“Claudia’s father.” Bruno skimmed through the stories and saw that Philippe had been only partially briefed on the drugs. He wrote about the opioids, which he stressed were prescribed by an American doctor but not legal in France. But there was no reference to the yaba pills. The story on Laurent was heavily inflated, calling him Hawk-man and noting that he and Claudia had been on several dates, including romantic picnics and trips to Périgueux and Lascaux. Above all, and heavy with insinuation, the article stressed that he’d been present at the lecture in Limeuil on the night Claudia had died.
The attribution was “police sources.” If Madame de Breille had been feeding Philippe extracts from the case file, that was true enough, however infuriating. But she’d been careful to exclude her own name—and her agenda—from the story. Nor did it say that Laurent’s alibi had been checked and confirmed.
Bruno tossed the newspaper back onto the counter and began eating his croissant. Between bites he explained the background to Juliette.
“So you’re pretty sure she was murdered, but you don’t yet have a suspect,” Juliette said. “The real killer will read today’s story and think he’s off the hook. It almost says Laurent was the murderer. Look on the bright side—this might lead the real killer into a false sense of security, assuming that Laurent is innocent. Do you have any serious suspects?”
Bruno looked at her thoughtfully. “Laurent’s innocence hangs on the word of two friends of his, his boss at Château des Milandes and his wife. They have given sworn statements that they were with him all evening and then drove him home.”
“Could they have a motive?”
“Not that I can see. There are several people with motives, possibly to inherit from Claudia, possibly to stop Claudia from buying Bourdeille’s art collection. But there’s nothing we can nail down yet. I’ve tried running various scenarios involving each one through my head, but I’m not making progress. The problem is that nobody knew that Claudia would feel ill and leave the lecture early.”
“What if somebody did know that she’d be taken ill?” Juliette asked. This question jolted him. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“She was on these opioids that were legal as far as she was concerned because they’d been prescribed by her American doctor,” Juliette went on. “But what if she was slipped something else? Could anybody have done that?”
“Only in the punch served at the lecture, but she had hardly any of it, and others were drinking it with no problems,” Bruno replied. “And more of those yaba pills she took were found stashed in her room, though I’ve always struggled to see Claudia taking them. It just doesn’t fit with what I know of her personality.”
“Where was Claudia before she got to the lecture?”
“At Bourdeille’s place, but she left early to go shopping, then back to her room, where she declined any food,” Bruno said, and then stopped himself. “She had some herb tea, prepared by her landlady.”
“And does the landlady have a motive?”
“Not that I know.” Suddenly he recalled that Madame Darrail had said she’d given Claudia herb tea made from thyme, and then the word seemed to echo in his head. He’d heard it the previous evening over the tarte Tatin when Jacqueline had said that thyme covered so many other tastes.
“Have you ever had thyme tea?” he asked Juliette, who at once opened the web browser on her phone and began typing something in the search box.
“My mother used to give it to me for headaches and when I had a sore throat,” she said. “But listen to this.”
She began reading aloud from the web page: “ ‘Thyme contains a compound called carvacrol which is an excellent natural tranquilizer and has a tonic effect on the entire nervous system.
“ ‘Thyme is a good source of pyridoxine,’ ” she continued to read, “ ‘which is known to play an important role in manufacturing gamma aminobutyric acid, or GABA, levels in the brain which aid in regulating sleep patterns, and benefit neurotransmitter function in the brain.’ ”
“A natural tranquilizer on top of opioids,” said Bruno, thoughtfully.
“ ‘Thyme tea in too strong an infusion can have side effects of nausea and dizziness,’ ” Juliette read on and then looked up. “I don’t know how much reliance we can put on these health sites on the Internet, but I remember my mother saying that the taste would be much stronger if it was infused overnight rather than just before drinking. And she would always add honey when she gave it to me and sometimes ginger.”
“That could mask other tastes,” said Bruno. “I think you’re onto something. But, look, I have to go and you need to start patrolling the market. Let’s discuss this later when we’ve thought more about it.”
Bruno picked up the bill and, as he paid Fauquet, a sudden thought came to him, something that might teach Philippe Delaron a lesson. It could also reassure the real killer into thinking the police had been successfully duped.
“You seemed upset when you saw the paper,” said Fauquet, leaning forward over the bar, his way of inviting the confidences and pieces of gossip that he loved.
“It’s that damn Philippe and his story this morning. I wish I knew where he gets these stories from. It’s starting to get in the way of proper policing.”
“You mean that story about the ex-convict and the dead girl?”
Bruno nodded. “He’s not supposed to know about that, so some irresponsible cop is leaking stuff to him, and that’s a real problem. The last thing we want is for the suspect to read the paper and take flight.”
Fauquet nodded sympathetically, and Bruno was convinced that within the hour Philippe would have heard that he was on the right track with his story about Laurent. Thinking he’d look forward to the next day’s paper with particular interest, Bruno walked to the retirement home where the mayor had arranged for their special vehicle, equipped for wheelchairs, to be available. Before he went in to pick up the keys, he called Laurent.
“I thought I’d better warn you there’s an unpleasant story in Sud Ouest this morning,” he said.
“I know, I’ve seen it,” Laurent replied angrily, almost spitting the words. “I’ve been called in later today to see Neyrac, the boss, just as I’m about to get through my probation period. And now it looks as though I’m going to be fired. Who are these police sources the paper cites?”
“Don’t worry,” Bruno reassured him. “Take it from me that you’re not a suspect, and I’ll call your boss if you have any trouble. But it might be useful for me for the real killer to think he’s off the hook and that we’re focused on you. So grin and bear it for a little while. Can you do that for me?”
There was a pause before Laurent replied, “If you say so, Bruno. And thanks for calling. By the way, Bernard is driving me over to the Café des Sports later to see Karim, so I have something to look forward to.”
“I’m glad to hear it, and you can tell Karim from me in confidence that the story in today’s paper is a bunch of merde,” Bruno replied, ending the call.
Bruno picked up the keys and headed for Bourdeille’s chartreuse, wondering if Madame Darrail might conceivably have had a sinister motive in giving Claudia the tea. Her real interest, he’d assumed, was to get Claudia together with Dominic, her son, who had been at the lecture but had never left the room until it was over.
But wait, he told himself. Who had said that Dominic had been using his phone during the lecture, that they recalled his face being lit by the phone’s glow? He cast his thoughts back and was sure it had been Félicité. Could Dominic have been using it to send or receive a text? Maybe he’d been telling someone else that Claudia had left the lecture, someone who could then have climbed into the gardens. That could make sense, but where would be the motive? He almost banged the steering wheel in frustration as he pulled up outside Bourdeille’s home.
The door opened before he could ring the bel
l, and Bourdeille was waiting in the hall in his wheelchair, dressed in a suit and tie, a thick file in his hand. He explained that Madame Bonnet had decided to spend the day in Bergerac, since he had business away from home.
“Do you have a phone number for her son’s friend Dominic?” Bruno asked.
Bourdeille looked mystified and shook his head. “But Madame Bonnet keeps a list of numbers by the phone in the kitchen. Go and take a look if you like.”
A landline phone hung on the kitchen wall. On a small shelf alongside it was a notepad and pencil and a small list of names and numbers: for her son, Luc, for Véronique, whom Bruno recalled was Madame Darrail, and for Véronique’s son, Dominic, and for Claudia. There were other numbers listed for people called Émilie, Mireille and Marie-France, and more for the mairie, the doctor, the bank, the pharmacy and a pizza place. Bruno scribbled them down and leafed back through the notepad, finding doodles, jotted numbers without names and not much more.
Once Bourdeille was installed inside the vehicle, Bruno set off for St. Denis to pick up the mayor. On the road to Périgueux, the mayor explained that they were heading for a lawyer’s office where Bourdeille would be questioned by an eminent group. It included a former mayor and senator, the recently retired senior judge on the appeals court in Périgueux and the female professor of psychiatry at the central hospital.
“I’d like to see any lawyer daring to challenge their findings,” the mayor said, turning around in his passenger seat to face Bourdeille. “Bruno and I will wait outside, since I might be said to have an interest in this matter, but you won’t be alone. Maître Lucier, the lawyer our town often works with and whose offices we are using, has agreed to advise you if required.”
“Thank you for making these arrangements. I have with me a formal written statement from my own doctor testifying to my mental health and fitness,” Bourdeille said. “I’m wholly confident of my abilities, and once this formality is complete I look forward to taking you both to lunch. I’ve booked us a table at Le Moulin de l’Abbaye, which has just been awarded a Michelin rosette.”
“That’s very generous of you,” said the mayor. “We’ll look forward to that, won’t we, Bruno?”
Once he’d parked outside the lawyer’s office, Bruno wheeled Bourdeille into the elevator and into Maître Lucier’s chambers. The mayor waited in an anteroom, and Bruno went to park the van before rejoining the mayor.
“You saw Sud Ouest?” the mayor asked when they were alone.
“Yes, and I’m pretty sure I know who was behind it—that Madame de Breille, muddying the waters and showing Claudia’s father how hard she’s working. But I’ve had an idea.”
He called the special security number for France Télécom, identified himself with his own official code, and asked for a list of the phone connections made to and from Dominic’s phone on the Sunday of the lecture. He was promised the list would be e-mailed to his official computer address at the mairie in St. Denis.
“What about text messages?” he asked the security official. “Can you read them?”
“Yes, but you’ll need a warrant,” he was told.
Next Bruno called J-J, explained his new theory about the thyme tea and Dominic’s use of his phone during the lecture and asked if J-J could arrange for a warrant to view Dominic’s messages.
“You don’t need me,” J-J said. “Call your magistrate friend, Annette. She’s handling the criminal negligence case against the builders, and there could be a connection. She can issue the warrant herself. Let me know if this leads anywhere.”
“Thanks, J-J, I should have thought of that.” Police had to request a warrant through a procureur’s office or through a juge d’instruction handling a criminal case. Annette could issue her own warrant. He called her at home, explained what he wanted and why, and she promised to fax the warrant to France Télécom. Bruno sat back with a sigh of relief.
“Making progress?” asked the mayor.
“I don’t know,” Bruno replied. “Maybe. At the very least it will prove a negative.”
Just over an hour after Bourdeille had gone into the chambers, Maître Lucier emerged, smiling, to report that the meeting was over and that the informal tribunal had declared Bourdeille to be in full possession of his faculties. Bourdeille then wheeled himself out, waving a formal-looking document at Bruno and the mayor, and announced, “Messieurs, we have a celebratory lunch to attend. Maître Lucier, I’d be delighted if you would care to join us. I’m sure you know the Moulin de l’Abbaye in Brantôme?”
Bourdeille asked Bruno to drive through as many of the narrow streets of Brantôme as the one-way system permitted, saying he wanted to remind himself of the town, this Venice of the Périgord that his putative ancestor had saved from the Protestant army of Admiral Coligny during the religious wars. He instructed Bruno to set him down at the Pont Coudé, the famous dogleg bridge that led to the abbot’s lodging, the abbey stretching away magnificently to their right. Bourdeille and the mayor waited until Bruno had parked and rejoined them and then he wheeled the old man across the bridge and along the riverbank to the restaurant, where Maître Lucier was already seated.
The lawyer rose and asked them all to call him Jim, a nickname he’d acquired at school when an English teacher had informed the class that the name Jacques in English was James, usually shortened to Jim.
Bourdeille had ordered the meal in advance: smoked salmon with a gravlax of beet, followed by duck breast with roasted apricot. Then came a deceptively simple and delicious dessert, an apple that had been cooked for ten hours and served with a cider sorbet. They each began with a glass of champagne, followed by a bottle among the four of them of a magnificent Hospices de Beaune, a 2006 Clos des Avaux.
“Forgive me if I offend your local loyalties in wine, but I think a great Burgundy goes well with duck,” Bourdeille said. “I asked them to decant it when I ordered the meal earlier this morning.”
“It’s wonderful, and it’s a pity Claudia can’t be here with us to enjoy it,” Bruno said. “I know how much she appreciated the wines you shared with her. And that reminds me that you may not know that Claudia’s mother is here in the Périgord. I know she’d very much like to thank you for your kindness to her daughter and to see the art collection Claudia told her about.”
“And I would like very much to offer her my own condolences,” said Bourdeille. “How long is she here?”
“Until the police investigation is complete and the body is released by the procureur.”
“Perhaps you might like to bring her tomorrow before lunch, at about eleven. I’m in no position to offer her lunch, but I can certainly provide a glass of excellent wine.”
“That sounds good,” said Bruno. “I’ll try to arrange it and let you know.”
“My thanks for this splendid lunch,” said the mayor. “Perhaps this is a good moment to explain how we plan to administer your generous bequest to our town and see if you approve. As a town council, we’re not equipped to run an art gallery, so I thought we might establish an independent foundation, with trustees from the Louvre and the museum in Périgueux as well as the mayor and the collège headmaster from St. Denis. We’d also like to include a special exhibit on the work of your friend Paul Juin in the new Resistance museum we’re building.”
Bourdeille nodded slowly without speaking, but Bruno’s attention had been caught by what looked like a flash of surprise in Maître Lucier’s eyes when the mayor had spoken of the bequest to St. Denis. It had been swiftly followed by the customary expressionless mask of a veteran lawyer. Lucier had been in the room when Bruno and the mayor had waited outside. What did the lawyer know that they did not? And whose side was he on?
Chapter 31
After the lunch, Lucier made his farewells, and Bruno and the mayor could hardly refuse Bourdeille’s request that they return by way of the town and château whose name he carried, just
a few kilometers from their direct route back to Périgueux and St. Denis.
“I’d like to see it one more time, for who knows how many more opportunities I may have,” the old man said as Bruno wheeled him through the double towers of the medieval entrance into the courtyard. Ahead of them soared the fourteenth-century octagonal stone keep, and all around them were the fortress walls. To the right was the jewel within this stone setting, a sixteenth-century Renaissance palace.
“I’m sure you two have both been here before, but the name and place mean a great deal to me, even though the link with the family has gone. The widow of the last de Bourdeille donated the castle to the département more than fifty years ago. I’ve loved this place since I was a boy and my mother told me of our ancestry. It was private in those days, of course, and we could look at it only from the town and the bridge. She told me that it had been taken twice by the English and recaptured each time. In my years in prison during the war, the thought of another foreign occupier being finally ejected from this place gave me confidence, a sense of historical perspective, perhaps a kind of strength. And now I will trespass no more on your goodwill, and we can return to St. Denis.”
The old man dozed in his wheelchair on the way back, and Bruno and the mayor remained silent rather than disturb him, although Bruno was almost bursting with questions about the lawyer Lucier and his role. But he had other questions about Madame Bonnet and what she knew of Bourdeille’s plans, and one almost flippant question that had interested him since their visit to the château.
When they reached Bourdeille’s home and Bruno began to extract him and his wheelchair from the van, he asked the question: “Why is your name Bourdeille without an s, but the château is Bourdeilles with an s?”
“I have no idea, except perhaps that the château was for the whole Bourdeille family and so it took the plural, or perhaps because the outer wall contains two châteaux in one. It’s an interesting question.”
“I have another,” Bruno said, wheeling him into the chartreuse with the mayor following. “You recall when I came with the chief detective and you told us in your library about the Vinland map?”
The Body in the Castle Well Page 26
