The Blood Promise: A Hugo Marston Novel (14 page)

“It does,” Hugo agreed. “Then you’ll also know that we’d like to hear about any tradesmen or repair people who come to the house.”

“No, like I said, she didn’t have much done here. Left it to me, and it’s only now I’m getting to it. As for friends, a few close ones from the village but as far as I know none of them had any reprobate sons or nephews looking for drug money.”

“Monsieur,” Garcia said, “are you familiar with Henri Tourville?”

“Yes, of course.” He frowned. “I’m not sure I could tell you what post he holds in government right now, but naturally I know the name.”

“And that of his sister?” Garcia asked.

“If the newspapers are to be believed, which is doubtful, she is quite a handful and while I have no problem with her personal life, I’m not sure I want my politicians engaging in such . . . indiscretions.”

“Not the female ones, anyway.” Hugo muttered, unable to help himself.

“Precisely,” Bassin agreed. “Oh, I know it’s a double standard, believe me. But if we’re to get the respect of foreign countries then, until they become as progressive as we are, we have to appreciate that there are some things men can get away with that women cannot.”

Garcia cleared his throat to get them back on track. “We’re wondering whether you’ve ever visited Chateau Tourville, or if anyone in your family has. Likewise, if you’ve had members of the Tourville family stay here.”

“No, I’m sure I’d know if we had.”

“Is it possible you’ve hired people to work here that may have come from Chateau Tourville?”

“Definitely not. We have two men who work part-time on the gardens, my mother insisted on keeping those in perfect shape. And the farmland is leased out and has been for decades. We have cleaners, but they are from the village, the same family has done that for us for years. Decades, again.” He chuckled. “When I listen to myself it’s like we’re stuck in history with no one new coming to the house this century. But, that’s about the way it is.”

“Do you think you would know of everyone who might have visited?” Garcia asked. “I mean, is there someone else we should ask about visitors or people connected to Tourville?”

“My sister, Marie, was here a few months ago. She has a home in Provence but comes to stay for a week or two when she has time. I believe she’s in Italy right now. Or did she go on safari to Namibia?” He shrugged. “Well, I’ll give you her phone number, you can track her down.”

“Thank you. Anyone else?”

“I don’t think anyone would know more than us, but you’re welcome to talk with the two men who work in the garden. I’m sure they’ve been interviewed by the police, but they wouldn’t mind talking to you. As for anyone else, I doubt it. My mother’s memory was fading, she had lapses and frequently forgot things, even my visits. So, she wasn’t good company for outsiders, and most of her old friends are either dead or not mobile enough to come out here.” He paused and then looked between Hugo and Garcia. “Can I ask, what is the connection with Henri Tourville?”

Hugo said, “There was an incident at his house, nothing like what happened here, but a fingerprint lifted from his house matched one of those taken here. One of those taken from the armoire.”

“It has to be one of his staff, surely?”

“That seems most likely.”

“So why not just fingerprint them?”

“We’ve asked,” Garcia said, “but they’re not cooperating. Understandably, they don’t want to be associated with what happened here. And there simply isn’t a strong enough connection to require everyone who works there to give prints. Our lawyers tell me there has to be a definite link to the crime and some indication of a specific person. In other words, we can’t just go around forcing people to give prints until we get lucky.”

“And it being the Tourvilles, you have to be extra sure to persuade a judge, I’m betting,” Bassin said. He held up a hand. “
Non, ça va
, the Bassin family has some standing here and I wouldn’t object to a judge being sensitive to our name and reputation.”

“I know you’ve been asked the same questions numerous times, but indulge me,” Hugo said. “You know of no one who had a grudge against you or your mother?”

“No one at all.”

“No money problems for her or business problems for you?”

“No, our family has always been very fortunate. Nothing like that at all.”

“No business dealings with the Tourvilles?”

“As I said, I don’t even know what ministry he works with right now.” A thin smile. “Certainly, no interactions or dealings with his sister.”

“Do you know Felix Vibert?” Hugo asked.

Bassin shook his head slowly. “The name seems familiar but . . . I can’t place it. I can tell you for certain that I don’t have direct dealings with anyone of that name.”

“Thank you.” Hugo thought for a moment. “The police reports says that the only thing stolen was jewelry.”

“That’s right.”

“And forgive me for asking, but you’re absolutely sure nothing else was missing?”

“Yes, absolutely. You are thinking there was some other motive?”

“Wondering, anyway,” Hugo said. “The obvious choices would be sexual assault, and there was no evidence of that at all, and robbery. But it’s possible there was another reason, it just seems like an out-of-the-way place to rob for a few earrings and necklaces.”

“I agree,” Bassin said. “Now, I believe some of it was quite valuable but I couldn’t say which pieces with any certainty. I think my sister provided the list to the police and the insurance people; she knows better than I do what my mother had.”

“Do you have a copy of the list?”

“In the study, yes.”

“I’d like to get a copy, if you don’t mind. But can we see where the jewelry was kept?” Hugo asked.

“Of course. Please, follow me.”

They followed single file into the hallway, past the open door to the study, and up a flight of stairs. At the top they followed Bassin to the left and he led them to the closed door of his late mother’s bedroom. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, gather himself maybe, then he opened the door and let Garcia and Hugo pass through first.

“I don’t think it’s been touched since the police were here. I’ve not let the cleaners come in, even.” His voice dropped. “Not yet, anyway.”

“I understand,” Garcia said, “and I’m sorry for the intrusion like this.”

“
Non
, it’s necessary. My sister and I, we won’t rest easily here until whoever did this is caught.” He took a breath and then straightened up, pointing at a large armoire. “She kept blankets, sheets, and towels in there. And the jewelry, you’ll see an empty space but . . . that’s all there is to see, I think.”

Hugo went over and opened the doors to the armoire, which reminded him of the ones he’d seen in the bedrooms at Chateau Tourville. Not surprising, they were
de rigeur
before the built-in closets of today. As Bassin had said, bed linens and towels took up most of the inside space, leaving a gap at waist height where Madam Bassin had stored, with no concern for security apparently, those items that mattered most.

“Thank you,” said Hugo. A germ had planted itself in his head and he was ready to move downstairs. “Can I see that list of stolen items now?”

“Of course.” He gestured weakly at the armoire as Hugo closed it. “No clues?”

“One thought occurs to me, but . . . that list might help.”

It did. Garcia looked over Hugo’s shoulder at the type-written inventory, twenty-eight items that included bracelets, broaches, necklaces, rings, and earrings. Brief descriptions of each were included, but no estimated values because Madam Bassin hadn’t acquired any of them recently. Some pieces were treasures from her youth and early married years, but more than half had filtered through to her from previous generations.

“Twenty-eight,” Hugo said.

“Yes.” Bassin said. “That means something?”

“Well, it’s a lot to carry for one person and the police reported no indication of a second intruder.” Hugo looked at Bassin. “I’m wondering how he managed to carry it away. Too much for pockets, so either he brought a bag with him or . . . what was the jewelry kept in?”

“An old box,” Bassin said.

“All of it in one jewelry box?”

“Not really a jewelry box, more of a chest. It had been in the family for almost as long as the house.”

“How long is that?” Garcia asked.

“Four hundred years. Not my direct line, there are family stories of feuds and the house moving from one branch of the family to another.”

Hugo barely heard the response, impatient to get back on track. “The chest, you were saying . . .”

“A sailor’s chest,
maman
called it.”

Hugo’s chest tightened. “Can you describe it?”

“
Bien sur
.” Bassin furrowed his brow in thought. “Made of wood, probably walnut because it was burled but you couldn’t really see that because it was so old. The fittings were brass, ornamental in a way, but again the hinges and decoration were darker than you’d think because of its age.” He smiled at a memory, and said, “You know, now that I think of it my mother had sort of a special affection for that chest, she used to say it contained all kinds of family treasures.” He shrugged. “But that’s the tragedy of burglaries like this,
n’est-ce pas
? The thief takes items that may prove valuable or worthless to him, but without question contain priceless memories and sentiments. I’m sorry, I didn’t think to list the chest as it’s not really worth anything. Is it?”

“To someone,” said Hugo, “I suspect it is.”

Garcia put a hand on Hugo’s arm. “What is it? I’ve seen that look before and it means you’ve discovered something, an answer . . . What this time?”

Hugo turned to Bassin. “Is there any chance you have a photo of the chest?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But you’d recognize it if you saw it again?”

“Yes, I think so. I mean, there can’t be too many like it, can there?”

“Precisely what I was thinking,” Hugo said. “I think we have all we need, Monsieur Bassin. Raul, we should go.” He winked at his friend. “I think you’d call this a clue. And one that takes us right back to Chateau Tourville.”

Ambassador Taylor was emphatic. Hugo had finished his progress report, having already called Bassin’s sister and gone straight to voicemail. He’d left her a message and immediately called the ambassador.

“Tonight, Hugo,” Taylor said. “He’s not back and I’m about to call the cavalry but before I do . . .”

“I honestly don’t think it’ll make any difference. I’m not going to see anything in his room that Tom or anyone else missed.”

“Maybe, but you’re only an hour away and you pretty much have to go through Paris to get home.”

“Well, that’s true.” He glanced at Garcia, both hands gripping the wheel and eyes on the road. “The capitaine will want to get home, too, I imagine.” A twitch at the corner of Garcia’s mouth said
thank you
. “I was just hoping for a beer and some down time.”

That was close to the truth, though an incomplete version. He’d hoped to entice Claudia for a drink, maybe dinner. Days filled with theft, murder, and mistrust had pushed him into wanting a moment of peace with someone who could make him feel utterly comfortable. Taylor’s request that he comb the still-missing senator’s room for clues pulled in the opposite direction from the plan he’d imagined ever since shaking hands with Georges Bassin and wishing him good-bye.

“Missing senators don’t allow for much down time, sorry.”

“I know,” Hugo sighed. “Someone can meet me there and let me in?”

“The Crillon staff know you’re coming. They’re being great about this whole thing, discreet and very cooperative.”

“You get what you pay for, I guess.”

“True enough. Call me when you get there, OK?”

Hugo hung up and stared out of the window. Dusk was settling over the countryside, an orange sun spilling across the horizon to their left. On either side of the highway lay fields that, little more than a month ago, had rippled with healthy rows of golden wheat and barley. Now they lay ragged and bare, cut to stubble that had been browned by the autumn rains and torn by the wheels of tractors. Clusters of still-yellow bales, as large and solid as boulders, gathered at seemingly random intervals, awaiting transport to the barns where they would carpet the floors for the dairy and beef cattle spending the winter inside.

Hugo let his eyes wander the countryside while he pondered the disappearance of Senator Lake, but through tiredness or . . . something, he couldn’t concentrate. When his phone buzzed, he was glad for the excuse to stop trying and surprised to feel a jangle in his blood when he saw her name on the screen.

“Claudia, how are you?”

“Fine, I got your message.” A smile in her voice. “Obviously.”

“It’s good to hear you.”

“Is everything OK?”

“Yes. A little tired, maybe.”

“So I don’t think I can do drinks tonight, I’m sorry. A work thing, someone retiring and I said I’d go.”

“That’s OK, I—”

“Ah. Something happened between you calling me and me calling you back?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, that works out then.” She sounded amused rather than annoyed, but somehow that didn’t help. “Anything a reporter should know about?”