The Missing Corpse: A Brittany Mystery, page 18
part #4 of Commissaire Dupin Series
Dupin had—unintentionally and carelessly—looked intrigued.
“These days they drink Black Velvet with the oysters”—Riwal’s expression revealed undisguised disdain—“a mixture of Guinness and champagne. And they eat them wrapped in bacon and fried, they’re called ‘Angels on Horseback.’” He sighed. “But the British do produce wonderful oysters. Even the Romans sung their oysters’ praises and transported them to Rome using glacial ice they fetched especially from the Alps for the purpose. Caesar loved oysters so much that he wanted to occupy the British Isle just because of them. He—”
Riwal broke off. He seemed to realize this was not the situation for such digressions.
Melen returned to the topic unfazed: “Incidentally, we have spoken to the trader, Madame Premel, on the phone to question her about potential contact with Mackenzie or Smith. You wanted to speak to her yourself too, we—”
“I will,” Dupin said. He would in fact do that next.
The trader was the only important figure in Port Belon’s oyster world he hadn’t spoken to yet, and this was all the more urgent now, after the attack on Tordeux.
But what Dupin already suspected was this: nobody was going to tell them the story of why Mackenzie and Smith had come all this way. Either because nobody knew it or because nobody wanted to tell it.
“Any update on the blight creeping up the coast?” He couldn’t stop thinking about this issue.
“They’ve discovered the first cases just off the Golfe du Morbihan.”
Dupin considered that rather close. He didn’t understand how Riwal could remain so calm about this. Apparently everyone here could.
“Our colleague Braz,” Riwal said, “has contacted the authorities especially. So that they let us know immediately if there are any new developments.”
“Any other updates?”
“Mackenzie didn’t just confine himself to European oysters. His farm produces both kinds: creuses and plates. You wanted to know that.”
Dupin nodded.
“And our colleague from Cancale who was at Cueff’s house has been in touch.”
Riwal summarized the relevant details. It all matched with what Cueff had told Dupin. And also with the alibi statements. Including the fact that—although Cueff had had a chance to think about it some more—nobody could attest that he had been at home yesterday before seven thirty. A neighbor, a caller, anyone.
“Our colleague knows some people in the oyster world. He is going to keep asking around about Cueff.”
“Do we know where Cueff is this evening?”
“Our colleague visited him in his oyster beds and left three-quarters of an hour ago.”
“Okay. What about Tordeux’s gîte? And his story about the key and the guests?”
“I’ve checked,” Melen said. “They’re a couple. Their statements correspond exactly with those of Tordeux—he handed the key over to them.”
Which didn’t mean much, of course. Tordeux could have been clever in timing his journey to the gîte.
“Good.”
In fact nothing at all was good.
Frankly, all of their findings so far were making everything seem even stranger. Every damned lousy detail of this business that they even knew was still a puzzle right now. Dupin was certain that if he had had caffeine in his bloodstream, they would have made much more progress by now.
“How long will it take Tordeux to get back from Saint-Brieuc?”
“Depending on how soon he actually leaves, roughly an hour and a half.”
“Call me as soon as he gets here. I’m going to speak to Madame Premel now.”
Dupin turned to leave.
“She was going to be in the oyster beds until half past six,” Melen said. “I got hold of her there, then she was going to drive to a meeting of her guild. That goes on till sunset. Not—”
“Guild? A druidic meeting?” a perplexed Dupin interrupted. Surely this couldn’t be.
If Melen found druidic meetings odd, she didn’t let it show. “Not far from here. If you take the road from the headland to Riec. In the wood beyond the bridge, the Pont de Guilly, where the Belon is still a stream. A wild oak wood. There’s an ancient spring there near a clearing. Otherwise you’ll be able to find her at home later. In Riec. She lives there with her second husband and two daughters.”
“Madame Premel, the oyster trader and ex-wife of Tordeux, is a druidess.” Dupin said these words almost cheerfully. “Well, brilliant!”
He saw Riwal’s clenched jaw.
Melen hastened to reply: “That’s not at all unusual here. On the contrary. Druids—”
“What kind of association is this one that she belongs to?” asked Dupin.
“Bugel a tarzh-heol, BTH, Children of the Sunrise, not to be confused with the EBH, the Eurvezh a tarzh-heol, the Hour of Sunset, or the Bugel a derwenn, the Children of the Oak, the KAB.” It was impossible to tell if Melen was aware how bizarre this sounded. “The BTH is a local druidic association, strongly committed to new humanism and tolerance. There are significant ideological differences between the groups.”
“Riwal, what was the name of the association we talked about this afternoon?”
Smith’s association was definitely not called that, it had nothing to do with “sunrise.”
“Breudeuriezh Drouized, Barzhed hag Ovizion Breizh—the Gorsedd Breizh.” Riwal had gone as white as a sheet, like he’d seen a ghost.
“The EBH is grouped under the Gorsedd Breizh, like many druidic societies,” Melen carried on, “it—”
Dupin interrupted her: “Hang on, the trader is a member of the same druidic association as Smith?”
Finally a real link—albeit an odd one.
“I wouldn’t say that. The Gorsedds of the various Celtic regions are umbrella organizations. Strictly speaking, she is only a druidess in a guild affiliated with the Gorsedd.” Riwal was trying very hard for an unequivocal distinction that Dupin thought only partially clear.
“An association belonging to the Gorsedd,” Melen countered in a friendly voice, “should actually be considered a clear declaration of beliefs. Especially since the committed patronage of the extremely liberal grand druid, Gwenc’hlan Le Scouëzec.”
Dupin was feeling increasingly surprised, not just at these Breton names, but also at Melen’s detailed knowledge.
“My father was a member of the Gorsedd,” she proudly explained.
“This is all nonsense,” Riwal said indignantly. “Smith had not been an active druid for years! So what would this be about?”
“I’ll speak to Madame Premel straightaway,” Dupin said with pointed cheerfulness. “We’ll see if there are any specific druidic links there.” He rubbed his left temple. “So what are the druids up to in the clearing this evening?”
“They are preparing for one of the eight druidic festivals of the Celtic year: Alban Eilir, which is on Saturday.”
“What does that mean?” Dupin wanted to be prepared if he met a druidess.
“It means the Light of the Earth. The spring equinox. An important Celtic date, the return of life.” Melen was explaining everything with the utmost seriousness again. Even Riwal, who seemed to be recovering slowly, was clearly moved by it. But he didn’t seem to want to cede this ground entirely to his young colleague:
“Easter and all Easter rituals date back to this Celtic pagan festival, including the Easter bunny and the eggs. Even the name goes back to the Goddess of Spring: Ostara. The hare is the ancient symbol of the Alban Eilir. He guards the eggs. They worshiped it way back in Egypt and Babylonia. The egg is one of the most important mysteries in Druidism in general. The egg with life inside it—that the Easter bunny brings to people.”
“Really?” Dupin sighed incredulously. He felt like he’d been transplanted into a Dan Brown thriller: secret societies, lodges, associations. And behind the most important festivals and symbols of Christianity lurked occult pagan rites and ceremonies.
“It’s exactly like with Halloween! The whole world celebrates our ancient Celtic festivals without realizing!”
In the end, the punchline went, the whole world was Breton. Dupin knew this all too well by now. And it impressed him too, he had to admit. The Bretons had invented, discovered, and created the most incredible things.
“Last Saturday,” Dupin mused, having just recalled it, “druids held a ceremony in the Monts d’Arrée, near the bog not far from the spot where Smith was found.” The commissaire began to move, walking to and fro. “And Smith”—Dupin had remembered Melen talking about an oak wood, his words taking on a touch of unintentional drama—“lay dashed to pieces on a stone next to a single oak tree. The only one far and wide.” It was admittedly a bizarre, coincidental detail, but the single, striking oak was vivid in Dupin’s memory.
“Druids in Brittany hold lots of ceremonies in lots of places, there’s nothing unusual about that either,” Melen replied. “There will have been dozens of ceremonies last Saturday, it was Digor.”
Riwal added, “A druidic event celebrated by all societies alike. Digor is a public festival, all non-druids are invited too. It’s mainly about the bond between the six Celtic nations. One of the rituals centers around King Arthur’s sword, which was broken into six pieces, representing the six regions. And also around the vow he made before his death: to come back, forge the pieces into one sword again, and restore the rule of justice, fraternity, and peace.”
Dupin made an effort to return to reality, where this topic was just one investigative lead of several. Even where the druids were concerned, in the end it was about real relationships between real people. That was what they needed to focus on.
As if Melen had read Dupin’s thoughts, she explained, “But to be honest, I also have no idea what kind of druidic business this could be either. There must be closer links. Direct links.”
Riwal looked gratefully at the young policewoman, who, with these words and her certainty, instantly swept away everything occult hanging in the air.
“So—keep me up to speed. No matter what it’s about.” Dupin turned around firmly and strode up the road past Tordeux’s house. The wind had died down a lot in the last few minutes.
When he got to his car, Claire came to mind. She had been standing with him on the balcony so recently and revealed her unbelievable news to him. Which seemed even more surreal than this puzzling case right now. Dupin longed for the end of this day, simply to make sure that it was all real, that she was really moving to Quimper.
* * *
The commissaire was sitting in the comfortable leather seat in his Citroën.
He needed to speak to Nolwenn again in more detail. Earlier she had—very briefly—only told him about Kadeg.
“I’m back at headquarters again, Monsieur le Commissaire!”
“So how was the funeral?”
The question sounded macabre.
Not to Nolwenn.
“There was a Kig Ha Farz Léonard, you know, the famous Breton stew with a bacon base and buckwheat dumplings, it was incredibly good.” Her answer, in raptures over the food, sounded more macabre than his question, to Dupin’s ears at least. “It was an extremely upbeat funeral. Everyone was there. The whole family, fifty-seven people. Plus lots of Elwen’s friends and acquaintances. A real celebration.”
Dupin still hadn’t got used to Bretons’ special approach to death: Ankou, or Death, the dark figure with the scythe, was omnipresent in the Breton consciousness, but without a trace of fatality, resignation to fate, or even a death wish. Because he was not banished from life, he was simply a part of it. There were literally thousands of stories about Ankou. Dupin’s favorites were the ones about how he gave Bretons a little extra time before taking them away because he was close by. Time for them to put some important affairs in order. A Breton privilege. Which made death seem slightly less terrible to them.
Nolwenn’s tone changed abruptly as she said the next words:
“What’s the situation with the fire?” She was of course up to speed; she always was. “A diversionary tactic? Perhaps even by Tordeux himself? Or by someone else who wants to put you on the wrong track?”
This had crossed Dupin’s mind too. It was a possibility.
“I don’t know yet.”
“One thing’s for sure: so long as we don’t know who the Scotsmen were in contact with, we won’t make any progress, Monsieur le Commissaire! Do you have preliminary suspicions?”
As always, she knew where the weak spot was.
“No.”
“Maybe you should grill this Monsieur Cueff in person. Really put him under pressure! That is a concrete connection to Brittany, even if it’s not to Port Belon, but it’s still a link to Brittany. Who knows whether he’s hiding something after all.”
It did him good to feel Nolwenn’s determined energy, her absolute vigor, and her attitude of not putting up with anything. Dupin had got the feeling a few times already today that he was somehow letting himself be lulled into something. He couldn’t even say exactly by what or how. He had not been obsessive enough about the search for the business at the center of all this. So all he did was dash breathlessly after the events. And yes, he would definitely speak to Cueff in person.
“Thanks, Nolwenn!”
“No problem.”
“I meant, I…” Dupin hesitated. “It’s good to have you back on board!” He meant this from the bottom of his heart.
“So Kadeg will be at your service again from tomorrow morning. I’ll ask Riwal to get him up to speed later.”
“Good.” Dupin was overcome by extremely mixed emotions. It was going to be, he could already tell, unbearable. Now that Kadeg was officially part of the “sand-theft operation.”
“And Claire has told you by now.” This had not been a question.
“I … yes.”
So Claire had had Nolwenn in on it; he really should have known. “With a little bit of help,” was how she had put it earlier. In the moment, he simply hadn’t got round to asking what she meant by that.
“A wonderful woman! By the way, Docteur Garreg has now accepted for your party on Friday after all. He said I’m to pass on a few things to you from him as a matter of urgency.”
Dupin feared the worst.
“Naturally he assumes that you’re sticking to the strict caffeine ban even during your case, especially in stressful situations.”
Dupin made to reply but Nolwenn didn’t give him a chance.
“And seeing as you’re now going to be spending time in Port Belon anyway, in the heart of ostréiculture, he firmly recommends a medicinal oyster regimen.”
“An oyster regimen?”
That beat all of the recent insanity. The stupid thing was, Docteur Garreg was probably the only person who could really make Dupin feel fear. Fear, a bad conscience, guilt. He always felt like a schoolboy sitting opposite him at the doctor’s office.
“He is well aware that you don’t eat oysters.” Not eating oysters was a flaw even for a Frenchman, but for a Breton?! “The docteur says that the little plates are perfectly suitable as oysters for beginners, and I fully agree with him on that. He recommends a regimen of thirty-six oysters, three sets of twelve, in the morning, afternoon, and evening. For a week.” There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in Nolwenn’s voice.
“Thirty-six a day?”
“Three sets of twelve!”
“And what for?”
“For your stomach.”
“For my stomach?”
That was the very thing that rebelled at the thought of the oyster regimen. Dupin had heard a lot on the subject of oysters before, but this was new.
“Absolutely! For the stomach, but also to counter stress generally. To promote well-being! And yes, oysters are particularly effective in helping with acute and chronic inflammation of the stomach lining! That’s due to, amongst other things, the powerful anti-inflammatory effect of the zinc. And oysters are the greatest source of zinc there is! Didn’t you know that?”
“No.”
“Wait.” It took a moment; Dupin could hear Nolwenn typing. “Here, Docteur Garreg sent us some links, I’m quoting here: ‘The essential trace element zinc plays a crucial role in a variety of metabolic reactions and processes in our bodies. For example, zinc is vital for growth, the skin, insulin storage, protein synthesis, sperm production, and particularly the immune system.’ Now here’s the most important bit for you: ‘Zinc has a powerful antiviral effect and simultaneously improves the structure of the stomach lining, which impedes the attachment and penetration of viruses and bacteria’!”
“That sounds terrific, Nolwenn, but I’ve got other things to do right now.” He was already near Moëlan-sur-Mer, halfway to his destination.
But Dupin’s answer had, predictably, not been enough to draw a line under the subject.
“Oysters are medicinal powerhouses! Therapeutic miracles, Monsieur le Commissaire! Highly effective. The healthiest of all the foods known to science on our planet. Even in ancient times, oysters were used as medicine. A uniquely rich array of all of the most valuable nutrients and vitamins. Virtually no fat, virtually no carbohydrates, so perfect for dieting”—there had some been insinuation to her emphasis, Dupin felt—“and yet the most valuable proteins! All twenty amino acids that nature possesses.”
Nolwenn broke off. And waited. Dupin would have to say something. It was the only way for him to put an end to it.
“Impressive.” It sounded half-hearted.
“And we cannot forget the best bit of all: dopamine! The substance that means happiness. Oysters provide our brains with dopamine. They’re intoxicating! That’s what gave them the reputation as an aphrodisiac. Casanova devoured at least fifty oysters a day. The increased sperm production fits in with that.”
“So they’re good for the stomach then?”
Dupin absolutely did not want to have to think about Casanova’s sperm production.
“Definitely!”
While they were on the topic of oysters and health, he was tempted to tell a few stories about friends who had eaten a single bad oyster and felt like they were going to die for days. In fact, he knew that many people had died from oysters. “It takes a daring man to eat an oyster,” someone had said once. That was extremely apt, Dupin thought.
