“I’ll pass this bank statement to Philippe anyway,” she smiled at Lotto. “I dare say they’ll check out where the nephew is and if he had an alibi, just in case.”
“Hmmm. This amateur sleuthing seems so much easier in books,” remarked Lottie, still downcast. “They always hit on major clues.”
“Yes, well, this is real life, Lottie.”
“More wine?” Lottie clearly intended to drown her sorrows tonight.
“No thanks, I need to do some cycling. Philippe’s taking me for a training ride tomorrow.” She saw Lottie’s face crease into a smutty smirk, so she quickly went on, “He knows the route for the fun ride so we’re going to do it together.” That wording just produced an even bigger smirk. “You have a mind like a sewer.”
She got up briskly, turning her head to hide her smile, and marched indoors while Lottie sniggered behind her.
Half an hour later she still hadn’t properly conquered the programming of the exercise bike. She was pedalling away, but slowly and laboriously as the machine was taking them determinedly uphill, actually more like upmountain, but without providing a way of changing gear. Her legs were killing her. It was time to stop otherwise she might be too stiff to cycle at all tomorrow, and she was looking forward to her outing with Philippe. A lot.
Chapter 14
Roger had dropped Martha off at the farm. Lottie was still in bed complaining of a headache. Something to do with all that Chardonnay. Martha had wanted to drive herself to her home, but Roger wouldn’t hear of her going off alone. He helped her feed the animals and watched with her as a turkeylet emerged, exhausted, after battering its way out of the tough membrane and shell that had been enclosing it for twenty-eight days.
“Do you leave it in the incubator then?” he asked.
“Yes, for a day at least, but preferably until all the others have hatched. If I open the incubator now, a load of colder, drier air will whoosh in and it dries out the membranes in the other eggs. It’s kind of like shrink-wrapping the poor chicks. Makes it much harder for them to hatch.”
“Good heavens, I had no idea!” exclaimed Roger. “Complicated old process then.”
“More to it than meets the eye,” agreed Martha. “This little guy flailing around and cheeping,” which was what it was now doing, “will encourage the others to hatch. They should all be out by tomorrow morning with any luck. I’ll move them into the brooder then.”
“Freaky looking fella, isn’t he?” frowned Roger.
“Did you look your best moments after you’d be born?” challenged Martha with a grin.
“Point taken,” nodded Roger.
“Once he’s dried out and steady on his feet, he’ll be as cute as a button, you’ll see,” predicted Martha.
“Why don’t you leave the eggs with the mother, rather than incubate them? Just out of interest, not criticising,” he added quickly. Martha guessed he must be subject to more-than-occasional tongue-lashings from Lottie when she suspected he was having a go at her.
“Turkeys are hopeless mothers. I’ve left them to hatch and rear their chicks before, and the attrition rate is catastrophic. I might get one survivor out of six or seven. I dare say I’ll lose a couple out of these twenty, but that should be all.”
“Fingers crossed, eh?” smiled Roger. “Right, now what?”
“Everything’s done. Just waiting for Philippe.”
As they emerged from the stable, they heard the crunch of gravel on the drive. Flossie wagged her tail once, then went back to snoozing in the sun.
“Talk of the devil,” observed Roger. “Right, I’ll be off then. I dare say your policeman feller will drop you back to us. If you need a lift, give us a ring.”
He pecked her on the cheek and turned and waved as Philippe pulled in, the latter’s bike looking decidedly wobbly on its rack over the boot. Roger shook his hand through the open car window then climbed agilely into his own vehicle and drove off.
Philippe was already in cycling top and shorts when he exited his Dacia Duster. Martha couldn’t help thinking that he cut quite a dashing figure in Lycra. Not all middle-aged men looked naff in spandex, despite popular belief. She supposed she didn’t look too bad it in either, especially not for someone over fifty, since she liked to think she had a decent pair of legs and her active lifestyle meant her butt was most definitely not flabby. If she could just shift that stubborn bit of padding on her midriff…
Philippe came over, rippling really rather nicely, to kiss her cheeks. He smelt gorgeous too. She’d noticed that Frenchmen generally did. He wouldn’t smell quite so good after a long, sticky ride in the heat that was building up quickly, but then neither would she. Nothing wrong with the scent of strenuous exercise anyway.
At closer inspection she could see that his outfit looked suspiciously new. Yes, she could see a tell-tale strand of nylon, from which the price tag had recently been cut, still clinging on to the collar. He must have rushed off to buy the outfit yesterday, after they’d made their plans for the day. That fitted with him being so vague about where his bike was. Anyone who knew the location of their cycle tended to use it regularly and, therefore, already had some cycling gear.
“You look very smart,” she said, appreciating the expense he’d gone to on her behalf.
“Oh, these old things?” He shrugged dismissively and a little shiftily.
Gotcha, thought Martha.
“Go and look at my new turkey chick while I get changed,” she suggested.
“Actually, I’ve got some stuff I need to put in the fridge first, if that’s OK?” he replied.
“Oh?” Martha was intrigued.
“I’ve brought a few things for lunch. I thought we could take a picnic down to the river at the Moulin de Fretoux. It’s a beautiful spot. You know it?”
“I’ve heard of it, but never been,” confessed Martha. “That will be lovely, thanks. I’m sure I’ll be able to rustle up something for us to take too.”
“Shouldn’t need to,” smiled Philippe. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Well, thanks again,” she beamed, touched that he’d been so thoughtful. “Load me up, I’ll help carry it all in.”
She was keen to ask him if there’d been any developments with the murder enquiries, but she was sure that if there had been then he’d bring the subject up soon enough. She didn’t want to nag him about it, and it was meant to be his day off. But all the same, she was involved in all three cases so wasn’t she entitled to be kept up to date? If he didn’t say anything, however, she’d have to, as she needed to give him that bank statement, and possibly the whole bag of invoices, for professional consideration. She’d allow him half an hour.
She hustled indoors with a bottle of mineral water and one of those expensive cartons of an exotic mix of obscure juices that she always ignored in the supermarket. Own brand juice from one fruit at a time did for her. She’d have carried more in for Philippe but he politely declined her offer. She heard him making a couple of trips in, humming as he put items in the fridge. She was glad she’d cleaned it only the last week. Fridge degunking wasn’t her favourite job, and since she had to do it in the holiday cottage every Saturday, along with a host of other soul-destroying cleaning and scrubbing jobs, her own housework tended to take a back seat during the letting season. Fortunately, as it turned out, a knocked-over loose-lidded jar of jam left a mess that couldn’t be ignored, so she’d girded her loins last Tuesday and done the necessary. She hoped Philippe was impressed by her gleaming fridge.
Martha was contemplating what to wear. She had two pairs of cycling shorts. The darkish turquoise pair with a now faded yellow stripe at each side were as old as Lily, and the fabric had lost some of its elasticity, but were super comfy. The plain black pair were much newer and way more brutal. They took a bit of squeezing into but, Martha was convinced, reduced her thigh and butt size by a few centimetres. However, the displaced flesh had to go somewhere, and it was inevitably squeezed up and over her waistband, which wasn’
t the greatest look. No, she’d stick with the old faithfuls. She teamed those up with her recently purchased and very flattering ladies’ cycling top. It was made from a super-breathable, light green fabric and had black stripes down the sides that gave an exaggerated impression of slenderness. It had a full-length zip at the front, not that that would be getting pulled down very far in Philippe’s company. With Mark she’d often opened the top right up on hot days, and let the shirt flap behind her as she rode along. She did, of course, always wear a sporty crop-top type bra when cycling.
Martha checked her look in the bathroom mirror. Not too shabby. Philippe shouldn’t feel embarrassed to be seen with her. She lathered on some suncream then headed to the kitchen.
He was sitting at the table, Nespresso coffee in hand, when she came downstairs.
“To help me get up the hills,” he offered in explanation. “Would you like one?”
Martha had to smile at generously being offered some of her own coffee.
“No thanks. Lottie’s stuff is super-strong. I’m already a bit over-caffeinated. Did you know she had a housekeeper?” she asked conversationally, thinking of the unsmiling and imposing Madame Bouvier who had plonked the drink down in front of her that morning. “Scary old woman,” she added.
“There are a lot of scary old women in rural France,” chuckled Philippe. “Give some of our young recruits nightmares. Right then, let’s be on our way.”
Martha patted Flossie, who was curled up in her basket, then retrieved her helmet and gloves from the hallway. She locked up and then clip-clopped in her stiff-soled cycling shoes over to the barn for her bike. She wheeled it out to join Philippe, now fully kitted out in suspiciously brightly gleaming footwear and helmet, and waiting with his machine by the car.
“After you,” he gestured gallantly. “You set the pace.”
Martha instantly regretted her shorts choice. Her derriere definitely looked smaller in the black shorts, and if he was cycling behind her then Philippe would have it permanently in his vision during the ride. Oh well, too late.
As it turned out, they spent most of the ride side-by-side. The roads were always quiet in the area, and most of them wide enough that the cars, which were few and far between, could easily overtake them riding two abreast. Martha suspected that the motorists instinctively picked up on Philippe’s occupation, even though he gave no outward signs of it. Frequently when Martha and Mark had been out together in the old days, and Martha by herself more recently, cars had cut the overtaking margin rather fine, much less than the one and a half metres from the left shoulder required by law. Today, however, they left a huge space as they drove round.
They chatted comfortably about this and that, keeping off the subject of the murders. Martha decided to extend her earlier half-hour limit. The cycling was invigorating, although her calves twinged occasionally as an after-effect of her session on Lottie’s uncooperative exercise bike last night. She was enjoying herself, ignoring the stresses of the last few days. Philippe seemed to be happy too. Both of them were proving to be fitter than they’d dared hope and kept up a good pace.
They were now on part of the official route for tomorrow. They’d picked it up at its furthest point from Bousseix, about five kilometres ago, roughly six kilometres from the farm.
“This will be the homeward section tomorrow,” explained Philippe. “Overall we’re descending so it’ll be easier on the legs.”
If that was the case then that meant the second part of their trip today, since they planned a break in Bousseix for refuelling, would be mainly uphill. Not such good news. Martha felt herself flagging a little. Maybe she should have had that extra coffee before they left.
“Now, be careful here,” warned Philippe. “You might get lost.”
They’d reached a straggling, five-way junction.
“Won’t the course be signposted?” asked Martha anxiously, puffing slightly. For all that their current route was more down than up, there were some steep uphill sections and they’d just climbed one.
“It will, but the last two years some joker has messed around with the signs here and sent the race the wrong way. The roads do all eventually reach Bousseix, but add anything between an extra three to eight kilometres.”
Two things struck Martha about the remark. The first was that this was the third year of the race. Martha had been totally unaware of it until a few days ago, which reminded her of just how buried in her grief she’d been all that time. It was good that she was re-engaging with the world. The second point was that, given this very localised meddling with signs, she couldn’t help thinking that the race organisers would do better to avoid this particular junction. But who was she to criticise? It must be a logistics nightmare, having to plan the route, get official permission in triplicate to close certain sections of roads, not to mention do all the signage and coerce people into giving up a day of their life to be race wardens and time-keepers and so forth. There were some generous-hearted souls out there to take on such thankless tasks.
“This second right is the one to take,” instructed Philippe. “Think you’ll remember OK?”
Martha pulled a face. Some days, thanks to tiredness or hormones or just general creeping decrepitude, she could barely remember her own name.
“Can you stop a sec?” she called. She’d just caught sight of some largish stones at the roadside.
Philippe had glided on ahead of her. He braked and she caught up to him.
“Hold my bike please.” She hopped off and Philippe grasped the handlebar. She scurried back to where the stones were and selected two of them. Both were quite triangular in shape and thus distinctive. She tucked them into the verge a couple of metres up from the junction.
“A helpful hint,” she grinned, jogging back to Philippe.
“Not only beautiful but clever,” he observed with a chuckle.
Martha felt herself blushing at the compliment, but since she was already bright red in the face from all the exertion she felt safe in the knowledge that it wouldn’t show. He was only being gallant anyway.
“More like cunning,” she corrected him. “I don’t want to have to ride further than necessary. Where do the other roads go anyway?”
“To various farms or hamlets, all of them deserted for years. Which makes the sign-meddling all the more puzzling. Someone’s coming in from quite a distance to play the idiot.”
“Well, he or she won’t catch me out.” Martha climbed back onto her bike.
Her tummy rumbled loudly.
“Sacre bleu, we’d better get you some food, and fast,” laughed Philippe, setting off. “Make sure you have an energy bar in your pocket for tomorrow, and preferably some energy drink in your bottle too.”
Martha was thinking more along the lines of a banana as a snack and a generous dose of fruit squash in her water. She was apt to be dismissive of all the fancy and expensive bars and powders for athletes. No doubt they were effective and had exactly the right balance of salts and electrolytes and sugars and whatevers, but they were a bit too posy for Martha. Her versions would suit her just fine, but maybe she’d bring two bananas. And perhaps shove a couple of Speculoos biscuits in her pocket too. They weren’t quite ginger nuts, one of the few things she missed from her country of birth, but they were close enough.
After a couple more longish but steady climbs, they were soon freewheeling most of the time as they descended towards Bousseix. Despite being a bit wobbly from low blood sugar, Martha was enjoying the ride immensely. Philippe was good company and it was nice to spend time with someone who wasn’t Lottie for a change.
They swept into the main square and Martha mirrored Philippe when he pulled in by the fountain.
“We can keep an eye on the bikes from the café,” he said, nodding towards Martha’s least favourite of Bousseix’s three. It was also next door to her least favourite bakery. But she’d go along with Philippe’s plans to be polite. Plus she was too hungry to care that much really.
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��What would you like to eat?” asked Philippe, pulling out a chair for her at one of the café tables on the pavement. “My treat.”
Martha wanted something sticky and sweet, but those were stuffed with calories, way more than she needed to replace what she’d burnt off on this ride. And she was worried it would look greedy.
“A croissant would be great, thanks,” she ordered with a grateful smile and a truckload of restraint. “And I’ll buy the coffees. Espresso for you?”
“Please.”
With that Philippe turned and strode into the bakery. Alone Martha felt vulnerable. She’d detected a lull in the conversations going on at the surrounding tables and heard a few whispered remarks along the lines of, “Don’t look now, but that’s the Englishwoman who’s found two dead bodies this week, and bits of old Martial Lecerf in a hay bale,” and “Do you think she did them in?” She fidgeted nervously, hoping no one would confront her about it. Through the open door she noticed the two waiters nudging each other and nodding towards her. Presumably neither wanted to serve her in case she launched herself at them in a homicidal frenzy.
“Hurry up, Philippe,” she muttered, through gritted teeth, studiously refusing to catch anyone’s eye.
Shuffling steps beside her a few moments later forced her to look up. It was the owner of that café, an over-made-up, large woman with a gravity-defying swept-up hairdo that didn’t quite conceal a lot of pink scalp. She levelled a disapproving and wary look at Martha, but was obviously also bursting with curiosity.
“Is it true that you’re—”
Philippe’s shadow fell over the table. The woman looked up startled, and visibly paled beneath her thick foundation at the sight of him. She forced a simpering smile onto her flabby face and tried again.
“Is it true that you’re wanting a drink?” she trilled, with a high-pitched laugh at the end.
“Yes, it is,” replied Martha firmly with a slight frown. “An espresso and a petit crème please, Madame.”
“Coming right up,” she gushed and waddled rapidly back inside.
Hate Bale Page 17
