The Missing Corpse: A Brittany Mystery, page 12
part #4 of Commissaire Dupin Series
“And she didn’t know anything about this trip?”
“No, she claims her husband told her he needed to go to Glasgow urgently. He has a share in an oyster bar, if I’ve understood correctly. He goes away for a day or two now and again. She presumed he went alone; he didn’t mention Smith anyway.”
Riwal seemed strangely weary in comparison with earlier, and also a little as if there was something on his mind.
“And she knows Smith?”
“Yes, she knows him by sight. She met him at the oyster farm a few times. He was one of the people who helped out during the season or on other occasions. She didn’t know anything more about him. And she says her husband can’t have known him very well either.”
“He didn’t know him very well, but spontaneously takes a secret trip to Brittany with him.” This had not been a question. “And the wife can’t make any sense of what her husband might have been doing in Brittany either?”
“No. She says she was only peripherally involved in her husband’s business dealings.”
“Well, then probably nobody will be able to tell us. Or want to.” Dupin rubbed his temple.
“He traveled to Cancale every two or three years, she says. To one of the numerous oyster fairs. He got to know an oyster farmer from Cancale there. The two of them had formed a loose friendship, she says, and were considering launching something together businesswise. But that hadn’t been fleshed out as yet. After staying in Cancale, Mackenzie then always traveled to Holland and Belgium for a few days.”
At least there was a known connection to Brittany. And again: oysters.
“The last trip was just under three years ago. In theory it would have been time for another one—but she didn’t know anything about a planned trip.”
“Do we have the oyster farmer’s name and details?”
“It’s all there.”
“Anything else? Does she have no idea at all what might have been going on?”
“Not the foggiest, according to the policeman who spoke to her on the phone. He’s on his way to see her right now to speak to her in depth. A colleague is also making inquiries.”
“Does the policeman find the woman credible?”
Dupin wasn’t pleased about the situation. They were completely dependent on other people, on the police in Oban and Tobermory; Dupin would have jumped at the chance to speak to Mackenzie’s wife in person. It all went against his instinct: a significant portion of the investigation would be out of their hands, a situation that the commissaire couldn’t stand on principle.
“He didn’t say it in so many words, but I suspect so.”
This wasn’t a particularly helpful statement. But what could they do? Riwal couldn’t change anything about the situation either.
“Get in touch with the man in Cancale immediately,” Dupin said. “No, I’ll call him myself. I’ll need the name and number.”
“I’ll send both to your phone. You’ll have them right away.”
“Any news on Smith?”
“Not yet. They haven’t managed to track down the director of the Shelter House yet. She was probably the only one he spoke to now and again.”
“Don’t tell me she’s missing too?” said Dupin.
“They’re assuming that she drove to Fort William to do a few errands. She does this once or twice a month.”
“No mobile?” Dupin felt uneasy.
“No mobile reception. Northern Scotland!” Riwal said with emphasis, clear reproach in his voice.
It took a Breton of all people to say that.
“Do we have access to their communications yet?”
“Smith didn’t own a computer, but he did have a prepaid mobile, although he probably didn’t have it on him very often. They’re working on Mackenzie’s documents. It’s taking a little while. Mobile, landline, computer. I…” Riwal’s eyebrows knitted; he didn’t go on talking.
“What is it, Riwal?”
“The medical examiner was trying to get through to you. Then she called Nolwenn at the funeral.” Suddenly Riwal’s voice almost seemed to crack. “Next to the first line of the tattoo, she has found the beginnings of a second one, she—” Riwal broke off again, as if he wanted to check something in his head, then he got out his phone. “Here, take a look.”
He held the little screen out to Dupin. “The second tattoo. Smith’s left upper arm.”
There wasn’t much that could be made out. A line, tapering at the top, grazed skin, hematomas. He had almost forgotten this second tattoo.
“I know this symbol. A mythical symbol. It’s the tribann.” Riwal was pale; his lips had almost disappeared.
Dupin looked at him: “Yes?”
“Three beams, sunbeams, coming from a central point.”
“What does it symbolize?”
“It goes back to Edward Williams, the founder of the Welsh Gorsedd of Bards. Early nineteenth century. The three beams symbolize the virtues of love, justice, and honesty. It’s called”—Riwal’s forehead was becoming more and more furrowed—“the magic mark.”
Dupin remained focused. Using the first tattoo, they had found out the man’s identity, and hence the second man’s identity too. Perhaps the second tattoo would lead them to the “story of the case.” Or at least put them on the right track.
“Who uses it?”
“Apart from the Welsh bard society, there’s also the society from Cornwall, it’s called Awen there, and the Scottish one—and the Breton society as well. The Goursez Breizh.”
“A bard society?”
“A druidic society.”
This answer did not help.
Dupin had of course heard of the modern—“contemporary”—druidic societies. He had had to unpick many of his prejudices in recent years—most of the existing societies followed a strictly humanistic religion and were a little like freemasons’ lodges. The druids were—from a historical point of view—the sages and philosophers of Celtic culture, but also the scientists, doctors, and above all the guardians of history and tradition. Systematic druid training took twenty years. Riwal had explained it in detail during one of his quiz rounds at headquarters; even Caesar had written about these druids with great appreciation. In accordance with strict philosophical beliefs, you had to make a mental note of everything, all knowledge was preserved only orally and passed on; written knowledge was regarded as inferior because it let things become fixed and static and thus killed the essence of them. Storytelling became the highest form of science. Being a druid thus meant one thing above all: telling stories to pass on knowledge. Only if you grasped that, Dupin had learned, could you understand Riwal. Or Nolwenn. The love of storytelling was something fundamentally different to just talking. “Real” storytelling that deliberately blended history and mythology reached the status of a fine art—it was no coincidence that Celtic culture had produced some of the most powerful literary stories in the Western world and in all of European literature: King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, Tristan and Isolde, The Holy Grail, Perceval.
“You’re saying Smith belonged to a druidic society? He was a druid?”
“Lots of the members have the symbol as a tattoo. I think so. It’s possible. The druidic societies have been very popular again in the Celtic nations since the seventies.”
Dupin needed to be careful or the conversation would drift into obscurities. Although Riwal was not a member of any of these societies—thank god—he knew all about them.
“And what does this Goursez Breizh do?”
“The aim is to promote and preserve Celtic culture and the Breton language. Goursez means throne. It’s a Celtic neopaganist movement.”
“Do you think Smith could have come to Brittany in his capacity as a druid, on some kind of druidic matter?”
“The societies work together very closely, you know: Intercelticism. There are joint activities. Not just the big gatherings.”
Riwal had not embellished these topics much by his standards; in fact he hadn’t embellished them at all. They had been dictionary entries instead. But he was known for his passions for the supernatural, fantastical, and also the occult. He still seemed strangely reticent. He usually loved these kinds of stories, but he appeared to find the idea that something druid-related could actually become part of a case extremely distasteful.
“So are there druidic societies around here?”
“Of course.” Riwal sounded outraged now. “Throughout Brittany! There are local, regional, and national societies, all-Brittany ones. As early as 1850, the famous linguist and classical scholar Hersart de La Villemarqué founded the Breuriez ar Varzed association, Bards of Brittany. He was so famous, the Brothers Grimm proposed him as a corresponding member for the Berlin Academy of Arts! In 1899, a delegation set off to the Eisteddfod in Wales; at this big Celtic festival, under the symbol of Excalibur, King Arthur’s sword, a Breton Gorsedd was founded. Today it’s called Breuderiezh Drouized, Barzhed hag Ovizion Breizh, the Brotherhood of the Druids, Bards, and Ovates of Brittany. Most of the local and regional associations are part of this association. But not all of them, of course, there are significant differences. Philosophical differences.”
That was enough for now, Dupin felt.
Riwal’s expression darkened again. “The mythical symbol is increasingly being sported by the druids. Based on the order of the freemasons, there are three ranks: the ovates who wear green robes, the bards in blue, and the druids in white. Perhaps he really was a druid.”
“What could be going on here? If this is to do with druids, I mean?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Dupin left it at that. Everything was so speculative anyway. For now at least.
“Tell our colleagues in Scotland to look into whether Smith really did belong to a druidic association.”
“Maybe it was just a decorative tattoo. It’s a very popular symbol.”
This was a topsy-turvy world. Riwal was making an unusually strenuous effort to play down the significance of the druidic symbols and all things fantastical. Something about it truly seemed to frighten him.
“We’ll see. I’ll go and speak to Monsieur Kolenc now, down in the oyster beds.”
Riwal looked very relieved.
“We’ve made one of the wooden tables outside the château into the command center; La Coquille is too busy. It’s where you eat the oysters outside and look at the Belon, you—”
“I know the tables, Riwal, even though I don’t eat oysters.”
It was a good place for a provisional command center. Dupin was notoriously inclined to use unusual places to work—outdoors, in cafés, restaurants, or bars—the main thing was not working in the commissariat.
“Even better. We’ll be sitting there if you need us. Magalie Melen is there too.”
“See you soon, Riwal.”
Dupin walked down the dead end toward the quay and the oyster banks in the Belon, while Riwal turned right. To the command center.
Dupin had never tried the “Queen of Seafood.” He thought the outside of the shellfish was very pretty—the dark, creviced, sharp-edged shell in distinct gray shades that made the oysters look like bizarre stones. On the inside the shells were even prettier: iridescent mother-of-pearl. Dupin had particularly liked collecting them as a child, along with the ormeaux, and piling them up by the dozen. He was definitely fond of the oyster as a creature. Dupin had read that they led a simple, but admirably peaceful life in their protective shells: either they were resting (or sleeping)—or they were eating. Doing just these two activities—some reproduction also happened once a year—they eked out their modest, contemplative existence. An exceedingly comfortable existence to Dupin’s mind. They didn’t even need to move to eat; the food came to them. Plankton delicacies were washed directly into their shells without any effort on their part. Dupin also thought highly of oysters because Aphrodite had come out of an oyster, the most beautiful of all women and the goddess of love. And because they called for such excellent wines. And frankly he even believed the stuff about the health benefits, on the whole at least. And also that they tasted exquisite, in theory. Like the sea refined—a truly lovely thought, Dupin had to admit.
But the commissaire had never brought himself to eat a single one—although he had been firmly planning to several times. But it wasn’t the idea of eating a living organism that bothered him, not at all; he managed it with other bivalves with no trouble. What had stopped him at the very last moment was the sight of it: the sliminess and the gooeyness of the whitish-green jelly. And it didn’t help that absolutely everyone said that once you’d eaten a single oyster, you couldn’t help but be addicted to them for life.
* * *
The air tasted like a salty sea floor; it smelled most intensely at times like this when there was low tide, sunshine, and gentle wind. Dupin liked this. You could smell everything the sea was made up of. Sunshine and warmth made it evaporate and hover, creating a fleeting ocean of almost infinite numbers of water vapor particles.
The current was visible as the Belon flowed through the bizarre landscape of white, dazzling silvery expanses toward the sea in a twisting, not very wide channel. Even at low tide it was impossible to tell how much water really belonged to the river; even at the lowest point of low tide, huge quantities of seawater were flowing away from the riverbeds and banks. To the right and left of the channel, the oyster tables jutted out of the silver expanses everywhere in long rows, the tables à claire-voie. Slender structures made of dark brown rusty metal rods, thin, grooved, and perhaps half a meter high, fitted with more supporting rods at the top, each ten or fifteen meters long. Steel centipedes. And there they lay on the tables: the large, coarse-meshed, flat bags called poches with the oysters growing inside them. Masses of brown algae had become tangled in the tables at high tide.
Dupin had followed Kolenc’s daughter’s instructions and had turned left at the little quay and walked down the gently sloping ramp—which was currently dry—into the riverbed. A handful of people were visible in the vast landscape. Dupin headed for two men working at the tables near the water channel. He walked across the muddy seabed and the stones, crushed shells, and small sandbanks. After just a few meters, his shoes were dirty up to his ankles and completely soaked through.
“Monsieur Kolenc?”
Dupin called vaguely in the direction of the two men. The taller of the two turned round to him.
Dupin walked toward him. “Monsieur Kolenc?”
The man nodded.
“I’d like to speak to you. Commissaire Georges Dupin.”
Baptiste Kolenc did not betray any surprise. He looked perfectly cheerful. “Because of the dead body from the parking lot?” he asked.
Dupin would have put Kolenc in his early sixties. A tall but well-built man, broad shoulders, large jet-black eyebrows, dark eyes, thick short gray hair, and a distinctly receding hairline. He had extremely friendly features and an open smile like his daughter’s that took over his whole face. He was wearing some of the yellow workman’s oilskin pants, held up by wide blue suspenders and a light gray sweatshirt covered in splashes of sludge.
“The dead body from the parking lot. Yes. A Scottish oyster farmer from the Isle of Mull, we now know, he probably farmed other bivalves too, but mainly oysters, but we don’t yet have any idea what he was doing here. Why he came to Port Belon. He made a … stop-off in the Monts d’Arrée and then came here.”
“An oyster farmer?” Kolenc asked in astonishment.
“Apparently they farm oysters in northern Scotland too,” Dupin said carefully. He didn’t know if this sounded like sacrilege to a Breton oyster fisherman.
“I know there are a few farmers up there.” It didn’t sound scornful. Kolenc carried on removing algae from the rods on the oyster bank. Then he picked up one of the large bags, shook it hard, set it down on the right, on the left, gave it another vigorous shake as if he wanted to make sure that the oysters were really tumbling over each other, and then put it back in its place the other way up with a deft movement. The oysters already looked big, and there must have been quite a few kilos of them.
“They love nestling up to each other. You’ve got to shake them regularly so that they don’t grow together or form shapes that are too crooked,” Kolenc murmured when he saw Dupin’s gaze.
“Ryan Mackenzie is his name. Does his name mean anything to you?”
Kolenc was holding the next sack, his eyes fixed firmly on the task. “Never heard of him. Should I have?”
“I had hoped he might be known here. Or that you’d have some idea why a Scottish mussel and oyster farmer might come to Port Belon?”
“Business? Maybe he has his oysters refined here. That wouldn’t be unusual, lots of people do that, including some overseas farms. It wouldn’t have been about the sale of seed oysters.”
Dupin had already heard this term in connection with oysters, refinement. Magalie Melen had talked about it earlier too—but he didn’t really know what it meant.
“What do you mean by that, Monsieur Kolenc?”
Dupin fished out his Clairefontaine and the Bic.
“He could bring his fully grown oysters here to the Belon for a few weeks, for refinement in the nutrient-rich fresh and salt waters. Then they can be called Belons. And sold as such. That’s common.”
Dupin’s brow furrowed.
“Belons are amongst the most famous oysters in the world. You can imagine how coveted a label it is. With oysters, the provenance determines the price.”
“They just lie around in the water here for a while, once they’re ready, and are then traded as Belons?” It sounded dishonest to Dupin.
“It’s … all right.” Kolenc shrugged.
“What do you mean by ‘all right’?”
“In the space of a few weeks an oyster renews itself physiologically from the ground up. It’s entirely replaced. So it takes on the classic Belon character in terms of taste and color here.”
For a Breton, Kolenc was astonishingly talkative, practically chatty.
