The farm was indeed lost soon afterward. Laurent’s father shot himself. His mother died of breast cancer soon after the prison riot that saw Laurent’s sentence extended. He was escorted to her funeral under police guard and in handcuffs, still so famous that the scene attracted TV cameras and a scrum of press. But by now, the public mood had shifted, and the media, ever capricious in their judgments and always looking for a new angle to revive an old story, claimed that the law had gone too far and that Laurent was as much a victim as a villain.
So on the day Bruno first met Claudia, Laurent was coming back to St. Denis, where Bernard Marty, one of the fellow students who had been in the car on the day of the fatal accident, had agreed to give Laurent a room at his own farm while Laurent tried to rebuild something of his life. Bernard was also the only one in the car who had regularly visited Laurent in prison.
Bruno wondered how rough a time Laurent had known in prison and how much resentment he might feel about the draconian nature of his punishment. He did not relish the prospect of an embittered and probably unemployable ex-convict in his village, but Bruno felt there might be some grounds for hope. The cahier de surveillance had noted that Laurent had been moved to an open prison in the Jura Mountains for his last three years, where he was allowed out to work each day on a nearby farm, returning to the prison each evening.
Bruno knew that Laurent had merely been given a rail warrant for a one-way ticket to the train station of St. Denis. Afraid of press coverage, Bernard Marty had told Bruno he thought he’d better not meet Laurent at the station. Bruno had understood. So it was Bruno who waited, in his own elderly Land Rover rather than his police van, for Laurent’s train. He had arrived a few minutes early to see if any media had got wind of Laurent’s return. He told himself that if Philippe Delaron, the local correspondent for Sud Ouest, was waiting with a camera, he’d have to think of a way to dissuade him. Laurent deserved a new start without the press dogging his footsteps. But the platform had been empty when the train pulled in.
The first person to descend had been a stranger, an attractive young woman in jeans and a leather jacket with a long scarf wound several times around her neck, making her ponytail of light brown hair jut out almost horizontally. She was carrying a rucksack and a crammed and evidently heavy laptop bag. She looked around the deserted station in bewilderment, noticed the sign for the local taxi service and pulled out a phone. At the last moment before the doors closed, a burly man in his thirties with thinning fair hair stepped down from the train and placed an old-fashioned suitcase without wheels on the platform. He looked around. Laurent had aged a bit, but Bruno recognized his face from the prison photo.
He had powerful shoulders and the thick wrists of a farmer, and he stood with his feet planted squarely on the ground as if he’d be hard to shift. On a rugby field, he’d be an opponent to take seriously or a teammate one could count on. In the army, Bruno thought, he’d have been a natural sergeant.
A wintry sun was taking some of the chill from the January day, and Bruno was wearing a red jacket over his uniform shirt and trousers. He climbed out of his car with Balzac at his heels, approached Laurent, stretched out his hand to welcome him home and offered to drive him to the farm where he was expected.
“Thank you, but who are you?” Laurent asked as they shook hands, looking surprised but then giving a hesitant smile and looking down at Balzac. Bruno saw that Laurent was fit and in blooming health, his face weather beaten rather than suntanned, and his hand roughened by work.
“I’m Bruno Courrèges, the municipal policeman for St. Denis. I replaced Joe when he retired. I thought you might have seen enough of police vehicles and uniforms lately, so I came in my own car.” He picked up Laurent’s suitcase and turned to head for the Land Rover.
“Your dog? Does he hunt?” Laurent had crouched down, and Bruno saw with approval that he waited for Balzac to come to him.
“He comes along when I go hunting bécasses and he’s usually helpful unless some other interesting scent captures his interest. That’s the way with basset hounds.”
“You know where we’re going?” Laurent asked, still crouched down and now scratching Balzac’s chest in that special place between the two front legs, one of the few spots the dog could not reach. Balzac looked ecstatic.
“Yes. I’ll take you to Bernard Marty’s farm.”
“I thought Bernard would be here.”
“Bernard and I discussed it and agreed that it might be better for me to pick you up in case the media showed up.”
Laurent gave a curt nod, rose and followed Bruno, glancing curiously at the young woman with the rucksack who had been the only other descending passenger. She was standing by the taxi sign, her phone to her ear, but looking disconsolate.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” Bruno said, opening his jacket so she could see the police insignia above his shirt pocket. “I’m the town policeman, Bruno Courrèges. We only have one taxi here, and this is usually the day he takes people from the retirement home to the hospital in Périgueux for their treatments. He won’t be back for a while. Can I help?”
“Bonjour, monsieur, and thank you,” she said in good French but with a strong American accent. “I have an appointment with a Monsieur de Bourdeille at the Chartreuse de Miremont and don’t know how else to get there.”
“Then let me give you a lift; it’s on my way. And please call me Bruno.” He put out his hand for her to shake, and she took it, looking surprised when Bruno helped her out of her rucksack and installed it in the back alongside Laurent’s suitcase. Bruno introduced her to Laurent, describing him as a local farmer, held the rear door open for her and gestured Laurent to sit in front.
She gave him a friendly grin as she settled into the back seat, the look of a young woman who expected events to turn out to her satisfaction. There was a self-assurance and an easiness of manner about her that reminded him of other American women he had met.
“I’m Claudia Muller, and thanks, this is really nice of you. Do you know the way to the chartreuse?”
“Of course, Monsieur de Bourdeille is well known in these parts. We don’t have many eminent art historians and collectors like him.”
“And a war hero, I was told,” she said.
“He was shot and arrested for Resistance activities as a schoolboy,” Bruno replied. “He’s in a wheelchair but otherwise in good health for his age. What brings you to visit him?”
“I’m a graduate student in art history, working on the French Renaissance, and he’s the expert, a legend in the field. My supervisor in Paris arranged for me to spend some time studying with him.”
“Your French is excellent, but I thought I detected an American accent,” said Bruno.
“Right you are. I’m at Yale University, in the States, but right now I’m attached to the Sorbonne, and my French supervisor is one of the curators at the Louvre.” She had leaned over the rear seat to reply. Then she shifted her gaze to ask Laurent what kind of farming he did.
“Mostly dairy cattle,” he said, turning around in his seat to address her.
Bruno was struck by the thought that this was a man who would have had little contact with women for many years. Yet he seemed at ease in the presence of an attractive and friendly young woman and not overawed by her evident intelligence and qualifications.
“I’m also interested in falconry and I’m hoping to do more of that,” Laurent added.
“That sounds interesting,” she replied. “Have you flown birds yourself?”
“Yes, two of them,” Laurent replied to Bruno’s surprise. There had been nothing about that in the cahier de surveillance. “I flew a red-tailed hawk and a peregrine falcon, beautiful birds. That was at a specialist farm in the Jura.”
“Did they only come back to you?”
“No, they were training birds, raised to be accustomed to different people, so
long as they had food to offer. I got pretty close with the hawk and I’ll miss him. I’m hoping to raise a bird of my own now if I can.”
“I’d love to see that, if you’d let me,” she said, and again Bruno noted her natural friendliness and ready enthusiasm. He wondered if he should warn her that it might be misinterpreted, especially by someone like Laurent, fresh out of prison. Bruno glanced at Laurent and noted a solidity about him, a man of self-control. And Laurent answered Claudia with cool courtesy.
“That would depend on how long you are here. It takes a lot of time, and I have to find a very young hawk and get the bird used to me.”
“Let’s stay in touch,” Claudia said eagerly. “Here’s my card with my French mobile number and here’s one for you, too, Bruno.”
She chatted on, about falconry, about farming, asking about the cattle in the fields they passed until she could tell the difference between a Blonde d’Aquitaine and a Limousin. She asked Bruno if he also came from a farming background.
“No, I was raised in Bergerac, which counts as a big city around here. But I keep some geese and chickens,” he said.
“What about horses?” she asked. “Is there someplace around here I can go riding, like rent-a-horse?”
“There’s a good local riding school, and you can join the morning or evening exercise rides. It’s not expensive.” He rattled off Pamela’s number from memory, and she put it into her mobile phone. “I go myself whenever I can.”
“How far is it?” she asked. “I’m not planning on getting a car here.”
“It’s a ten-minute drive from St. Denis. Let me know when you want to try it, and I could pick you up.” Bruno turned to Laurent and asked if he’d ever tried riding.
“I did a bit lately at the farm in the Jura, and I’d like to do more, but I’ll have to see if I can afford it.”
Bruno took the long hill up to Limeuil, slowing where he had to creep through the narrow stone archway at the top of the village. He then drove along the wooded ridge that led to the chartreuse. Occasional breaks in the trees offered magnificent views over the valley, and then he reached the stone gateway that opened to a wooded avenue of plane trees and a gravel drive that led as straight as an arrow to the chartreuse.
A long, low house of pillared stone, built in the early eighteenth century, it was only one story high except for a handsome square tower with a domed roof above the pillared entrance. French windows led from the tower room to a balcony on which someone was sitting. As he parked, Bruno saw it was an old man in a wheelchair, enjoying the sunshine of the late afternoon and apparently unaware of their approach. He might have been asleep. The sun glinted on a bottle of wine that stood on a table at his side.
“Why, it’s beautiful, like a small château!” Claudia exclaimed. “And what a great garden. It must take a lot of work. And that looks like a vineyard over there. Do you think they make their own wine?”
“Indeed they do, and it’s very drinkable,” said Bruno, taking her rucksack and leading the way to the main entrance. Laurent clambered down from the Land Rover to shake her hand in farewell, and he wished her good luck with her research.
Madame Bonnet, the housekeeper for Monsieur de Bourdeille, opened the door with a welcoming smile as they approached. Bruno explained that there had been no taxi at the station, so he had given Claudia a lift.
“Let the young woman come up, Madame Bonnet,” came an imperious voice from the balcony above. It did not sound like the voice of an old man, but Bruno knew that de Bourdeille had to be at least ninety. “Let’s see what my colleagues at the Louvre have sent us.”
“Don’t worry about him, dear,” said Madame Bonnet, ushering Claudia inside and shrugging apologetically at Bruno as she closed the door. “He likes to sound like an old bear, but deep inside he can be a kindly old soul.”
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Bruno called up to the balcony as he waved farewell to Claudia and returned to the car. The old man waved airily in return.
Bruno had then driven Laurent to Marty’s farm and on the way learned that Laurent had become friendly with his prison governor after volunteering to work in the library and had been assigned to day release at a place where the farmer kept raptors as a hobby. Bruno had wanted to ask if it felt odd being a prisoner and letting the birds fly free only to return to the falconer’s hand. It seemed uncomfortably close to Laurent’s own situation, so Bruno held his tongue and listened to Laurent talk about the difference between various species and the way the females were usually larger than the males.
“Did you know that there’s a château here in the Périgord where they practice falconry?” Bruno asked him.
“Château des Milandes,” Laurent replied. “I know, I’ve got the chance of a job there. The falconer is an old friend of the farmer who trained me, and he’s offered to give me a trial. He’s getting on in years and is looking for someone to work with him and maybe take over one day. I’d like that.”
“How do you plan to get there?” Bruno asked. Laurent had no driving permit, which would take several weeks to obtain even if he passed the test, and no money for a car.
“My friend is lending me his little scooter,” Laurent replied. “It’s only fifty cc, so I won’t need a permit. I won’t go much above fifty kilometers an hour, but at least I’ll be mobile. In the meantime, I can practice driving Bernard’s car on the farm and then take the test.”
When they arrived at Marty’s farm, Bruno was asked to stay for a glass of wine. Thinking it might help ease the reunion of the two men, he accepted. But first Marty showed them around, proud of his herd of Blondes d’Aquitaine, and assuring Laurent that although originally prized for the quality of their beef and the ease the cows had in calving, which meant lower vet bills, they were now becoming much better at milk production than in the days when the two had been at agricultural college.
“The Blondes have been a godsend,” Marty said, leaning on a gate that overlooked a field filled with grazing cattle. “Things have changed since we were studying. The big supermarkets have forced down the price of milk until you can barely cover the costs of production. But I’m getting nearly seven thousand kilos of milk per cow, and the beef I sell is where I get my profit. People like your dad who stuck with the Limousins have been in real trouble. Even the ones who invested in Holsteins have been squeezed by the vet bills.”
Bruno enjoyed hearing farmers talk, even though more and more these days they spoke as if they farmed Brussels for the European subsidies rather than farmed the land.
“What’s your percentage of calving problems?” Laurent asked.
“About two percent,” said Marty. “They’ve got a high pelvis and the calves are slim in the shoulder, which helps explain it. I used to reckon on six or even eight percent with the Limousins, which is how the vets got so rich.”
“Two percent?” Laurent shook his head in near disbelief, but he was smiling at his old friend. “Things have certainly changed since my day, but it’s good to see you doing well, Bernard. And the cattle look in fine shape; you can be proud of them.”
They were getting on easily, Bruno saw, so there was no need for him to stay, but Marty insisted and they walked back to the farmhouse. At their approach Marty’s wife came out of the kitchen with a toddler in one hand and a baby in her arms. Another shock for Laurent, Bruno thought, a little nervous at the way the ex-prisoner would react at this new reminder of what his jail time had cost him. But apparently he knew all about Bernard’s family, greeting the wife by name and taking the baby boy in his arms saying, “So this is little Laurent.” And at that, Bruno knew it would be all right.
“I know it’s been rough on you, these last few years,” Bernard said as they sat around the kitchen table with a glass of his own wine in hand. “But you’ve taken good care of yourself, kept fit, stayed in touch with farming.”
“It was a lot tougher on the
parents of those boys who were killed than it ever was on me,” Laurent said. “They lost everything, and I just lost a few years, but I learned a lot when I was inside, about life, about people. Convicts are much like everyone else. I even made a few friends.”
“It reminds me a bit of my time in the army,” said Bruno. “Your time was never your own and someone else was always in charge, but there were compensations, comradeship. It must have been much, much harder in prison, but I have to say I admire your attitude, Laurent. I’d better be going, and thanks for the wine, Bernard.”
As Bruno rose to go, Laurent put a hand on his arm. “Thanks for picking me up, Bruno. You should know that I’m not bitter about what happened. I deserved it. But there was one thing that kept me going while I was in there. That new law on drunk driving they passed after I killed those kids, you know it worked? Deaths are down forty percent since then. That’s over five thousand lives. That’s how I can sleep at night. So don’t worry about me.”
“Good for you,” Bruno said, leaving most of his wine undrunk as he left.
Chapter 4
French driving lessons were expensive, usually around twelve hundred euros for the minimum twenty hours of instruction required, and Laurent had almost no money. He opted for the cheap alternative: registering Bernard Marty as his supervising driver and undertaking to do a thousand kilometers driving with him within the next couple of months before taking his test. And his work on Bernard’s farm in the mornings and evenings prevented him from joining the riding-school exercises. Claudia, however, became a frequent rider, getting her mother to FedEx her riding boots and clothes overnight from New York. She paid Madame Bonnet to borrow her car to get to and from the riding school.
The Body in the Castle Well Page 3
