The Ghost Who Fed Them Bones (12 page)

The door seems to be hovering – slightly opening and then closing again.

“Get ready. Cross the road now.”

“How wil I know it is him?”

“It is him.”

I get up and reach the road just as two solid queues of cars form in front of me, travel ing slowly but with great purpose.

There has barely been a single car for the last half-an-hour, and here are about twenty of them preventing me from crossing the road.

I can see the door opening. There is a slight gap if I sprint, so I do. I am almost winged twice as I sashay between them and, when I reach the pavement, I trip over the edge straight at Alice’s father’s feet, or at least I assume that is who it is.

“Steady!”

“Sorry about that,” I apologise from my knees.

“Are you al right?”

He helps lift me up. “That is quite a death wish you have there.”

(He seems rather nice for a fuckwit).

“I dropped some money out of my wal et and it blew across the road.” There is a slight wind and it is facing in this direction, so it is almost a plausible story.

M. Picard looks up and down the street. “Unfortunately I cannot see it now. I hope it was not a €200 note.”

“No, but I think it was a €50 note. I don’t think I would have risked kil ing myself for €5.”

M. Picard grins. “I think even at €50 you are suffering from low self-esteem. Are you staying up at the Château?”

“Yes.”

He takes me by the upper arm. “You are looking shocked stil . My house is just over there. Come and have a petit cognac to recover, then you can go on your way leaving me with a clear conscience.”

I hesitate. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“No trouble at al . I cannot leave you in this state.”

So Alice’s dad forcibly escorts me to his house. As we get through the front door he shouts, “Chérie, we have a visitor.

He was nearly run over.”

Mme. Picard comes rushing out into the hal way. “Are you al right, Monsieur?” she asks with concern.

“I am fine now, thank you, Madame.”

She feels my forehead.

“You are a little shocked,” she declares. “You must come in and sit down to give you time to recover. I am Mme. Picard.

This is M. Picard.”

“I am Paul Lambert.”

“Enchanté, Monsieur Lambert. Where did this al happen?”

“I was leaving Marguerite de Bel etier’s house and there he was throwing himself on the ground in front of me. I was hoping he was a customer,” he jokes, “and not one who cannot pay us.”

“What were you doing at Marguerite’s?”

“I dropped in to say hel o.”

“I thought that you were in Toulouse today.”

Alice has joined us and is standing right next to me watching everyone in fascination.

“I was meant to be, but Michel at France Géothermie cal ed me just as I hit the motorway with the need for me to examine some pipes which had col apsed, so I had to postpone my meeting with the customer in Toulouse until tomorrow and reorganise the rest of tomorrow’s appointments accordingly. I had promised to see Guy in Sète, so I cal ed in on him for an eleven o’clock cognac – you know how he likes his mid-morning cognac – then I came back here, cal ed in at the tabac to buy some cigarettes and bumped into Marguerite de Bel etier, and she suggested that I join her for an aperitif because she had been very busy this morning and not had time to have lunch. This was at nearly half-past-two. So I joined her and we chatted for an hour.”

“What news did she have?”

Mme. Picard’s question is phrased to sound casual, but I am convinced that she is making her husband work hard to sustain his deception. I would say that she definitely doesn’t believe him.

“Oh, you know Marguerite. She talks a lot and she says nothing. It is mostly hot air.”

“You know Marguerite a lot better than I do, and I can imagine that there might be a lot of hot air,” Mme. Picard snaps back.

M. Picard smiles at me. “You must excuse us, Monsieur Lambert. My wife is a rather jealous woman. I think I’l join you in that cognac.” He heads towards the drinks cabinet in the corner.

“Haven’t you had enough to drink today?” demands Mme. Picard. “A cognac in Sète, aperitifs with Marguerite de Bel etier, and now another cognac, and it is barely four o’clock. You wil be having problems with your liver if you are not careful.”

M. Picard places two glasses slightly clumsily on the table. He is suppressing his anger but it is mounting nonetheless.

“Wil you join us, Chérie?”

“No, thank you.”

He turns to me. Alice says, “You must keep Maman in the room. Papa is about to blow.”

“So how long are you staying at the Château?” he asks me.

“Ask Maman if she has been to the Château recently.”

I address Mme. Picard. “I am staying at the Château,” I explain.

“I assumed that,” she comments non-committal y.

“A few days,” I reply to M. Picard, “but we live at Valflaunès, north of St. Mathieu de Tréviers, so we wil be here into September probably.”

“Where in England to do you live?”

“Actual y, we live in Bruxel es.”

“Bruxel es? They have some very odd accents in Bruxel es.”

“They probably think you have a very odd accent too,” Mme. Picard bites back.

“Wel you have the same accent, Chérie,” M/ Picard ripostes. “What is it with you today?”

“Perhaps I know why you spend so much time at Marguerite de Bel etier’s house.”

“Please, not in front of our guest.”

“One time is as good as another.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He turns to me again. “M. Lambert, I am afraid that things are developing unpleasantly. It might be better if you escape now, otherwise you wil have your second shock of the day.”

“Stay where you are!” Alice orders.

I begin to get up.

“Sit down!” Alice commands me.

“I am sorry if I have caused any problems, Monsieur, Madame.”

“You are not the source of the problem, M. Lambert, I assure you. The problem lies entirely inside M. Picard’s trousers.”

M. Picard blows as inevitably as the thing inside his trousers after prolonged agitation. “I have had enough of this,” he shouts, aiming towards M. Picard who raises her arm to protect herself. “This is intolerable.”

“It is intolerable,” Mme. Picard spits.

“It’s working for me,” Alice gloats.

M. Picard grabs his wife by the shoulder in a furious mirror action to the kindly way he grabbed me earlier by my upper arm to help me up from the pavement.

“Don’t you dare hit me,” Mme. Picard shouts.

M. Picard slaps her over the head.

“Stop him,” Alice screams.

I rush across to Mme. Picard and try to unlock M. Picard’s grip.

“M. Lambert, it is very unwise for you to interfere,” M. Picard threatens me.

“Please get me out of here, Monsieur,” Mme. Picard urges me. “My husband can be a very violent man. It would be better if I went to stay with my sister for a few days.”

M. Picard tries to push me roughly to one side and to strike out at his wife at the same time.

“He even murdered his own daughter,” Mme. Picard accuses.

“She did know!” Alice exclaims.

“That is total y absurd,” M. Picard shouts. “What idiotic things you say sometimes!”

“Please get me out of here!”

“You are not going anywhere!”

“Get her out of here!” Alice insists.

I usher Mme. Picard towards the door. M. Picard pul s me back by the col ar. I turn.

“We al need to calm down,” I declare, a split-second before he belts me in the face. Now I am angry. I kick his legs away from him as Mme. Picard flees the house, fol owed by Alice. M. Picard bangs his head hard against the stone floor.

“I think we need to cal the police,” I inform him.

“Why?” he says, holding the back of his head.

“You attacked your wife, you hit me, and your wife says that you murdered your daughter. Quite an afternoon.”

“I did not murder my daughter this afternoon,” M. Picard protests, “or at any time,” he recovers. “Now let’s calm down, as you suggest. I am very sorry that I hit you. Let me have a look.”

Remembering that he strangled Alice to death, I step back. “No thanks. I am going.”

“I am very sorry. I wil recompense you. It was an accident.”

“You meant to hit your wife!” I throw at him as a parting shot and escape into the street.

“Go straight to the police,” Alice urges me. “Quickly, while you are stil bleeding.”

Thanks, Alice. It is a shame that I didn’t lose a tooth or two, eh?

“You did a great job, Paul. I love you. That is the best thing anyone has ever done for me. Now, quickly, to the gendarmerie.”

* * *

The gendarme sitting behind his desk bantering with col eagues is not expecting violence to break out in Freyrargues at four-fifteen on a weekday afternoon. However, when he sees me he moves to greet me fast enough. “What happened to you, Monsieur?”

“Someone hit me.”

“So I see. Who was it?”

“M. Picard.”

“That does not surprise me. He has a nasty temper sometimes. What did you say to him?”

“I didn’t say anything. It was his wife who upset him.”

“She has a sharp tongue on her too, and not just for her husband.”

“She says that he murdered her daughter. I suppose that would make her cross.”

“She said that?”

“Yes.”

“I think she was merely saying that because she was angry.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No.”

“Where is Mme. Picard now?”

“With her sister, I believe. At least that is where she said she was going.”

The gendarme starts to ready himself. “In that case, I suppose I had better go to talk to her. It might be the break we have been looking for. Do you need to go to the hospital? One of my col eagues wil arrange to get you there.”

“No, that is fine thank you. I don’t think I wil trouble the hospital with a split lip.”

“And a missing tooth,” he adds.

“Oh no,” I cry, searching frantical y for a mirror as I find the stringy hole with my tongue.

“There is a mirror in the toilets over there. You can check yourself out and then decide whether you need to go to the hospital or not.”

By the time I reach the Château, after twenty to twenty-five minutes of brisk walking, ruing the loss of my front tooth and exploring the contours of my swol en bloody lip tasting of iron, the gossip-starved roués of the château party not only know as much about the whole incident involving M. et Mme. Picard, they actual y know more. The news has come through that M. Picard is being arrested, Mme. Picard is being consoled by her sister, and most thril ing of al , that M. Picard is now being suspected of being a serial kil er with maybe twenty or even thirty murders to his name.

As I appear, beating my way up the driveway against the slope and the sun, I see Albert jump up to inform everyone that I am on my way. It is that scene in any western when the little boy spots the lone stranger or the raiding posse, and goes rushing into the house / vil age to alert everyone. I am a major league western fan – not the ones involving Indians as baddies to be slaughtered in their thousands (their racism annoys me), but of al the rest from late John Wayne to the more recent revisionist treatments of the genre. I don’t know whether it is the morality or the shoot-outs that intrigue me the most

– adult Star Wars – but the minute I see one playing, I am hooked, even though I have probably seen almost every Western ever made since 1950 (I can’t do silent movies).

Virtual y the whole host of guests at the Château spil s out to greet me, gripping its glasses and chattering away in suppressed anticipation.

“Hark the hero returned,” cal s Peter, half towards the crowd and half towards me. “You are more famous in these parts even than Inspector John here.”

Inspector John shrugs to make it clear that he does not wish to be famous – he is not competing.

“Are you al right?” John Jr. inquires solicitously.

“A split lip and a missing tooth.”

“You can get that playing rugby,” comments a rugger-bugger loudly.

“Or by being gay in a town centre in the wee hours,” Peter adds. “Much the same thing, real y. I have always considered rugby an extremely homo-erotic game.” From the sharp glare that the rugger-bugger throws him, he may be about to lose a tooth himself in plain daylight on a château lawn.

Al the men hold out their hands to congratulate me, while the women smile at me in admiring complicity.

Fiona steps forward. “I think you need some female attention, Paul,” she declares. “Let me examine you.” She kisses me on both cheeks first.

“Whoo-hoo,” shouts someone hidden amid the throng, “you go it gal.”

“I have always been a bit of a Penelope,” she answers back. “There is nothing like welcoming a wounded hero home.

Ouch!” she adds as she spots my missing front tooth. “Does it hurt?”

“The lip is uncomfortable, and it is rather hard to talk,” I reply displaying my difficulty in enunciating the syl ables properly.

Mike joins us. “Here, Paul-y, have a drink.” He passes me a large glass of rosé.
‘Paul-y’?
“So you took on the big bad guy single-handed.”

“Something like that.”

“You should have taken me too. I might have saved you a few hours of dentistry.”

“I didn’t know it would happen.”

“How could you have done?” Mike makes it sound like he is agreeing with me, but I can tel that he suspects something.

Even the Earl of Affligem makes a personal appearance and congratulates me. “I have never met a man who has helped to apprehend a serial kil er before. That must have taken some guts.”

“To be honest, I didn’t real y think about it, My Lord.”

“Ummm.”

He hangs around for another five minutes but doesn’t utter another word.

After I have received half-an-hour of special attention, Fiona seeks me out again.

“Come, Paul. I’l show you to your room.”

I fol ow her along the back corridor and up the side stairs which give access to the southerly turret.