Seeking Whom He May Devour (8 page)

“Stay where you are, Camille,” he breathed. “It’s not a sheep, for heaven’s sake.”

But Camille had already seen. Suzanne was lying on her back in the messed straw with her arms asplay and her dress up over her knees. Blood had gushed from a ghastly wound on her neck. Camille closed her eyes and ran out. She ran straight into the medium
gendarme
, who held her back.

“Whatever happened?” she bawled.

“The wolf,” the policeman said. “The wolf.”

He took her by the arm, helped her to the van, made her sit down in the front seat.

“I’m all cut up about it, too,” the
gendarme
said. “But I mustn’t show it. It’s against standing orders.”

“Did Suzanne take a blind bit of notice of your standing orders, I wonder?”

“No, of course not, dearie.”

He took a flask from the glove-compartment and offered it to her, clumsily.

“I don’t want any hooch,” she wept. “I want grapes. I came for grapes.”

“Come on, don’t be a baby. Don’t be a baby.”

“Suzanne,” Camille moaned. “My big fat Suzanne.”

“She must have heard the animal,” the
gendarme
said. “She must have come up to see what the mayhem in the sheep-pen was about. She must have had the beast cornered, and then it jumped her. Jumped her. She was too brave by half, she was.”

“And Watchee?” Camille growled. “What the fuck was Watchee doing?”

“Don’t be a baby,” the
gendarme
said once more. “Watchee was out. There was one lamb missing, new-born this spring. He spent part of the night looking for it, then when he was too far away to come back in the dark he slept in a meadow. Got back here at seven this morning and called us straight away. So watch it, dearie.”

“Watch what?” Camille said, looking up.

“You mustn’t take it out on Watchee when he’s grieving. You mustn’t say ‘And what about Watchee? What about
Watchee
? What the fuck was he doing?’ or any other rubbish like that. You’re not from hereabouts, so you don’t say anything, anything at all, without thinking it through very carefully first. For Watchee Suzanne was like a saint. So watch what you say. Watch it.”

Camille was impressed by the medium
gendarme
. She nodded her assent and wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. The policeman proffered a paper handkerchief.

“Where is he?”

“At the back of the pen. Keeping watch.”

“And Soliman?”

The
gendarme
shook his head in resignation.

“He’s locked himself in the toilet. In the toilet. He says he’ll die there. They’re sending us someone from psychology. Can be useful, in special cases.”

“Has he got a gun with him?”

“No, no weapon on him.”

“I mended the leak, last Wednesday,” Camille said glumly.

“Yes. The leak. Do you know how Suzanne came to adopt Soliman Melchior when he was a baby?”

“Yes. I’ve been told all about it.”

The
gendarme
nodded knowingly.

“The baby wouldn’t have anyone but Suzanne. He laid his wee head right there and stopped bawling. That’s what they say. I wasn’t there. I’m not from these parts.
Gendarme
s don’t have the right to be from the whereabouts, so as not to get too involved.”

“I know,” Camille said.

“But you do get involved, all the same. Take Suzanne, for instance. Nobody –”

The
gendarme
stopped in mid-sentence as he saw Johnstone coming, in sombre mood, his head sunk in his shoulders.

“Sure you didn’t touch anything?” he asked.

“Your colleague never took his eyes off me.”

“Well?”

“Could be the same animal. Can’t be certain.”

“The big wolf?” the
gendarme
queried defensively, screwing up his eyes.

Johnstone pursed his lips. He raised his hand and spread out his thumb and ring finger.

“Big, yes. At least that much between his carnassial and his canine. Can’t see easily in there. One gash in the shoulder, one in the throat. Couldn’t have had time to pull the trigger.”

Two vehicles were bumping their way up the drive.

“Here come the technicians,” said the
gendarme
. “With the medic behind them.”

“Come on,” Johnstone said, putting a hand on Camille’s shoulder and shaking her gently. “Let’s not stay around.”

“I’d like to talk to Soliman,” Camille said. “He’s shut himself up in the toilet.”

“When people have shut themselves in the john there’s no way you’ll get anything out of them.”

“I’m going to have a try even so. He’s all on his own now.”

“I’ll wait for you by the bike.”

Camille went into the silent and ill-lit house, climbed the stairs and stood in front of the closed door.

“Sol,” she said, knocking on the panel.

“You fuckwits can all go to hell!” the young man screamed at her.

Camille nodded. Soliman would keep the tradition alive.

“Sol, I’m not trying to get you out.”

“Fuck off!”

“I’m upset, too, you know.”

“You don’t know what upset means! You know nothing, got that? You’ve not even got the right to be here. You weren’t her daughter, OK? So get out! Bloody hell, just fuck off, will you!”

“Of course I don’t know what upset means. I was just a friend of Suzanne’s, that’s all.”

“So there! You see?” Soliman roared.

“I used to mend her plumbing and in return she supplied me with veg and liquor. And anyway I’m not bothered whether you stay in there or not. We’ll slide slices of ham under the door to keep you going.”

“Oh, terrific!” the young man shouted.

“So this is the position, Sol. You’re going to stay in the toilet. Watchee won’t leave the pen, and Buteil is stuck in his shack. Nobody’s moving, not anywhere. The sheep will all die.”

“I couldn’t care less about those bloody woolsacks! They’re totally stupid!”

“But Watchee’s an old man. He won’t come out, and he won’t move either, and he’s stopped saying anything. He’s gone as stiff as his crook. Don’t let him drop, Sol, or else I’ll have to have him looked after in an old people’s home.”

“What do I care?”

“Watchee’s gone like that because he was in the hills when the wolf attacked and he wasn’t able to come to Suzanne’s aid.”

“And I was in bed! Asleep!”

Camille could hear Soliman burst into tears.

“Suzanne always insisted you slept lots. You were doing what she wanted you to do. It’s not your fault.”

“Why didn’t she wake me?”

“Because she didn’t want you to get in harm’s way. You were her little prince.”

Camille leaned her hand on the door.

“That’s what she said, you know.”

Camille went out and walked back up towards the pen. The medium
gendarme
stopped her halfway.

“What’s he up to?” he asked.

“He’s crying,” she replied wearily. “It’s difficult having a conversation with someone locked in the toilet.”

“I know,” the
gendarme
agreed, as if he had frequently tried to converse with people locked in their toilets. “Psychology’s late,” he said with a glance at his watch. “Don’t know what they’re playing at.”

“What’s the doctor saying?”

“Same thing as your trapper. Throat cut. Cut. Between three and four this morning. Toothmarks still can’t be seen properly. Have to clean her up first. But he says it won’t be very clear in any case. It’s not like the teeth had been stuck into modelling clay, right?”

Camille nodded. “Is Watchee still inside?”

“Yes. We’re afraid he’ll turn into a statue.”

“You could ask psychology to take a look at him.”

The
gendarme
shook his head, adamant.

“No, it’s not worth it,” he declared. “Watchee is as tough as old bootleather. Psychology would have about as much effect on him as peeing on a tree-trunk.”

“Is that right?” Camille said. “Would you mind telling me your name?”

“Lemirail. Justin Lemirail.”

“Thank you.”

Camille went on her way, swinging her arms.

She joined Johnstone beside the motorbike and put on her helmet without a word.

“Can’t remember where I put the bloody jar,” she muttered.

“I don’t think that’s a big issue,” Johnstone said.

Camille nodded in agreement, hopped onto the pillion and clasped the big man around his middle.

XI

JOHNSTONE DREW UP
in front of the house and kept the bike still while Camille dismounted.

“Aren’t you coming in?” she asked. “I’ll make coffee, all right?”

Johnstone shook his head without relaxing his grip on the handlebars.

“Are you going straight back into the hills? Do you really want to go on looking for that foul wolf?”

Johnstone hesitated, then took off his helmet and shook his mane.

“Off to see Massart,” he said.

“Massart? At this time of day?”

“It’s already nine,” he said, glancing at his watch.

“I don’t get it,” Camille said. “What have you got against the guy?”

Johnstone made a face. “Last night’s attack doesn’t make good sense to me, for a wolf.”

“But it must have, to the wolf.”

“Wolves are frightened of humans,” Johnstone
persisted
. “They do not stand up to people.”

“If you say so. But last night’s wolf stood up to Suzanne.”

“Look, the old bag was the size of a battleship and made one hell of a noise. She was determined and she was armed. She would have to have got the wolf in a corner with no way out.”

“If you say so. That’s what she did do, Lawrence. She trapped the wolf in a corner. Everyone knows that wolves go on the attack when they’re cornered.”

“That’s just what worries me. The old bag wasn’t born yesterday, she knew damn well not to back a wild animal into a corner with no way out. She’d have stayed outside the pen, she’d have gone round the back, and then taken aim through one of the window openings. That’s how the old bag would have shot the wolf and killed it stone dead. But for the life of me I cannot imagine her going inside the sheep-pen and backing the creature into a corner.”

Camille frowned.

“So tell me just what it is you’re thinking.”

“Not yet. Not sure I’m right.”

“Say it all the same.”

“Bloody hell. Suzanne accused Massart and now Suzanne is dead. She could easily have been to see Massart and thrown all that werewolf nonsense at him. She wasn’t scared of anything.”

“So what, Lawrence? Given that Massart is
not
a werewolf. What would he have done about it? He’d have had a good laugh, don’t you think?”

“Not necessarily.”

“He’s already got a bad reputation and kids keep away
from
him. What more could Suzanne’s accusations do to him? He’s supposed to be hairless, impotent, queer, crazy and God knows what else besides. So what, if people say he’s a werewolf as well? He can take that on the chin, I reckon. He’s been through worse already.”

“Good grief, you really don’t get it.”

“Well, tell me straight out what’s on your mind. This is no time for swallowing your words.”

“Massart doesn’t give a damn for gossip, I agree. Fine. But what if the old bag was right? What if Massart really had been savaging sheep?”

“You’re losing it, Johnstone. You told me you didn’t believe in werewolves.”

“Not in werewolves, no.”

“You’re forgetting the gashes, for heaven’s sake. You’re not telling me those were made by Massart’s front teeth?”

“No, I’m not.”

“There you are, then.”

“But Massart has a dog. A very large dog.”

Camille shivered. She’d seen that dog on the village square. It was a remarkable, long-legged, brindled dog with a massive head that stood as high as a man’s waist.

“A mastiff,” said Johnstone. “The largest breed there is. The only dog that can grow as big or even bigger than a male wolf.”

Camille rested her foot on the kick-stand and sighed.

“Johnstone, why can’t it just be a wolf?” she asked. “A plain old wolf? Why can’t it be Crassus the Bald? You couldn’t find him yesterday.”

“Because the old bag would have shot him from
behind
. Through the window. I’m off to see Massart.”

“Why not Lemirail?”

“Who’s Lemirail?”

“The medium
gendarme
.”

“Good God. Too soon for that. I’m just going to have a chat with Massart.”

Johnstone revved his engine and soon was vanished over the hill.

He did not come back until lunchtime. Camille was feeling knocked out, she wasn’t hungry, she’d just put out bread and tomatoes and was nibbling as she leafed without paying much attention through yesterday’s newspaper. Even the
A to Z
would not have aroused her interest today. Johnstone came in without a word, put his gloves and helmet on a chair, glanced at the table, added some ham, cheese and apples to the spread, and sat down. Camille did not attempt to spring the conversation to life as she usually did. As a result Johnstone ate in silence, shaking his locks now and again, casting eyes wide with amazement at Camille from time to time. Camille wondered what would become of them if she did not take a verbal initiative. Maybe they would stay at the same table for forty years eating tomatoes in silence until one of them dropped dead. Maybe. The prospect did not seem burdensome to Johnstone. Camille cracked after twenty minutes.

“So, did you see him?”

“Vanished.”

“Why do you say ‘vanished’? He’s entitled to go out for a while.”

“Sure.”

“Was the dog around?”

“No.”

“There you are, then. He was out. And anyway, it’s Sunday.”

Johnstone raised his head.

“Apparently he goes to seven o’clock Mass every Sunday,” Camille said, “in some other village.”

“He would have been back already. I combed the whole area around his place for two hours. Didn’t come across him.”

“There’s lots of room in the mountains, you know.”

“Stopped at Les Écarts on the way back. Soliman’s come out of the john.”

“The psychologist?”

Johnstone nodded. “He’s not well. The doctor gave him tranquillisers. He’s now asleep.”