The Saint-Fiacre Affair (14 page)

The sound of an engine had been heard
outside. A little later the count went into the dining room, where the estate
manager was sitting, and they caught the end of a sentence:

‘Both of them, yes! … If you like!
 … It's an order! …'

The ringing of a telephone. The count
had rejoined his guests. The butler came into the smoking room.

‘What is it?'

‘The undertaker … He's
asking what time they can bring the coffin …'

‘Whenever he likes.'

‘Certainly, Monsieur.'

And the count replied, almost gaily:

‘Would you like to take your
seats? … I've had the last bottles brought up from the cellar … Pass me the
first of them, Father … We're a bit short of ladies, but …'

Maigret wanted to hold him back by his
sleeve for a moment. The other man looked him in the eyes, with a hint of
impatience, pulled abruptly away and went into the dining room.

‘I have invited Monsieur Gautier,
our estate manager, and his son, who is a boy with a future ahead of him, to share
our meal …'

Maigret looked at the bank clerk's
hair and, in spite of his unease, couldn't help smiling. His hair was damp.
Before coming into the chateau, the young man had straightened his parting, washed
his face and hands and changed his tie.

‘Take your seats,
gentlemen!'

And the inspector was certain that
Saint-Fiacre's throat was swollen with a sob. It went unnoticed, because the
doctor involuntarily distracted everyone's attention by picking up a dusty
bottle and murmuring:

‘You've still got some 1896
Hospice de Beaune? … I thought the last bottles had been bought by the Larue
Restaurant, and that …'

The rest was lost in the noise of
scraping chairs. The priest, hands folded on the tablecloth, head lowered and lips
moving, said grace.

Maigret noticed that Saint-Fiacre was
staring at him intently.

The dining room was the room in the
chateau that had lost least of its character, thanks to the carved wooden panels
that covered the walls all the way up to the ceiling. The room was also higher than
it was wide, which made it not only solemn but gloomy, because one felt as if one
were eating at the bottom of a well.

On each panel there were two electric
lamps, those elongated lamps that imitate candles, complete with fake wax drips.

In the middle of the table, a real
seven-branched candelabra with seven real candles.

The Count of Saint-Fiacre and Maigret
sat facing one another but could only see each other if they stiffened their backs
to look above the flames.

On the right of the count, the priest.
On his left, Dr Bouchardon. Chance had placed Jean Métayer at one end of the table,
the lawyer at the other. And sitting next to the inspector were the estate manager
on one side and Émile Gautier on the other.

From time to time the butler stepped
forward into the light to serve the guests, but as soon as he stepped two metres
back he was immersed in shadow, and his white-gloved hands were all that could be
seen.

‘Don't you think we could be
in a novel by Walter Scott?'

It was the count who spoke, in an
indifferent tone, and yet Maigret pricked up his ears, because he had heard an
undercurrent, and had a sense that something was about to start.

They were only on their starters. On the
table there was a random collection of bottles of white and red wine, claret and
burgundy, and everyone was filling his glass as he felt like it.

‘There's only one detail
that doesn't fit …' Maurice de Saint-Fiacre continued. ‘In Walter
Scott the poor old woman upstairs would suddenly start screaming …'

Within a few seconds, everyone stopped
chewing, and they felt as if an icy draught has entered the room.

‘By the way, Gautier, has she been
left all on her own?'

The estate manager swallowed hastily and
stammered:

‘She … Yes … There is no one in
the countess's room …'

‘That can't be very
cheerful!'

At that moment a foot brushed
insistently against Maigret's, but the inspector couldn't guess who it
belonged to. The table was round. Anyone could have reached the middle. And
Maigret's uncertainty was destined to continue, because in the course of the
evening the little kicks would become increasingly frequent.

‘Did she receive a lot of people
today?'

It was embarrassing to hear him talking
about his mother as if she were a living person, and the inspector noted that Jean
Métayer was so struck by this that he stopped eating and looked straight ahead, his
eyes becoming increasingly sunken.

‘Almost all the local
farmers!' the estate manager's serious voice replied.

When the butler noticed a hand reaching
out towards a bottle he approached in silence. His black arm, ending in a white
glove, was seen suddenly emerging from the darkness. The liquid flowed. And it was
done in such silence, with such skill, that the lawyer, by now more than tipsy,
wonderingly repeated the experiment three or four times.

He delightedly followed this arm which
didn't even brush his shoulder. In the end he could restrain himself no
longer.

‘Incredible! You are a marvel,
sir, and if I could afford a chateau I would take you on straight away …'

‘Bah! The chateau will soon be for
sale at a bargain price …'

This time even Maigret frowned as he
watched Saint-Fiacre talking like that, in a voice that was curiously indifferent
but also rather unnatural. In spite of everything, there was something strident
about his words. Were his nerves on edge? Was it a grim sort of joke?

‘Chicken in half-mourning,'
he announced as the butler brought in some chickens with truffles.

And a moment later, in the same light
tone:

‘The murderer will be eating
chicken in half-mourning, like everyone else!'

The butler slipped his arm between the
guests.

‘But your lordship! …'

‘Of course! What's so
strange about that? The murderer is among us, of that there is no doubt! But
don't let it take
your appetite
away, Father! The corpse is in the house too, and that hasn't taken away your
appetite. Albert, a drop of wine for Father!'

Once again the foot brushed
Maigret's ankle; he dropped his napkin and bent to look under the table, but
it was too late. When he straightened up again, the count, still eating his chicken,
was saying:

‘I mentioned Walter Scott just
now, because of the atmosphere that reigns in this room, but also and particularly
because of the murderer … After all, we are at a funeral wake, are we not? … The
funeral will take place tomorrow morning, and in all likelihood we will not be
parted before then … Monsieur Métayer can at least claim to have supplied the bar
with excellent whisky …'

Maigret tried to remember how much
Saint-Fiacre had drunk. Less, at any rate, than the doctor, who exclaimed:

‘Excellent! Yes indeed! But my
client is also the grandson of wine-growers and …'

‘I was saying … What was I saying?
 … Oh, yes! … Fill the priest's glass, Albert …

‘I was saying that since the
murderer is here, the others are to some extent acting as upholders of the law …
That's why our gathering is like a chapter of Walter Scott …

‘Let's be clear that our
murderer is in no danger. Isn't that so, inspector? … It isn't a crime
to slip a sheet of paper into a missal …

‘By the way, doctor … When did my
mother suffer her last attack? …'

The doctor wiped his lips and looked
gloomily around:

‘Three months ago, when you sent a
telegram from Berlin to say that you were ill in a hotel room and that …'

‘I was after some cash! That was
it!'

‘I said at the time that any
further emotional turmoil would be fatal.'

‘So … Let's see … Who knew?
Jean Métayer, of course … And me, obviously! … Old Gautier, who's practically
family … And last of all you and Father here …'

He gulped down a glass of white wine and
pulled a face:

‘So, logically speaking, almost
all of us can be seen as potential suspects … If it amuses you …'

It was almost as if he were deliberately
choosing the most shocking words he could find.

‘… If it amuses you, we will
examine each of our individual cases, one at a time … Let's start with Father
 … Would it have been in his interest to kill my mother? … You will see that the
answer is not as simple as it seems … I shall leave aside the question of money
 …'

The priest was choking, but he
didn't get up from his chair.

‘Father had nothing to gain … But
he is a mystic, an apostle, practically a saint … He has an eccentric parishioner
whose behaviour is causing a scandal … One moment she's hurrying to church
like the most fervent of believers, the next she's bringing scandal down upon
Saint-Fiacre … No! Don't pull that face, Métayer … We're all men here …
We are, if you wish, performing a psychological experiment.

‘Father has a faith so ardent that
it might drive him to
extremes. Remember
the days when sinners were purified by being burned at the stake … So, my mother is
at mass … She has just taken communion. She is in a state of grace. But soon she
will succumb to sin once more, and again she will be the subject of a scandal … If
she dies there, in her pew, in a state of holiness …'

‘But …' began the priest,
whose eyes were filled with fat tears and who was gripping the table to keep himself
calm.

‘Please, Father … As I said, we
are carrying out a psychological experiment … I just want to show you that even the
most austere individuals can be suspected of the worst atrocities. Now, if we move
on to the doctor, I find myself more perplexed. He isn't a saint. And what
saves him is that he isn't a scientist either. Because if he were, he could
have put the piece of paper in the missal to test the resilience of a sickly heart
 …'

The clatter of forks had faded away
almost to nothing. And the faces were frozen, anxious, almost frantic. There was
only the butler filling glasses in silence, with the regularity of a metronome.

‘You are gloomy, gentlemen … Are
there really subjects that one cannot discuss, even among intelligent people?

‘The next course, please, Albert …
So, let's leave the doctor aside, since we cannot consider him as a scientist
or a researcher. He is saved by his mediocrity.'

He chuckled and turned towards the
estate manager.

‘Your turn! … A more complex case.
We are still adopting the viewpoint of a Martian, aren't we? Two possibilities
 … First, you are the model estate manager,
the honest man who devotes his life to his masters, to
the chateau where he was born … In fact he wasn't born here, but no matter …
In that case his position isn't clear. The Saint-Fiacre family has only a
single male heir … And there is the legacy melting away in front of his nose … The
countess is behaving like a madwoman … And perhaps the moment has come to save what
is left …

‘A noble gesture, worthy of Walter
Scott, and not unlike that of the priest …

‘But there is also the opposite
possibility! You are no longer the model estate manager born at the chateau … You
are a rogue who has for years been taking advantage of and abusing the weakness of
your masters … When we are forced to sell farms, you buy them up on the sly … And
when we are forced to raise mortgages, you are the one who takes them. Don't
get angry, Gautier … Did the priest get angry? And besides, I haven't quite
finished …

‘You are almost the real owner of
the chateau …'

‘Your lorship!'

‘Don't you know how to play
the game? We're playing a game, I repeat! We're playing, if you like, at
being police inspectors like your neighbour. The time has come when the countess has
reached the end, when everything will have to be sold, and it will be observed that
you are the one who has profited from the situation … Wouldn't it be better if
the countess happened to die conveniently, thus at the same time sparing herself the
need to acquaint herself with poverty? …'

And, turning towards the butler, a shadow
in shadow, a demon with chalk-white hands:

‘Albert! Go and fetch my
father's revolver. If it's still there …'

He poured a drink for himself and both
his neighbours, then held out the bottle to Maigret.