Death in High Provence, page 14
Littlejohn rubbed his chin, wondering where it was all getting to. The old man was obviously riding his favourite hobby-horse.
“I know the village very well. The mayor, a fellow called Savini, was born there and went away to make a fortune. Having done this, his heart’s desire was to become mayor of his birthplace and he owes it to the St. Marcellins... If they whistle, he comes running... otherwise... a new mayor...”
“You know the local doctor, sir, Mengali.”
“Very well. He was surgeon to the regiment when I was stationed at Tarascon. There was a scandal. Mengali was almost ruined and, had his officers not hushed matters up, would have landed in gaol and disgrace. In the course of some banquet or other, a drunken fool fired off a pistol and shot a fellow officer through the calf. Mengali, in an intoxicated condition, tried to remove the bullet. His instruments were dirty. The man died.”
“So, he, too, is beholden to the Marquis?”
“Arnaud de St. Marcellin was a fellow officer, if that is what you mean.”
“Could you tell me about the duel, sir?”
Sylvestre Barge was excited about something. He remained silent for a minute and then went and looked out of the window again. Then they were interrupted.
A tap on the door, and a small man, almost the size of a child, appeared. Everything about him seemed frail and gentle. Small hands and feet, quiet movements, a thatch of silky white hair, delicate features. He looked very old and only his eyes seemed to retain any vigour. They were black, like little sparkling shoe buttons.
“You didn’t come, Sylvestre... I thought you were ill. Aren’t we going to play our game of draughts this morning, Sylvestre?”
Barge turned sharply on him.
“Oh, do leave me alone, Swithin... Here, a gentleman has arrived with a proposal which may mean a new life to me, and all you can talk about is draughts... Please do go, Swithin, there’s a good fellow.”
“I only thought...”
“If you’ll only leave me alone now, Swithin, I’ll play twenty, even a hundred games of draughts with you afterwards.”
The tiny man put his head on one side.
“Will you really, Sylvestre? Then, I’ll go, but I shall keep you to your promise.”
He tiptoed out and silently closed the door and left them.
“Is this interview really so important to you, sir?”
“It is, Inspector. If it ends as I think it will, it will mean freedom for me... The end of a long nightmare. What do you want to know?”
The old man sat down, sighed, and looked Littlejohn eagerly in the face.
“You have been under an oath of secrecy, Monsieur de... Monsieur Barge?”
“Yes. An oath which has completely severed me from the world and my family... But you know all the facts and hence I shall break no oath if I tell you what you know, shall I?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well. I was invited, along with others of my family, to the château at St. Marcellin in connection with the betrothal celebrations of my niece, Elise, with Bernard de St. Marcellin. I was to stay as a guest for four days. Quite apart from family affairs, I knew Bernard and Arnaud from the time when their regiment was stationed at Tarascon. I wasn’t in it, but I was permanently at the barracks as an officer in the commissariat. They were trained at St. Cyr; I was a ranker. I also knew several other guests there from the army... Mengali and Colonel Latour, as well as a fellow called Lapointe, who was a sergeant and a kind of hanger-on of the St. Marcellins... There was a hitch in the arrangements. It seems Elise had fallen in love with another military friend of Bernard’s, an Englishman called Lovell, and broke off her engagement.”
The old man shuffled across to a cupboard and returned with two small glasses and a bottle of green liquid labelled Cordial du Bon Samaritain. ... He poured out two helpings.
“Your good health, sir... I am in need of a little cordial.”
It was sweet and very potent and Littlejohn felt the sticky fluid creep down his throat and make him slightly lightheaded.
“Good health, sir.”
“It is my habit, from many years in the army, to take a long walk early every morning and then a cold bath before my coffee. I still do it, though our medical brother here has told me it can’t go on at my age. However, I followed the custom on the morning after my arrival at the château at St. Marcellin. As I reached the boundary of the park, close to a little shooting-box, I saw that a duel was in progress. Arnaud, Bernard, my great-nephew Charles, Colonel Latour, Mengali, Albert Lapointe and the Englishman, Lovell, were there and Bernard and the Englishman were already standing at the ready to fight with duelling pistols. I remained stock-still and, before I could think what to do, they had begun to pace out their ground. Then they turned and fired simultaneously. Bernard fell, and from where I stood, I knew he was either badly hit or dead.”
There was a pause as the old soldier gathered his thoughts and helped them both to another drink. Outside, a lawn-mower was droning and the ‘plane to Nice passed overhead.
“... I did not reveal myself, standing as I was, beside a coppice of trees, and, almost before I had time to move deeper into the bushes to conceal myself from the party, two of them had brought a hurdle from the shooting-lodge, placed the body on it under a coat, and all had followed it away.”
He removed his cold pipe and cleared his throat.
“Now, monsieur, please follow me closely. The place where I was hidden was midway between the duellists, and I had a full side view. I saw them both fire and neither had taken aim at the other. Their bullets must have gone over their heads. Yet, Bernard was dead. I must have stood for ten minutes, wondering, and then I finally reached the conclusion that, unless my eyes had failed me, or I was mad, someone outside the party, someone also with a weapon, had fired at and killed Bernard de St. Marcellin under cover of the double report of the duelling pistols.”
He looked Littlejohn in the eyes and Littlejohn nodded.
“Making sure there was nobody about, I went and examined the spot. The positions of the combatants at the time of firing were: the Englishman had his back to the shooting-box and Bernard was ten yards in front of a large oak tree, facing Lovell. I found the spot in the wall of the lodge where Bernard’s bullet, fired high, had broken into the mortar. The Englishman’s must have missed the oak tree, for I could not find it. But I did discover the bullet which killed Bernard. It must have entered his skull, passed through, and buried itself in the trunk on a level a little below Bernard’s head. It was embedded two inches in the wood. I removed it, and then kneaded clay, filled up the hole, and smoothed it with chippings of bark. From the position and angle of the hole, I judged the bullet, a rifle bullet, monsieur, had been fired from the shooting-box. If so, the assassin must be still in there and I must be in danger... I need not have feared, however. In a frenzy of indignation and stupid courage, I rushed in the lodge intent on capturing the murderer, or dying. He had gone. There was a back door which led through the wall of the park to a track outside. This door was unlocked, and the bird had flown.”
“But, surely, sir, those present at the duel must have known.”
“They did not appear to at the time. They were in such a hurry to clear matters up, that they overlooked all else. You see, sir, it was obvious they never expected one to kill the other. It is rarely done. A challenge and a scratch or two... Those are usually the tomfool conventions of a modern affair of honour.”
“You told them?”
“When I got back to the château, I at once demanded an interview with Colonel Latour. The rest of the duelling party came, too, except Monsieur Lovell—who had at once left for England—and Charles, presumably because he was a relative of mine and they might have wished to avoid him any embarrassment. I told them what I had seen and I produced the bullet. I was at once instructed to keep my mouth shut; nay, ordered to do so as a subordinate under discipline from his Colonel. I quarrelled fiercely with them, but they were too many for me. They had agreed among themselves that the death should be sworn as from a shooting accident. If my own information came to light, the whole story would come out, and all those concerned would be disgraced, if not imprisoned. And that included myself, for they all vowed to implicate me if I divulged the truth. Finally, I was overcome and made to swear an oath on the Bible. I felt that, were I faced by poor Elise and her family, in the circumstances I could not keep my peace and abide by the vow. I therefore fled at once, avoiding my relatives ever after, and I ended in this place hiding from them, for, as you know, monsieur, nobody can compel an inmate to see visitors. Then came the war and the whole affair assumed different proportions. Death was everywhere. What did an odd life or two seem to matter? All the same, I had sworn the oath and did not intend to break it. Besides, as an old army man, I might easily have been victimized had I offended powerful, aristocratic officers like Latour and Arnaud de St. Marcellin. I might have lost my pension, or even worse, my life might have been forfeit... I have heard of such things happening.”
Old Barge shook his head sadly.
“They are all dead now who matter, and there’s only my godson, Sylvestre, left. I wonder what he thinks of me and whether he’s interested in seeing me again. All these years I’ve been afraid to face him because of what I did in connection with the man who was to be little Elise’s husband. I’ve been a coward... And yet, it is a fearful thing to die without one’s family around one. I wake in the night sweating to think of it. I cry out...”
“I wouldn’t worry, sir. I saw Monsieur Sylvestre and his wife only yesterday, and they spoke very kindly of you. They would be delighted to see you again. They are very lonely since Elise died and are eating their hearts out in their villa at Cap Ferrat. They are bored and you, who have been a part of their lives in better days, will cheer them up.”
“You think so?”
The old man blew his nose in a silk handkerchief and paused to gather himself together.
“I’ll write to them... Your visit has brought me new hope and new life, sir. Have I told you all you want?”
“More than enough.”
“And the broken oath... You don’t hold me culpable?”
“No. As you say, they’re all dead who matter... And the rest... Well, I knew, and the French police knew, without even a word from you. You have done your part.”
Barge saw Littlejohn to the visitors’ lodge and there left him, returning with a light step to write at once to his forsaken relatives.
Mrs. Littlejohn was sitting talking to the young Brother in the little shop. There was a large parcel on the counter and the Brother looked well satisfied.
“Have you three thousand francs, Tom?”
“Good heavens. Have you bought the whole monastery!”
The big fat monk and the little Brother-shopkeeper looked sad and anxious until they saw Littlejohn was shaking with laughter. The monks waved the Littlejohns good-bye as the great bell began to toll.
The Chateau
They drove back to St. Marcellin over the now familiar dusty road. The air was so oppressive that they gasped for breath. The heat hung like a pall over everything. Littlejohn was glad to reach the uplands of the Durance again and thence they had intermittent shade and coolness for most of the remaining way.
It was about five o’clock when they arrived in St. Marcellin and history seemed to repeat itself. The deserted main road through the village, the shade of the plane trees, the curé asleep in his garden with a handkerchief over his face, the ceaseless splash of the fountain, and the final coolness of the Restaurant Pascal, where Marie Alivon received them with a show of placid pleasure.
“The room is ready and there will be a duck for dinner.”
She did not ask them about the trip they had made. She seemed to take it for granted that they had enjoyed themselves and to have no curiosity about what they had done since last she saw them.
“There is a note from Monsieur le Marquis, sir. My brother brought it from the château last night.”
Marie Alivon calmly handed him an envelope which she had been carrying in the pocket of her apron. A cheap envelope and, when Littlejohn tore it open and removed the letter, the notepaper was plain and cheap as well and covered in spidery handwriting done with a thin pen in violet ink. The sort of thing you write in a café with writing materials you’ve borrowed there.
It was dated Wednesday evening, and reminded Littlejohn of a barrack-room instruction.
ST. MARCELLIN.
I would like to see you urgently as soon as you return. I am expecting Madame and yourself to lunch on Saturday and this does not cancel the arrangement, to which I look forward with pleasure.
I shall be at home at any time on Thursday, when I presume you will be returning.
A. DE ST. MARCELLIN.
Littlejohn felt nettled. The note was too peremptory. Who did Monsieur le Marquis think he was? The Chief Inspector would much rather have taken a cold bath in the antique tub and washed away the heat and dust of the journey. He excused himself to his wife, who said she’d take a hot bath instead, and after dipping his handkerchief in the fountain and mopping his head and neck, he soaked his hands in the ice-cold water and the heat of the day dried them in the short space it took to reach the car, which stood under the cypress trees of the presbytery opposite.
This was Littlejohn’s first trip to the big house and he already knew the direction in which it lay. He followed the road for half a mile on the route to Peyrolles, turned right, and then, in the distance, he made out the compact mass of trees which surrounded the park. The by-road along which he was now driving was monotonous and bordered for as far as he could see with straight parallel lines of poplars, and on either side, into the far distance, stretched vast tracts of poor land, apparently under cultivation until it reached heights on the foothills where nothing profitable would grow, and sheep were pastured. Here and there, where the soil improved for a space, were odd groves of oranges and lemons. Where it grew poorer, smooth silvery-leaved olives of the type which yielded small, hard, sun-resisting fruit, fought for sustenance. A farm or two with a poor homestead badly roofed in leaking, moss-covered tiles, which the farmers couldn’t or wouldn’t repair. There had been no small landed proprietors here until the Marquis had started selling-off portions of his one-time ten thousand acres, and now the small landowners were intent on accumulating more land before they tackled their tumbledown dwellings, which had once been small cottages.
The heat here was moist and droves of flies plastered the windscreen of the car and flew in through the open windows and tortured Littlejohn.
The château was enclosed by a spacious park of old trees and protected from sight by deep thickets of pine, fir and a spruce. Eventually the living wall of foliage broke and revealed large rusting wrought-iron gates, mounted on great stone columns which had once been topped by heraldic figures of one sort or another, but the features of which had now been totally weathered away.
There was a lodge behind the gates, but, as nobody appeared, the Chief Inspector had to let himself in. He passed into the park itself. The afternoon sun had lost its strength and failed to dazzle him or create any illusions, and there was no mist now to soften the outlines. Everything stood out stark and cruel. Neglected trees, dead trunks with bare, fantastic branches, thickets of untended bushes, sheep grazing on what had once been lawns, and at the end of the weedy, overgrown drive, the château itself, shabby, with most of the shutters drawn. The details of the great house grew plainer as the car advanced. Two corner pepperpot towers, a large frontage, a wide stone staircase leading to a heavy front door which badly needed paint. Below, the barred basement windows, behind one of which Littlejohn spied a fat woman plucking a duck.
The car pulled up at the foot of the steps and Littlejohn got out and mounted to the door. He tugged at the chain which hung at one side, and he had to repeat the performance before a man appeared, a butler of sorts, still shuffling his way into a shabby tail-coat which covered a black, sleeved waistcoat. This was presumably Claudius.
“Good afternoon, Claudius.”
Littlejohn wanted to make sure.
“Good day, monsieur.”
A tall, heavy man of sixty or more, grey-haired, and with a full, round face. Obviously a robust peasant type who’d been trained for the job from boyhood.
“Monsieur le Marquis is expecting me. Chief Inspector Littlejohn.”
They passed through a small vestibule and then the interior opened out. A vast place, with a long corridor from which numerous rooms branched to left and right, and a huge marble staircase rising from an archway halfway along the passage.
Dust everywhere. Moth-eaten tapestries hung faded on the walls, ancestral pictures spoiled by the damp, faded patches here and there where good pieces of furniture had been moved for sale. Littlejohn had heard in the village that antique dealers were often around... and others less expert. “Monsieur le Marquis does quite a trade, I can tell you, buying old furniture and selling it at a profit as genuine stuff he’s inherited.”
