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‘We got off on the wrong footing yesterday. I’d like to apologise.’
Captain Praud’s opening took her by surprise. What had prompted this change of heart? The aggressiveness of the day before was explained easily enough – she’d disobeyed his orders and gone next door with Cyril. But now he was all sweetness and light, as if he’d had a sudden conversion or discovered that it was a case of mistaken identity, and she wasn’t the person he thought.
She glanced at Bondy, but though he seemed less embarrassed than the day before, his features gave her no clue. Shaking her head, she said, ‘It’s for me to apologise. You had every right to be annoyed. I shouldn’t have done what I did.’
‘An independent streak. Nothing wrong with that, I always say.’ He held her gaze with a steady smile, then brought his hands together. ‘Good. All settled then. Though while we’re at it, perhaps you could also convey my apologies to Madame Rousseau. She mentioned yesterday she’s been looking into that painting below the stairs. Granet, or a copy anyway. I wouldn’t know, art isn’t my thing. I was probably a bit brusque, my mind was elsewhere. Please tell her I’m sorry, and if she finds out anything else, I’d be glad to hear it.’
‘I’ll let her know. Thank you.’
‘Now we had to take your fingerprints yesterday, naturally, but it goes without saying you’re not a suspect. On the contrary, you’re helping us identify the suspect.’
‘Helping? In what way?’
‘Well, as I understand it, you were helping already, questioning Thibault Seibel for example – a fine initiative – and I’m sure you had every intention of telling me about the stolen orchid, which may yet prove to be of interest. At this stage, we’re not ruling anything out. But it would be of greater benefit to everyone if your independent enquiries were made more official, shall we say, more part of our team work as a whole. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds perfect, Captain.’ Interfering reclassified as independent enquiry – what more could you ask for? ‘I’d be only too glad to help in any way I can.’
‘Excellent. Now, I gather Lieutenant Bondy has told you about the necklace Madame Best supposedly lost in the wood. Well, she admitted yesterday evening that she wasn’t even wearing it – the story was invented between the pair of them. She was wearing it, I gather, on Sunday evening without any problem, and a close examination of the clasp shows that it was broken or bent intentionally. She further admitted that Henri Seibel molested her, after which her husband went to remonstrate with him. But apart from acknowledging that, he admits to nothing. He still insists that Seibel was dead when he got there.’ He leant forward, fingers interlocking. ‘As you no doubt know, most murders are carried out by a member of the victim’s family. Not in this case – Thibault Seibel has accounted for his movements perfectly well. Which means we’re now convinced that the killer came from this house. Unfortunately, we’re not necessarily the best placed to find out who it is. We can ask questions, but people have their guard up. Not just the culprit – everyone. They probably let it down a bit when we’re not around, so if you quietly observe, who knows? You might spot something we don’t.’
‘I see.’ All that flattery for this? The intention now became clear: the saccharine words were a hollow trick to fob her off with the illusion of being useful. She tilted her head. ‘I just... observe?’
‘Discreetly, of course. No one’s to know about this. But I’m sure I can count on you not to go about it like a bull in a china shop. That’s our way – we hardly have a choice in the matter. No one here knows you’re a PI, am I right?’
‘Adeline knows. So Gareth too probably, and I dare say Isadora. But I told her my only concern here was the course. Mind you, that was before the murder so I don’t know what she thinks now.’
‘All the more reason for discretion.’
‘And specifically you want me to observe Martin Best.’
‘What’s your opinion of him?’
‘Extrovert. Bit of a know-all.’
She wondered if she ought to mention the marks on Penelope’s arm. Henri Seibel molested me. Was that what she’d told them? Perhaps showing the marks as proof? If so it was another fabrication – they could only have come from Martin. But Praud’s underhand manoeuvre made it an easy decision. Let him wait. Before saying anything about it, she’d speak to Penelope herself. An independent enquiry. ‘Nothing else really. I don’t suppose that’s of much help.’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I believe he’s been treating this like something out of Agatha Christie, am I right?’
‘He’s a fan of hers, yes.’
‘Rather a strange attitude, wouldn’t you say? To treat a real murder like a novel? A bit of fun?’
‘Totally. But he’s a writer, so...’
‘Yes?’ The droopy eyebrow wriggled.
‘That’s what they do, isn’t it? Make up stories.’
‘I suppose so. But it could serve as a front. An elaborate sort of defence. Do you think he’d be capable of that?’
‘Difficult to say. I hardly know him.’
‘You’ve seen more of him then we have. Don’t worry, it’s only your impression. It doesn’t count as evidence.’
‘Well, from what I’ve seen of him, yes. Quite capable.’
‘There you go.’ He gave the table a pat of satisfaction. ‘Just the sort of observation we’re looking for.’ He stood up, offering his hand to shake. ‘Thank you, Madame Kiesser. I’m glad we understand each other now.’
Sophie stayed as she was, hands in her lap. ‘Just one question if you don’t mind.’ Since you weren’t going to tell me yourself.
He sat down again. ‘Yes?’
‘What’s all this about Seibel being Claire’s father?’
‘Ah.’ He gave an awkward smile. ‘You’ve been speaking to her.’
‘She came to me this morning. Very upset. In tears, in fact. She says you made it all up.’
‘We didn’t make anything up. He reached for the folder in front of him, drew out a sheet of paper in a plastic protector, and slid it towards her. ‘It was slipped under the door yesterday evening.’
Claire’s mother was raped by Henri Seibel. Claire is his daughter. She’s here to get revenge.
‘So there was something to it.’ Sophie gave it back, shaking her head in perplexity. ‘What does this mean?’
If anything, Praud’s perplexity seemed even greater than her own. For a moment he was silent, considering his response. ‘You’ve no doubt heard of the Grégory affair?’
‘Of course. Who hasn’t? The little boy who was tied up and thrown into a river.’
‘Some thirty years ago now. Still unsolved, unfortunately. A defining feature of that case was a number of accusations made in anonymous letters sent by someone who became known as The Crow.’ He tucked the sheet of paper back in its folder. ‘What does it mean? Quite simply, Madame Kiesser, that in Venturi View we have a crow.’
