Death at the Clos du Lac

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

A house with a small turret near the church in the town of Poix. Rocco found a space outside the church and parked his car, then checked the area on foot until he saw a narrow, two-storey building behind an iron railing. It had a vaguely fairy-tale tower looming defiantly into the night sky out of one corner, as if added for a dare by some previous owner. He couldn’t see much detail, but he decided that anybody who could live with that had to be an interesting character.

He hesitated before approaching the front door. This could be painfully embarrassing or simply painful. He had no way of knowing if Jacqueline Roget had given him a detailed location of her renegade aunt’s house in Poix deliberately, or whether he was about to make a complete donkey of himself.

There was only one way to find out.

He stepped up the short path and used the brass dog’s head knocker, and heard the sound reverberating inside. A light came on as a door opened, and suddenly she was standing there, looking out at him.

‘Why, Inspector,’ Jacqueline said, quickly tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘What a surprise.’

‘I, uh … I hope this isn’t too late?’ he murmured, feeling a prize idiot. ‘I was in the area, so …’ He shrugged and felt his ears go hot.

‘Bring the inspector in,’ called a voice from the rear. ‘You can’t leave him standing out there like a carpet salesman when he’s come all this way!’

It was Jacqueline’s turn to be embarrassed. She smiled and stood aside. ‘You’d better do as she says. She’s got second sight, and ears like a bat.’

‘I heard that!’

Rocco followed her down a long hallway, carefully skirting plant stands leaking long strands of greenery, and two large and elegantly fragile-looking porcelain jardinières.

‘Limoges,’ whispered Jacqueline. ‘Break those and she’ll poison your drink.’

‘I will not,’ said the voice. ‘They’re clever fakes made by an old lover of mine in Nancy many years ago. Not worth a centime unless you’re a fool.’

They entered a conservatory room with a sloping glass ceiling, and the speaker was revealed as an elderly lady in a Chinese-style brocade jacket and plain trousers, smiling in greeting from the depths of a high-backed wing chair.

The room was a mixture of plants and furniture, as much garden as living area and studio, with a collection of easels and painting materials at the back showing splashes of vivid colour lit by a glass or crystal chandelier balanced on a tall pair of wooden stepladders.

‘Forgive the mess, Inspector. I don’t have much time for cleaning, and there are better things to do with life than primp the place for visitors. Would you like some sherry?’

Without waiting, she picked up a decanter and filled a slim glass, and held it out to him. ‘I’d take a seat if I were you. By the time Jacqueline closes her mouth and jumps into action, you’ll be exhausted.’

‘Thank you.’ Rocco took the glass and sat down on the end of a settee alongside another plant pot, this one with metal handles and covered in large china flowers. He felt it move as his elbow caught it a glancing blow, and watched it rock for a moment before settling down. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Another fake?’

‘No, that’s an Edouard Gilles from the late nineteenth century. Break that and I would poison you … and bury you in the back garden.’ Her eyes glittered and he didn’t know whether to take her seriously or not.

She raised a glass and sipped, then said, studying him openly, ‘I have to say, I wasn’t sure if my niece had invented you or not. You sounded far too good to be true.’

Rocco sipped his sherry. It was dry and excellent, although he was no expert. ‘I hope I don’t disappoint, then.’ He glanced at Jacqueline, who sat on the other end of the settee glaring daggers at her aunt.

‘Oh, she was singing your praises, don’t worry.’ She ignored her niece with a knowing smile. ‘Inspector this, Inspector that, Lucas the other … I was getting quite worried.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I thought it was all an invention. I don’t mean she’s lost her mind, of course, but she’s always been so intent on a career, like her father, there’s been no time for boyfriends, although how you call it a career to be a typist in the civil service, I don’t know.’ She gave a sweet smile of pure mischief and took another sip of sherry.

Lucas glanced at Jacqueline, who gave a minute shake of her head and a pleading look, and he nodded.

‘Actually, I never enquired what she does, Madame,’ he admitted. ‘We’ve only just met.’

‘Of course you have. And please call me Celestine; “madame” is for old biddies. You’d better not hang about, Lucas; this is a whole new age we’re in, you know. Young people don’t stand on ceremony and go through long courtships these days. You’d better get in there quick before someone else does.’

‘Auntie!’ Jacqueline glared at her aunt and avoided meeting Rocco’s gaze, then snatched up her own glass and took a drink, promptly causing a coughing fit.

Rocco reached out and grabbed the glass before she dropped it, then handed her a handkerchief from his top pocket. She gasped a thank you, then dabbed at her skirt and hand where droplets of sherry had landed.

‘Good looking and a gentleman, I see,’ Celestine murmured approvingly. ‘Not bad, not bad at all. So what kind of place do you live in, Lucas?’

He told her about Poissons, and the house behind iron railings at the end of a road into nowhere. ‘I was lucky to find it. It suits me.’ He said the last with an odd sense of realisation. It was something he’d never given voice to before.

‘It sounds very pleasant.’ She stood up, reaching for a stick. ‘Well, my signal to go to bed.’ She smiled as Rocco stood, too. ‘Delighted to meet you, Lucas. Remember what I said about the Gilles?’

‘Of course.’

‘My niece is in the same category … although I’ve a feeling I don’t need to tell you that. Come again, why don’t you?’ With that, she walked out, head up and back straight, pausing to lay a gentle hand on Jacqueline’s shoulder.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Jacqueline murmured softly, once the old lady was out of sight. ‘She’s impossibly blunt, as you can see. No wonder the rest of the family doesn’t see her very often. But I think she’s wonderful.’ She eyed him cautiously. ‘I hope you weren’t offended.’

‘Not if all she said is true, no.’

She smiled. ‘I think that’s definite. She’s never asked anyone to call her Celestine on a first meeting before. You made a good impression.’ She reached out and took back her glass, and waved the handkerchief. ‘Sorry about the display. I’ll wash this and post it back to you. It shouldn’t stain. Hopefully.’

They sat in silence for a few moments, then Rocco said, ‘I have a problem, which I’m hoping you can help with.’

‘Really? A work problem?’ A faint frown had touched the centre of her forehead, and Rocco felt the atmosphere cool a little.

He cursed inwardly. But it was too late to back out now, so he forged ahead. ‘I have reason to believe that the man you told me about — Delombre — working in the Interior Ministry, may be involved in … a criminal enterprise.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I was wondering what else you know about him.’ Christ, he thought savagely. Do I have to sound so much like a cop?

Jacqueline lifted her eyebrows. ‘Does that mean you think I, too, might be involved, Inspector?’ She put her glass on a small side table and dropped the soiled handkerchief alongside it. There was a finality about the movements that made Rocco’s gut curl.

‘No, of course not. I know this sounds as if I came here on business, but that’s not true. I—’

‘No.’ She raised a hand. ‘It’s perfectly fine. I understand. You have a job to do. So how can I help?’

He wondered if there was any worse tone he could have heard in her voice, any more matter-of-fact delivery that could have made him feel lower than he did, as if his legs had been cut from beneath him. But the die was cast. He could only go forward. At this rate he was going to be receiving poison pen letters from Aunt Celestine in the next post.

‘I need to know about this man Delombre. How close is he to Levignier? Does he have autonomy within the department?’

‘What is this enterprise you suspect him of being involved in?’

‘I can’t tell you that — I’m sorry. It would be better that way.’

‘What, you think because I’m a woman I can’t handle bad news?’

‘No. I didn’t mean that.’ He stood up, feeling the ground opening up further beneath him. This had been the worst of all bad ideas.

She said nothing, her eyes cool, unblinking.

He gestured at the door. ‘I’ll be going. Please thank your aunt for her hospitality.’

She nodded, the movement barely perceptible. ‘Of course. Goodnight.’

Rocco stepped outside and threw his head back, breathing in deeply in frustration. Well played, moron, he thought angrily. That went superbly well, didn’t it?

He walked back along the street and drove home.

He’d been indoors two minutes when there was a knock at the door.

It was Mme Denis. She was holding a plate draped with a square of linen. ‘Present for you. Not all eggs have to be eaten as omelettes.’

Rocco lifted the linen cloth. She’d baked him a sponge cake. Decorated with tiny flecks of orange and lemon, and smelling of citrus, it was still warm from the oven.

‘You didn’t have to do this,’ he said, and realised that this was an honour.

‘Of course I did. I used a saucepan, two bowls and at least three spoons — and my cake tin. You think I’m going to miss an opportunity to have something to wash under my new tap?’

He’d forgotten about the pipes being connected, and smiled. ‘That was quick work.’

‘Yes, the men said they had orders from Maillard at the café to finish it double quick, otherwise there’d be no drinks for them all week.’ She gave him a sly look. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

He shook his head. ‘Not me. Must be all Maillard’s doing.’

‘Really? You think I came down with the last rainfall? The village is abuzz with stories about how you and Lamotte arrested three robbers at the café. Maillard thinks you’re the best thing to hit Poissons since the invention of the corkscrew.’

‘He talks too much.’

‘Maybe he does.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘No matter. I might have to heat my water the old way, but at least I’ve got running cold.’ She smiled with evident pleasure and looked past him. ‘They haven’t done yours yet, then?’

‘Not yet.’ There was the beginning of a trench across his front garden, and a hole bored through the front wall of the house, but no pipes. ‘Would you like to come in for cake and coffee?’

‘No. Never eat the stuff, myself. But you go ahead.’ She reached out and briefly clutched his arm, then turned and walked back down the path.

Rocco put on some water and made tea. Then he cut a large slice of sponge cake and sat down to eat it.

Above his head, the resident guests continued their games in the attic.