Sepulchre (47 page)

The Inspector sighed. 'Let's get out of this wind and I'll tell you.' Ten minutes later, they were established in a small café hard by the Cour de Justice Présidiale where they could talk without fear of being overheard. Most of the clientele were either fellow officers from the gendarmerie or personnel from the prison.

Bouchou ordered two glasses of a local liqueur, La Micheline, then pulled up his chair to listen. Thouron found it a fraction too sweet for his taste, but drank gratefully all the same as he explained the bare bones of the case.

Marguerite Vernier, widow of a Communard and more recently the mistress of a prominent and highly decorated war hero, had been found murdered in the family apartment on the evening of Sunday 20th September. Since then, a month had passed and yet they had still been unable to trace either her son or her daughter, as next of kin, to inform them of their loss.
Indeed, although there was no reason to consider Vernier a suspect, at the same time a number of points of interest, irregularities quand même, had come to light. Not least the growing evidence that he and his sister had deliberately taken steps to cover their traces. This meant it had taken Thouron's men some time to discover that Monsieur and Mademoiselle Vernier had travelled south from the Gare Montparnasse, rather than west or north from the Gare Saint-Lazare as previously believed.

'In truth,' Thouron admitted, 'if one of my men had not been on his toes, we would have got no further than that.'

'Go on,' said Bouchou, his eyes sharp with interest. 'After four weeks, you understand,' explained Thouron, 'I could no longer justify a full-time watch on the apartment.' Bouchou shrugged. 'Bien sûr.'

'However, in the way of these things, one of my officers - sharp boy, Gaston Leblanc - has become friendly with a maid in the Debussy household, the family which resides in the apartment below the Verniers in the rue de Berlin. She told Leblanc that she had seen the concierge accepting money from a man and, in return, handing over some sort of envelope.'

Bouchou dropped his elbows to the table. 'The concierge admitted it?' Thouron nodded. 'At first he denied it. These people always do. But under threat of arrest, eventually he admitted that he had been paid - and handsomely - to pass over any correspondence addressed to the Vernier apartment.' 'By whom?'

Thouron shrugged. 'He claimed not to know. The transactions were always done with a servant.' 'And you believed him?'

'Yes,' he said, draining his glass. 'On balance, I did. The long and the short of it was that the concierge claimed, although he could not be certain, that the handwriting resembled that of Anatole Vernier. And that the postmark was Aude.'

'Et voilà, so you are here.'

 

Thouron pulled a face. 'It is not much, I know, but it is the only lead we have.'

 

Bouchou raised his hand to order another round of drinks. 'And the matter is sensitive because of Madame Vernier's romantic liaison.'

 

Thouron nodded. 'General Du Pont is a man of some reputation and influence. He is not suspected of the crime, but-'

 

And you are certain of that?' Bouchou interrupted. 'It is not just that your préfet does not wish to find himself embroiled in some scandal?'

 

For the first time, Thouron allowed a smile to flicker across his lips. It transformed his face, making him seem younger than his forty years.

'I do not deny that my superiors would have been rather. . . disquieted, shall we say, should there have been a case against Du Pont,' he replied carefully. 'But, fortunately for all concerned, there are too many mitigating factors against the General being responsible. He is, however, anxious not to have this shadow hanging over him. Understandably, he believes that until the killer is caught and brought to justice, there will be rumours, the possibility of a stain on his character.'

Bouchou listened in attentive silence as Thouron went through his reasoning for believing Du Pont innocent - the anonymous tip-off, the fact that the medical examiner's estimated time of death was some hours earlier than when the body was found at which point Du Pont was attending a concert and in plain view, the issue of who had been bribing the concierge.

A rival lover?' he suggested.

'I wondered about that, yes,'Thouron admitted. 'There were two champagne glasses, but also a whisky glass broken in the grate. Also, although there was some evidence that Vernier's room had been searched, the servants are adamant that the only thing taken was a framed family portrait that resided on the sideboard.'

Thouron produced a similar photograph from his pocket, from the same sitting at the Parisian studio. Bouchou looked at it without comment.

'I appreciate,' continued Thouron, 'that even if the Verniers were in the Aude, they might not be so now. It is a large area, and if they are here in Carcassonne, or in a private house in the country, then it might be very difficult to gain information about their whereabouts.'

'Do you have copies?'

 

Thouron nodded.

'I will put out an alert in the hotels and boarding houses in Carcassonne in the first instance, then perhaps the major tourist towns to the south. They would stand out less in an urban environment than in the country.' He looked down at the photograph. 'The girl is striking, is she not? Such colouring is uncommon.' He slipped the image into his waistcoat pocket. 'Leave it with me, Thouron. I'll see what we can do.'

The Inspector gave a deep sigh. 'I am most grateful, Bouchou. This case drags on.' 'Je vous en prie, Thouron. Now, some supper, I think?'

They ate a plate of chops each, followed by steamed plum pudding, washed down with a pichet of robust red wine from the Minervois. The wind and rain continued to batter the building. Other customers came and went, stamping the wet from their boots and shaking their hats. Word went round that the Mairie had issued a flood warning that the River Aude was close to bursting its banks.

Bouchou snorted. 'Every autumn they say the same thing, but it never happens!'

 

Thouron raised his eyebrows. 'Never?'

 

'Well, not for some years,' Bouchou conceded with a grin. 'I think, tonight, the defences will be sufficient to hold.'

 

The storm hit the Haute Vallée at a little after eight o'clock in the evening, just as the train carrying Leonie, Anatole and Isolde south, approached the station at Limoux.

 

Thunder, then a jagged fork of lightning slashed the purple sky. Isolde cried out. Instantly, Anatole was at her side.

 

'Je suis là,' he soothed.

Another crack of thunder split the air, making Léonie jolt in her seat, followed by a second burst of lightning as the storm rolled ever closer across the plains. The pins maritimes, the platanes, the beech trees swayed, then lunged, in the gusting crescendo of the wind. Even the vines, regimented in neat rows, shook with the ferocity of the tempest.

Léonie rubbed at the steamy glass and watched, half horrified, half exhilarated, as the elements raged about them. The train continued on its laborious way. Several times they were obliged to stop between halts while the rails were cleared of fallen branches and even small trees, loosened from the steep slopes of the gorges by the pummelling rain.

At every station, more and more people seemed to board the train, replacing twice over those who were alighting. Hats were pulled low over brows, collars turned up to provide protection against the rain that was driving into the thin glass of the carriage windows. The period of delay at each station became more and more interminable, the carriages increasingly crowded with refugees from the storm.

Some hours later, they arrived in Couiza. The weather was less ferocious in the valleys, but still there was no cab for hire and the courrier publique had long departed. Anatole was obliged to knock up one of the shopkeepers to send his boy by mule up the valley to fetch Pascal to bring the gig to collect them.

While they waited, they took shelter in a miserable restaurant building adjoining the gare. It was too late for dinner, even had the conditions not been so dreadful. But on seeing Isolde's ghostly complexion and Anatole's undisguised anguish, the owner's wife took pity on their bedraggled party and provided cups of steaming oxtail soup and chunks of dry black bread, together with a bottle of strong Tarascon wine.

Two men joined them, also seeking refuge from the storm, bringing with them news that the River Aude was close to bursting its banks in Carcassonne. There were already pockets of flooding in the quartiers Trivalle and Barbacane.

Léonie went pale, picturing the black water lapping at the steps of the église de Saint-Gimer. How easily she could have been trapped. The streets through which she had walked were now, if the accounts were to be believed, submerged. Then another thought shot into her mind. Was Victor Constant safe?

The torment of imagining him in danger played on her nerves all the way back to the Domaine de la Cade, making her oblivious to the rigours of the journey and the struggle of the weary horses along the slippery and perilous roads leading home.

By the time they drove up the long gravelled drive, the wheels sticking on the wet stones and mud, Isolde was all but insensible. Her eyelids fluttered as she struggled to stay conscious. Her skin was cold to the touch.

Anatole charged into the house, shouting instructions. Marieta was sent to mix a powder to help her mistress sleep, another maid to fetch the moine, the bedwarmer and frame, to take the chill from Isolde's sheets, a third to stoke the fire already burning in the grate. Then, seeing Isolde was too weak to walk, Anatole swept her up in his arms and carried her up the stairs. Strands of her blonde hair, trailing loose now down her back, hung like pale silk against his black jacket sleeves.

Astounded, Léonie watched them go. By the time she had rallied her thoughts, everyone had disappeared, leaving her to fend for herself.

Frozen to her bones and out of sorts, she followed them up to the first floor. She undressed and climbed into her bed. The covers seemed damp. No fire burned in her grate. The room was unwelcoming and cheerless.

She attempted to sleep, but all the time she was aware of Anatole pacing the corridors. Later, she heard the clip of his boots on the tiles of the hall below, marching up and down like a soldier on the night-watch, and the sound of the front door opening. Then silence.

 

At last, Léonie fell into a restless half-sleep, dreaming of Victor Constant.

 

PART VIII

 

Hôtel de la Cade October 2007

 

CHAPTER 63

 

Tuesday 30TH October 2007

Meredith saw Hal before he saw her. Her heart skipped a beat at the look of him. He was sprawled in one of three low armchairs set around a small table, wearing much the same clothes he'd had on earlier, blue jeans and white T-shirt, but had swapped his blue sweater for a pale brown one. As she watched, he lifted his hand and pushed his unruly hair off his face.

Meredith smiled at the already familiar gesture. Letting the door swing shut behind her, she walked across the room towards him.

 

He stood up as she drew close.

 

'Hi,' she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. 'Tough afternoon?'

 

'I've had better,' he said, kissing her on the cheek, then turning round to summon the waiter. 'What can I get you?'

 

'The wine you recommended last night was pretty good.'

 

Hal ordered. 'Une bouteille du Domaine Begude, s'il vous plaît, Georges. Et trois verres. '

 

'Three glasses?' Meredith queried.

Hal's face clouded over. 'I bumped into my uncle coming in. He seemed to think you wouldn't mind. Said you were talking earlier. When I said we were meeting for a drink, he invited himself
'No way,' she said, keen to counteract the impression Hal had got. 'He asked me if I knew where you had gone after you dropped me back here. I said I wasn't sure. That was the extent of it.'

'Right.'

 

'Not what you'd call a conversation,' she said, driving the point home. She leant forward, hands on her knees. 'What happened this afternoon?'

 

Hal glanced at the door, then back to her.

 

'I tell you what, why don't I reserve us a table for dinner? I don't want to start, then have to break off in a few minutes when my uncle gets here.

 

It brings things to a natural close without being too obvious about it. How does that sound?'

 

Meredith grinned. 'Dinner sounds great,' she said. 'I skipped lunch. I'm ravenous.'

Looking pleased, Hal stood up. 'Be back in a moment.' Meredith watched him walk across the room to the door, liking the way he seemed to fill the space with his broad shoulders. She saw him hesitate, then turn, as if he could feel her gaze on his back. Their eyes collided midair, held for a moment. Then Hal gave a slow half-smile and disappeared into the corridor.

It was Meredith's turn to push her black bangs off her face. She felt her skin flush hot in the hollow of her throat, her palms grow damp, and shook her head at such schoolgirl silliness.

Georges brought the wine in an ice bucket on a stand and poured her a large, tulip-shaped, glass. Meredith drank several mouthfuls in one go, like it was soda, and fanned herself with the cocktail list on the table.

She cast her eyes around the bar at the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, wondering if Hal knew which - if any - had survived the fire and were part of the original library. It occurred to her that there might be some kind of link involving the Lascombe family and the Verniers, especially given the connection with printing through the Bousquet family. On the other hand, all the books could be from the vide-grenier sale.

She looked out of the window to the darkness beyond. On the furthest edges of the lawns she could see the shapes of the trees, swaying, moving, like an army of shadows. She felt eyes upon her, fleetingly, as if someone had passed just in front of the window and was looking in. Meredith narrowed her gaze, but couldn't see anything.
Then she became aware that someone was in fact coming up behind her. She could hear footsteps. A trickle of anticipation slithered down her spine. She smiled, then turned, her eyes bright.

She found herself looking up not at Hal, but into the face of his uncle, Julian Lawrence. There was a faint smell of whisky on his breath. Embarrassed, she adjusted the expression on her face and started to get to her feet.