Béatrice Blanchard.

  “Come in, come in,” said Bridget, opening the door wide to let her three guests enter. Helen thrust an enormous bouquet of creamy white roses from her garden into Bridget’s arms while Doug handed Gil a couple of bottles of a very expensive champagne.

  “You shouldn’t have!” Bridget gushed, frantically opening cupboards to look for a vase big enough to take the flowers.

  “Nonsense, it’s not every day we get to dine with a couple of international celebrities,” said Doug, putting an arm around Gil and Bridget.

  Bridget couldn’t believe that Béatrice had accepted her invitation, which had been extended to her via Helen.

  “I very much doubt she’ll come,” Helen had said, “she doesn’t go far these days.”

  “But you will tell her that we would really love her to come, won’t you?” Bridget had said earnestly.

  “Of course I will, but don’t get your hopes up,” Helen had said with a shake of her head.

  Gil offered more champagne to each of the guests but for some reason he hesitated when he approached Béatrice, half expecting her to decline. Instead, she surprised him by readily allowing him to re-fill her glass, giving a slight nod of her head in acknowledgment.

  “Helen, please tell Béatrice how delighted we are that she could come,” said a beaming Bridget.

  As Helen translated, Bridget watched the old woman, carefully trying to read her body language but, as usual, found it impossible.

  “She said that the pleasure is all hers and that it is an honour to be invited to the home of two very courageous people.”

  “Pas du tout Madame, pas du tout,” Bridget said quietly to Béatrice, blushing slightly.

  “I see the paparazzi have all but disappeared,” said Doug.

  “Yes, thank goodness, I hope that means that things will start to get back to normal,” said Bridget as she suddenly delved down into the back of the sink unit and reappearing with a glass vase in her hand, but not before banging her head on the waste-pipe. “I don’t know how some people live their lives in the constant glare of publicity, I’d be terrified to leave the house in case I was photographed with my hair in a mess or with a huge hole in my tights, which for me would be most of the time!”

  “I think some people must thrive on it,” said Helen, “as much as I love nice clothes and visits to the beauty salon, I would hate to think every last detail of my appearance was being pulled apart and dissected.”

  Bridget thought it very unlikely that Helen would ever fail to stand up to the most public of scrutiny. This evening she was looking immaculate as usual wearing an ankle length cream linen dress and heeled sandals in the same, perfectly matched, shade. The only real colour she wore was the black alice band which swept her hair off her face but as usual, the look suited her perfectly.

  “Well unless we win millions on the lottery or commit murder, I think we’re quite safe from the gaze of the press,” said Doug.

  Helen looked aghast at her husband, “You shouldn’t joke about murder Doug, it’s a bit too close to home.”

  “Quite right, sorry darling, didn’t think as usual,” Doug replied, lowering his head in mock shame.

  “Come on,” said Gil, lightening the mood, “let’s take our drinks into the garden.”

  Bridget had laid the new table with a crisp white linen table cloth and matching napkins bought specially for the occasion. Glasses and cutlery sparkled brilliantly in the evening sunshine and a bowl of pink roses in the centre of the table gave off a heady perfume. Bridget gave herself a little inward pat on the back for how smart the table looked. She had deliberately chosen a formal table setting, mainly for Béatrice’s
benefit, and was pleased that she had done so when she thought she caught a look of approval on the old woman’s face as she took her seat. As everyone took their places, Helen was the first to notice that the table was set for eight.

  “Are you expecting another guest?” she asked.

  “I hope so,” said Bridget enigmatically as she cast an anxious glance at her watch.

  “Gil, could you top up everyone’s glass please?” she continued. “We’ll give it a few more minutes before I serve the first course.”

  “Bridget, I hope you don’t mind, but can I say how absolutely ravishing you look tonight,” said Doug.

  And she did too, she had got it right at last. Bridget had taken her sartorial cue from Agnès and had decided to choose a bold (for her) colour combination. Her ankle length linen dress was a gorgeous shade of smokey blue which she had teamed with a lacy jacket of deep raspberry. Her shoes matched the jacket perfectly. Some carefully chosen pieces of silver jewellery completed the look. She’d squeezed in a last minute visit to the hairdresser’s too and her unruly locks, for tonight at least, had been tamed.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been called ‘ravishing’ in my life before, so yes Doug, you may certainly say it!” Bridget said with a laugh, but she was clearly flattered.

  “Yes, you look really lovely,” said Helen, “those colours suit you so well.”

  Gil looked on with pride as his sister revelled in the compliments she richly deserved. He was even forced to turn his head away slightly when tears welled up from nowhere as it struck him that Bridget had wasted too many years caring little for her appearance, mistakenly believing she was too plain to ever be thought of as attractive. Tonight though was different, tonight Bridget was beautiful.

  “I’ll just go and check on the starter,” said Bridget as she looked at her watch for the umpteenth time.

  “We’ve got some exciting news to tell you, when Bridget gets back of course,” said Tony, smiling at his wife.