The Night Gate

Chapter Thirty-Two

The troughs at the cemetery gates were filled with dead flowers. Yet more still lay on the graves where they had been placed by relatives at Toussaint.

The burial had been delayed because of the need for a post-mortem, and Enzo had timed his drive up for the signing of his final statement at the Vayrac gendarmerie to coincide with Anny’s funeral. It was being held that morning at the tiny Cimitière Columbarium above the village of Bétaille, and it meant he would have permission to travel, in spite of the pandemic lockdown. He wanted to be there.

It was a stunning day, a clear blue sky stretching west above the river valley, the cliffs on either side of the flood plain glowing almost pink in the late morning sunshine. And it was warm. A welcome respite after the rain and cold of October. And at the very least, from here Anny would have a privileged view of the world for eternity.

Although Covid restrictions still allowed up to thirty people at a funeral, there were only a handful of vehicles next to the hearse in the car park. Enzo pulled in beside them and got stiffly out of the car. Injuries healed more slowly with age, and he still carried the scars and bore the pain of recent encounters.

He looked up the path from the gate and saw a tiny crowd of mourners assembled around the family tomb near the top of the hill. They stood socially distanced and wearing masks, and Enzo could barely hear the mumbled eulogy of a priest who, in all likelihood, had never even known Anny Lavigne. Tombs and headstones climbed in serried rows, one above the other, over the crest of the hill. A couple of tall pine trees stood sentinel at the gates opposite, and gazing over the village below, Enzo thought he could actually see the apartment above the double garage where Mona Lisa’s double had spent the final years of the war.

The priest and the mourners turned to make their way down the hill after the closing of the tomb, and Enzo moved back out into the car park. A few disinterested glances were directed his way before the family group from the photograph in Anny’s bedroom came through the gates.

Elodie, he thought, was in her late thirties or early forties. A handsome woman, and he wondered if there was any of Georgette in her. She had auburn hair pulled back in a sombre bun and wore a dark coat that fell below her knees. Her husband was tall and balding, and looked uncomfortable in his funeral suit. Their teenage son eyed Enzo cautiously from behind his mask.

Elodie stopped and looked at him, frowning. ‘You’re the man who caught my aunt.’

Enzo inclined his head. ‘I’m sorry, madame.’

‘So am I.’

But if he had expected to feel the heat of her wrath, he was surprised when she looked at him with nothing but sadness in her eyes.

‘I can’t imagine what she was thinking. To have done such a thing.’

Enzo’s gaze strayed towards her son. A boy of seventeen or eighteen. Tall, like his father, with a thatch of thick black hair, cropped at either side and gelled back across the crown. He flushed and cast his eyes towards the ground.

His mother did not miss the moment. ‘What?’ she said, glancing from Enzo to her son and back again.

Enzo said, ‘Tell him to pull down the mask.’

‘Why?’

‘Just tell him.’

Elodie glared uncomprehendingly at Enzo then turned to the boy. ‘Do what he says.’

‘Mu-um...’ he protested.

‘Just do it, Franck.’

Reluctantly Franck pulled his blue surgical mask down below his chin and stared defiantly at Enzo.

Enzo said, ‘You damned near killed me!’

‘I saved your life.’

Enzo was incensed. ‘Only after you’d put it in danger.’

Elodie was alarmed now. ‘Wait! What’s all this about?’ And when neither of them responded she turned to the boy. ‘Franck? Tell me.’

Franck pursed petulant lips. ‘It was Great-Aunt Anny’s idea. It was supposed to be a joke.’

‘It was no joke,’ Enzo said. ‘It was supposed to scare me off. To make me think you were Bauer. And it very nearly got rid of me for good.’

‘I pulled you out of the river, didn’t I?’

Elodie looked to her husband for help, but saw only incomprehension in his face and she turned back to Enzo. ‘Will you please explain?’

But Enzo just shook his head. ‘Franck will do that later, no doubt. Just be grateful I haven’t shopped him to the gendarmes.’ Pause. ‘I’d like a word if I may, madame.’ He glanced towards her husband and son. ‘In private.’

Elodie sighed her frustration, hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

She and Enzo walked slowly away across the car park as the two men in her life returned to their car. ‘What is it, Monsieur Macleod?’

‘I understand you’re going to inherit your aunt’s house.’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘And what else?’

She stopped to frown at him. ‘I’m not sure what business that is of yours.’

Enzo said, ‘I can make it my business if I choose to make it official.’

She exhaled theatrically. ‘My aunt was quite well off, but I wouldn’t describe her as wealthy.’

‘I think you know I’m not talking about money.’

She held his eye briefly before hers flickered away.

‘I assume you know the full story of your grandmother? How she happened to be here, how she came to acquire the house.’

‘Of course. I’ve heard all those stories since I was knee-high. I could recite them backwards.’

‘Then you know what I’m talking about.’

This time she met his gaze full on and said boldly, ‘I know nothing about that painting, monsieur.’

Enzo nodded. ‘Well, maybe that’s just as well, then. After all, if Georgette had already made the switch and hidden the original before her confrontation with Lange, who knows which one went back to the Louvre.’

She pulled a face that reflected her scepticism. ‘They would have known,’ she said. Then, as a doubtful afterthought, ‘Surely?’

Enzo raised a solitary eyebrow. ‘You would think.’ He paused. ‘But, then, maybe they wouldn’t have wanted the world to know that they had commissioned a forgery and somehow lost the original.’

It was clear from her face that this was the first time that such a thought had ever crossed her mind. She searched for some response, but no words came.

Enzo said, ‘Well, who knows?’ He smiled. ‘Every tale has its time, and its place. And all stories of human endeavour, of frailty and betrayal, will pass eventually into history. Out of mind. And out of memory.’ He exhaled deeply, as if shedding some invisible burden. ‘I wish you a very good day, madame.’

And he turned to walk briskly back to his car.