EIGHTEEN

A soft autumn day. Castang found himself disliking it, wishing for harsh drying airs from the east, for thin acid sunshine of early springtime. Too soft, too moist.

     Bustling little town, and bloody prosperous. A thousand shysters like Thonon running about selling illusions and doing well out of it. Everyone making money and parading it with a new bow-window, a bigger garage, a grander deep-freeze. Everywhere blatant, boisterous self-advertisement. And don’t suggest there’s anything wrong with that, or we’ll lynch you and enjoy it. Every buzzing bluebottle loud, proud and gorged.

     Castang regretted the Rue d’Aboukir. He had a hell of a nostalgia for it. There you were a professional. You knew where you stood. You were a cop, there was a man with a gun. Pick him up and take him away. That was clear; the gun on your own belt was supposed to mean something. You didn’t just sit in bars being witty and picking your teeth with the foresight.

     Whereas here you were hemmed in by a gang whose one idea was to suffocate you, because you were a nuisance, a piece of grit who for one second might interrupt the music, the thick golden tinkle of money pouring into the till.

     At least he’d had one clear instruction. Anaesthetise Granny, this naughty old biddy who’s come ramping down from Paris possessed of political influence.

     He got rid of young Lucciani first, and felt better, more able to cope with Democracy. He was a functionary of the Ministry of the Interior, comforting himself with the phrase Vera was fond of from Stendhal. ‘Really one would rather kiss the Minister of the Interior’s arse than one’s shoemaker’s.’ It came from Lucien Leuwen, that young man who set out to tackle Democracy after some years of ‘making intensive warfare upon new boots and cigars’.

He hadn’t yet been inside the ‘little house’ next door to Sabine’s. For a cottage it was surprisingly big, and pleasant with a little paved yard and nasturtiums growing. These people were damned lucky not to be stuck in a miserable tiny flat, but they hankered after what was after all a fine and beautiful house, and he couldn’t blame them.

     A pleasant living-room with colour-washed walls, untidy, but with a peculiar discipline imposed upon it by the presence of Mum.

     Now what had got into Mum, that she came racing down here from her good bourgeois royal town? It wasn’t Paris. It was Versailles. Worse, if anything. Madame was very much ‘La Versaillaise’.

     She had her Sunday suit on. Neat, ungaudy, nothing out of place. A pale-grey suit, with a white batiste blouse, and a ruffle. The ruffle had a narrow black edge, and little black spots. One couldn’t accuse her of wearing mourning, but neither of not wearing mourning; it was a nice touch. Mourning for somebody pretty distant, like one’s daughter’s mother-in-law. One is not incorrect, but one does not care to show ostentation. Versaillaise bourgeoisie!

     She was sitting in a large armchair: it was the only armchair, which was why she was sitting in it. He got a place on a low sofa, tatty and a bit greasy, and decidedly uncomfortable until he felt about and found a plastic toy animal under the cushion.

     Janet went through her doorpost-sidling act until dismissed by a wave of Mum’s hand: I’ll look after this, dear. Podgy and well-kept, this hand; polished nails and a lot of large diamonds. She sat upright, knees together, contained and concentrated. A strong calm face of a pale even shade owing nothing to make-up; the colour and texture of a petit-beurre biscuit.

     ‘Well, young man?’

     Castang took his time: coughing, blowing his nose, getting rid of paper hanky in hygienic fashion, fussing with cushion, laughing at emergence of giraffe. Madame Wilhems was worth study: she looked pretty formidable.

     He didn’t like her face much. It was built up of self-sufficiency and contempt, and a solid certainty that nothing would happen to interfere with Mum’s well-entrenched comforts. Protruding boiled grey eye. The same long straight nose as the daughter, but larger and a lot fleshier. No chin, but she managed very well without.

     ‘Well, young man?’ In no hurry.

     ‘I’m sorry. Bit of a sad occasion.’

     ‘It will be distinctly sad, unless this rather silly matter is brought back into proportion. It is sad, for example, that one should not be safe from murderous vandals. I prefer to avoid pious clichés, because I dislike hypocrisies. Sabine Arthur was an old woman, and in shaky health. When such people die, it is sensible to temper natural sorrow with relief that things got no worse. Better a regret for a quick and painless death than the much greater regret for a drawn-out, aimless, miserable age. It is clear that very shortly she would have needed expert care. Specialised care. I trust I make myself plain.’

     ‘She seemed pretty robust to me, reading the medical report.’

     The eyebrows drew together.

     ‘I do not care to be fenced with. Mental illness is a fact like another.’

     ‘Yes. A person being elderly or tiresome or whatever does not alter the fact, in law, of a death by violence.’

     ‘Let’s understand each other, Inspector. You deal in facts; so do I. I have precious little time for suppositions. She was killed, and that is a fact I do not dispute or try to hide from myself. It is another fact that her mind was much decayed. Such persons do not behave in a rational manner. You will not dispute this: it is notorious that she was given to fantasies and babbled tales of fears and visions. I am even given to understand that she approached you with her hysterical imaginings which you were obliged to dismiss as groundless.’

     Castang said nothing: if she were surprised at that she said nothing to show it.

     ‘She sought the company of deranged persons, of the silly and weak-minded. Old women, with a belief in visions, apparitions of a religious nature. Some such may be kind-hearted and well-intentioned: others may be seekers after sensation, who stir up trouble. Some, even, abuse the credulity of the generous for financial gain.’

     ‘Are you suggesting,’ said Castang, sounding surprised, ‘that some deranged person broke in and killed her?’

     Mum dismissed this with a wave of the hand. She leaned forward a little.

     ‘I do not know what gossip you may have listened to in the village. The opinion seems widespread that Sabine Arthur was a sort of saint. The local priest seems an innocent old man. But I have spoken to His Lordship the Bishop,’ impressively. ‘These superstitious cults are foolish and may be harmful.’

     Castang, quite genuinely, was wondering what all this was about. A counter-attack upon anybody saying nasty things about her daughter; that much was evident. And perhaps Sabine had been charitable towards some faintly dotty pious cult. And the fraud squad had trouble frequently enough with fortune-tellers and phoney religious sects. That somebody of that sort might turn up with a claim wouldn’t surprise him, but it was the first he’d heard of it.

     ‘She bore the reputation of a charitable person: I’m aware,’ he said. ‘I’m only enquiring into a homicide.’

     Mum didn’t insist. The shrewd eyes were weighing him up. ‘This thief, or vandal, who broke in – the judge seems confident of your laying hands upon him. I’m bound to say the hope seems extravagant.’

     ‘The likelihood is that there have been, or will be, similar offences. We are examining the matter. The district is large. It may take some time.’

     No chin, but a multiplicity of firm folds in flesh. A movement in these left him with small doubt of her opinion about this remark. But she was prudent and experienced. She did not know him, and he might not be such a fool as he looked.

     ‘I’m not disputing your competence, young man.’

     A lot of police work is like this. Some witnesses just tell lies. The bourgeoisie is more complicated. In the long run, money is what worries them, even more than what people will think. Mum seemed able in business matters. What was a cop after all? Just another tiresome functionary in the administration.

     But what was Mum after? Just making sure that she knew all the ways he might choose to be an annoyance? Or was she screening something?

     She cocked an eye at the daughter, who had sidled in again without being noticed, so as not to miss anything, and was sitting now plump and pussified in the corner on a pouffe, with wide kitten’s eyes and a saucer of cream she felt too languid to sip at just now: it will still be there by and by. Nobody is going to take it away. They had better not try, either.

     ‘Janet, it seems to me that you might offer a glass of port to the Inspector.’ The kitten uncurled.

     ‘Does that mean you’d like one?’ Silky oblique insolence not aimed anywhere; left drifting like thistledown to stick to someone’s coat.

     ‘No, child.’ As expertly ambiguous; anything from ‘you know it doesn’t agree with me at this time of day’ to a phrase enjoyed by Vera – ‘not that champagne, dear; it’s what we keep for the police.’

     The ball was in his court. The stout lady, not really stout; more well and expensively corseted, was studying him with pursed mouth.

     ‘The hypothetical marauder,’ he said pleasantly, ‘doesn’t seem to me to give the whole of the picture, necessarily.’

     ‘Very well, Monsieur…?’

     ‘Castang.’

     ‘You have formed other conclusions. May we hear them?’ Patient, courteous.

     He got his port, put it on the extreme edge of a small table, where ten to one he’d knock it over and have to go on his knees mopping with a hanky. Not taking any bets he put it in the middle, got the drift of a half-suppressed smile from the daughter.

     ‘I don’t have any conclusions, Madame; that is the judge’s role.’

     Mum gave a short male laugh.

     ‘Judges! If they ever knew anything there’d be no need for the police.’

     ‘Quite so, Madame, but if I said that I’d be out of a job.’

     ‘You and I will get along. You don’t lack intelligence. Have you never thought of the magistracy yourself, as a career?’

     Not bad and not very good either, like this port.

     ‘Contented enough as I am, Madame.’

     ‘Don’t sip it man; drink it. I’m not taking any, so that there’s no need to stand on ceremony. These children don’t drink. Perhaps it’s wise of them, but they miss some of the pleasures of existence. Give the Inspector some more, Janet.

     ‘Now, Monsieur Castang, in confidence and without prejudice, wouldn’t you agree that this examining magistrate is an ass?… Oh, I can see by the expression on your face,’ merrily.

     ‘I’m not making a foolish generalisation. I’ve known some able and intelligent judges, in Versailles and elsewhere. But these provincial corners… Now I’m not mistaken, you are from Paris, isn’t it so?’

     Half true. He nodded.

     ‘Unmistakable; I’m myself. And just between us – really, Janet, haven’t you a biscuit or something? Anybody would think you’d been badly brought up – you know and I know that this judge is an ass. Oh, you needn’t bother to contradict just to keep yourself in countenance! He’d like to think of nothing but his marauder. It simplifies his existence. No little local difficulties then. In an election year, the good man knows he’d be ill-advised to permit any little scandals which might embarrass a government candidate. You’re aware of this. The same applies to you. You’re an intelligent person.’

     So’re you, dear lady.

     ‘You won’t compromise yourself; sensible of you. I applaud that. No more need be said, but I reassure you; no need to act the gaping country cousin with me. I want one thing; to ensure that a stop is put to malicious gossip.

     ‘Poor Sabine! She had a mind, as a young woman, I’m told. I don’t move in these artistic circles, and have small taste for such things, but I am assured she possessed talent.’

     Who had assured her? Sounded like Barde talking.

     ‘In Paris she might have made something of it. A name for herself… But out of timidity or provinciality she chose to marry a mediocre little man and spend her days in this dusty little corner. It was inevitable that she fell into the kind of company one finds in these places. A dowager or two with an interest in clerical matters, fingers in convents, meddling with the episcopate, a local canon – generally gaga – in their pocket. Some of these people, I repeat it, are harmful. They succeeded in poisoning poor Sabine’s mind against her son, and against my daughter. You follow me, Monsieur Castang?’

     ‘You’d make a good lawyer.’

     Not altogether pleased by that, but she was thoroughly animated by now. A faint dusky flush appeared.

     ‘Lawyers! I don’t know a great deal about law, but I have experience in protecting my interests. I’ve employed lawyers upon occasion. They are sufficiently skilled at justifying their expense for one to be confident they can justify anything. But we need no lawyers here.’

     He was beginning to have enough of Mum, but if she thought he was wax in her hands, so much the better. He finished the port; asked permission to light a cigarette. Graciously granted, and he was starting to need it.

     The door opened and Gérard came in. Strong-minded old biddy: it had evidently been laid down that she would handle the police and the judge, because he said nothing, gave Castang a sour nod, went over to a drawer and hunted through a tangle of bits of string and electric flex, found a bit of wire for whatever he wanted and went off again without a word. It irritated Mum.

     ‘Monsieur Castang, I don’t wish to be indiscreet, but experience teaches me that where property is concerned it is unwise to leave loose ends.’

     He quite agreed.

     ‘This house next door – white elephant in my opinion, but classified, I understand: cultural-affairs people forbid knocking it down. Folklore, but even in disrepair the house has value. More important still is that large garden. I’m told that Sabine, poor soul, had been approached with a view to inducing her to part with some of this land – I daresay you’ve heard something about this?’

     ‘The matter had been discussed, I believe.’

     ‘My understanding from the local notary is that no contract was entered into.’

     ‘Not that I’m aware of.’ It looked as though Thonon had had a shot at ‘the children’ and been snubbed for his pains.

     ‘I’ve taken pains to make sure that there is no dispute about this property. I’m glad to say that Sabine saw to it, at least, that the children’s inheritance should be unquestioned. I mention it only because it would seem that malicious tongues have been at work, trying to raise doubts about her intentions.’

     ‘I know of no obstacle.’

     ‘Good. The judge seems to be shilly-shallying. I’ve spoken to him; I may go to see him.’

     There weren’t many people she hadn’t spoken to. She’d been pretty energetic. He’d done nothing. Gossiping with the neighbours, stuffing himself with food and drink, having dirty daydreams about Martine. While she’d been a proper detective. He’d better turn all his operations over to Mum.

     ‘I’m labouring the point, perhaps,’ she said, nothing if not thorough. ‘This house is in poor condition and needs care; there are leaks in the roof to mention no worse. Now it appears you have forbidden the children access to it.’

     ‘Purely a formality.’

     ‘Oh yes, due process. We can temper that with a little common sense, surely. I take advantage of an informal conversation to ask you to have this ban lifted. You have surely no further technical tests or whatnot to make, and that door and shutter need mending.’

     ‘I’ll see what I can do, Madame,’ with warm enthusiasm. ‘Not my decision, properly speaking – a civil matter. Monsieur le Commissaire – I’ll tell you what; I’ll have a word with him, shall I, and I’m sure he’ll see your point. Leave it to me.’

     Mum had her mouth pursed up, suspicious of too much sunny co-operation, but she couldn’t well complain of it. He got up hastily to go, getting a lifeless hand to shake – bit grudgingly.

     ‘You’ll be staying some days, I imagine?’ he asked.

     ‘I may, Inspector; I may.’

     The kitten stretched on its cushion and blinked torpidly. He thought there might be sparks flying off the fur shortly. Would ‘the children’ be altogether happy with the masterful way Mum handled the fuzz?