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The restrictions this time were different: garden, pool and upper floor allowed, ground floor out of bounds. Only a narrow passage from the stairs gave them access through the lobby to the patio. Apart from Claire and the Bests, who stayed in their rooms, the others gathered outside, while Sophie and Magali sat on the stairs watching the proceedings below like a pair of children eavesdropping on their parents. Magali hadn’t seen much, but she gave a sketchy account of events as she understood them.
The fruit gum hunt had entered a ragged phase in which it wasn’t clear who was playing anymore, nor what the rules had become. Only Chloé remained fully committed, the others taking part in fits and bursts, with the game appearing to have morphed into hide-and-seek. The constant coming and going between the different rooms meant that now it was impossible to say who was where and when. The alert had been given by Eddy, who spotted an arrow drawn with a whiteboard marker on the French window in the leisure room. Intrigued, he stepped outside, and walking in the direction indicated, came upon a small pool of blood beneath the door of a rickety old shed in a dim corner of the garden above the drive. He pushed on the door but it was locked. The shed had no windows, just a couple of small ventilator holes through which it was difficult to make out anything precise. Rather than break down the door himself, he went in search of Praud. The interview room was also locked and neither Praud nor Bondy was anywhere to be seen. Lyle said he’d seen Praud cross the lobby and go out through the side door next to the Forsters’ office. Isadora thought that Bondy was next door – he’d come in asking if anyone had seen Praud, who’d apparently left his cell phone in the interview room. On being told Praud was outside, he said he must have gone to check on something with Thibault Seibel. Eventually, Eddy found two gendarmes searching the contents of the kitchen bins. They called Bondy, who came back straightaway and with the help of a crowbar borrowed from Gareth, broke into the shed. Praud was lying dead on the floor with a knife in his back.
‘That’s all I know,’ said Magali. ‘Bondy’s informed Pico, who was on his way in any case to speak to Cyril. I haven’t seen Cyril myself.’
‘From what you say, it could have been more or less anyone again.’
‘Well, not Claire. She was with me all the time in the studio. The Forsters were in their study, but they could have climbed out through the window – they’d be very close to the shed then.’
‘And you say they had to break in?’ Sophie stared at her frowning. ‘But that means...’
‘Right.’ Magali nodded as Sophie drew the only conclusion possible. ‘The Mysterious Affair at Styles. A locked room mystery.’
For all their vantage point on the stairs, there wasn’t much to be heard nor seen, the only event of note being the arrival of Pico, his anger apparent in the curt voice and clipped sentences as he spat out orders, his lanky frame like a pent-up spring about to snap. He gave them a cursory nod before disappearing into the leisure room. From the look on his face, you felt he would have liked to execute everyone and be done with it; at least that way he’d be sure to punish the culprit.
They moved up to Magali’s room. By craning out far enough they got a view of the shed itself, but here again they saw nothing that could enlighten them, and after a while Sophie said, ‘Still no sign of Cyril. That’s odd. You’d think he’d be in the thick of it. Maybe he’s outside.’
After searching the garden, she found him eventually by the fish pond next door, staring into the water, his face devoid of colour. When he saw her, he managed a weak smile, then turned away. A knot of apprehension in her stomach, Sophie sat down opposite him.
‘You’re not with Pico?’
‘He’ll call me when he’s ready. He’s with Valentin.’ He didn’t look at her. His voice was flat.
‘Call you? For what?’
When he finally turned towards her, his eyes contained a wildness she’d never seen, a mix of fury and terror, causing her to recoil. ‘As a witness. A suspect. Who knows?’
‘A suspect? But that’s...’
‘What? Impossible?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Nothing’s impossible, Sophie. I’m taking my orders from Valentin now. A lieutenant giving orders to a captain – that should be impossible.’
Sophie didn’t answer. The apprehension swelled into something nauseous. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Perhaps I did.’
‘What?’
‘I could have. I got back an hour ago. I can’t account for my movements. It’s a blank.’
‘What do you mean? You’re not serious. Stop it, it’s not like you.’
‘Do you know me?’ His eyes were fierce. ‘You can’t see into my mind, you don’t know me at all. I don’t even know myself so how could you?’
‘Look, you’re being... Surely you know what you’ve been doing since you got back?’
‘He’s turned against me. Against us.’
‘Who, Pico?’
‘Tikar. Get rid of yours, Sophie, before she drags you into this as well. She’s been corrupted. Or rather... No, it’s not even Tikar. Throw her away and the spirit moves somewhere else. It’s caught up with me. Don’t let it get you too.’
Luc’s right. He shouldn’t be a gendarme at all. Diligence, eagerness, irreproachable manner – Pico himself had been taken in. But Cyril Eveno was mad. Curiously, confirmation came as a relief. At least when she wrote her report, she wouldn’t be condemning him unjustly. All the same, the thought of destroying his career upset her deeply. Mad enough to kill? She didn’t want to believe it, but the possibility was there. Her report would be superfluous then – if he’d really murdered Praud, he’d destroyed his career himself far better than she ever could. ‘Cyril, you’re overwrought. You need a rest. We’ll get to the bottom of this, I’m sure, and when we do –’
‘Leave me alone!’ He leapt to his feet, rigid, white with anger, lips contorted into a wild grimace; then, muttering distractedly, he stumbled up to the thicket.
Back at the house, a remake of the interviews: same cast but with a different director. They’d already finished with Eddy, now it was Martin. The other guests were either at the pool or on the terrace. Conversation was hushed and sporadic, a few murmured remarks of no consequence. Eddy and Lyle had begun a game of chess.
Martin came out and stood at the door, hands in pockets, sombre. Then he turned back inside and went up to his room. To her surprise, Sophie was called in next – given that she’d been upstairs all the time, what possible questions could they have?
‘The weapon was a kitchen knife – two blows to the neck, one to the back, where the knife was left. No fingerprints on the knife. Clean wounds, quick, barely a struggle. Given the angle of the wounds, the assailant was tall, probably male.’ No questions at all as it happened, but Pico’s account of the facts. ‘No marks of a scuffle outside the shed, which means he was killed inside. Do you have any questions?’
Why me? Surely you don’t expect me to point to the culprit? Then a more troubling thought occurred – had he already formed a suspicion that it was Cyril? Would he now ask her to describe his state of mind? I can’t account for my movements, it’s a blank. She brought herself back to the matter at hand: fingerprints, blood, the study of physical evidence.
‘I heard the shed was locked from the inside. How is that possible?’
‘It was originally an outside toilet. A small extension was added for the storage of plants in winter, but the initial structure was kept, including the door. A latch was added on the outside but inside there’s a bolt. A couple of bricks are loose in the wall. Prise them apart and you can put your arm through and draw the bolt. As simple as that. The question isn’t how, but why?’ He sat up straight, placing his hands on the table. ‘Which leads us away from the evidence to the motive, hence to the perpetrator. I’ve had time to read through Captain Praud’s notes, listen to some of the recordings, and discuss it with Lieutenant Bondy. We now have a firm idea of who the perpetrator is. You’re no doubt wondering why I’m telling you all this. I’ll come to that later.’ He turned to his new associate. ‘First Lieutenant Bondy will tell you how we reached our conclusion.’
Having been kept in a subservient role by Praud, Bondy was clearly delighted that Pico – a general, no less – treated him differently. Clearing his throat, he drew his chair closer, features alive and eager. ‘A locked room mystery. There’s only one person who takes any interest in that. Right from the start, Martin Best has been referencing Agatha Christie – closed circles, locked rooms, some sort of formula she had. So naturally, our suspicions fell on him. But why would he do something that so obviously points to himself? The answer would be that he didn’t – someone else did in order to frame him. Close to the body we found this.’ He opened a folder and took out a sheet of paper and passed it over. Like the mosquito text, it had been crumpled and straightened out again. Structure: one main character, death in first chapter. History of Cameroun – how much detail? ‘Notes written by Eddy Ferrucci during the workshop with Forster. He’s confirmed that to us. But he threw that paper in the bin, he says, and began again. Note here’ – his finger drew a cross above the paper – ‘it’s been folded into four, no doubt to be slipped inside a pocket, a shirt perhaps or jeans. Did Ferrucci decide to keep the paper after all? He says not and he showed us his second paper which has a lot more on it. We conclude that someone retrieved this and left it by the body in order to frame him. So we have the bolted door framing Best and the paper framing Ferrucci. Who’s framing who here? If Ferrucci was framing Best, would he use something as crude and obvious as a locked room mystery?’ Bondy returned the paper to the folder and gave an emphatic nod. ‘It’s our belief that Martin Best retrieved that paper, left it by the body to frame Ferrucci, and bolted the door from the inside to make it seem that Ferrucci was framing him.’
‘I see. Foxy.’ Smart alec Martin up to his tricks. ‘But why?’
‘Ah. The motive. That’s easy enough. He was –’
At that moment, Pico’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and stood up. ‘More evidence. I’ll go and see. Carry on, Lieutenant.’
With Pico gone, Bondy was in his element even more, eyes drilling into hers as he expounded their theory. ‘Captain Praud led Best to believe he was close to the vital clue, namely the glove. It wasn’t Seibel’s, we know that, so it came from here. The Forsters’ gardener told us he had three different pairs which he kept in the gardening shed by the pool, but now there are only two, both complete. So we expect the second glove to tell us a lot. It’s puzzled us from the start. Was the killer wearing them and one fell off? It seems unlikely – gloves don’t do that. More plausible, there was a fight and it came off when Seibel grabbed it. But it’s our guess he wasn’t wearing it in the first place. Have you seen Best’s hands? He takes medication for a heart condition. Arrhythmia. One of the side effects is swelling, especially in heat like this. We think he squeezed one glove on and used the other just to wrap around the fork. Which is why we need to find that second glove. If he struggled to get it on, there’ll be a better chance of finding his DNA.’
‘Why didn’t he pick the glove up in that case?’
‘Panic. Not thinking. His first thought was to tell Thibault Seibel he’d found the body.’
‘If he took the gloves from the shed on the way up, that means it was premeditated.’
‘Up to a point, yes. The first blow was to Seibel’s chest, knocking him over. Maybe he intended to stop there. But once his temper was up, he carried on.’ He folded his arms, leaning back. ‘What he’s done with the second, we don’t know. But he believed we were very close to solving it. A suspect will often confess when they see there’s no way out. Unfortunately, Captain Praud misread him. Best isn’t that sort. He doubled down instead, set up a trap. He led Praud to believe he wanted to confess, lured him into the pot shed to show him the glove, and killed him.’ He paused. ‘What does Madame Rousseau think?’
‘About the murder? Nothing. She hasn’t been involved.’
‘Oh. I thought she might have an opinion. But she’s more interested in that painting, from what I gather. I’m not sure why.’
‘Just a bee in her bonnet, really. She’s like that sometimes. Gets an idea and pursues it to see where it leads.’
‘I see. Well, you can tell her nowhere in this case. We thought it might be a lead but Captain Praud ran a check on that fellow, Durvez. He’s a highly reputable dealer, it seems. He even advises the –’
‘Sorry for that,’ said Pico, coming back in. ‘But they’ve found more evidence.’ He placed two plastic bags in front of Bondy. ‘Very interesting, don’t you think?’
‘What on earth...?’ Bondy held up the bags, staring at the contents in bewilderment: a broken coffee cup and a piece of green fabric. ‘What does this mean?’
‘Simply that Best’s attempt to make it seem he was being framed is more elaborate than we thought. Not just the locked room, but certain clues mentioned in The Mysterious Affair at Styles. I had a look at it myself. Notably a cup and a piece of green cloth. He placed them near the shed as further proof that someone was framing him.’
‘Well, that’s...’ Bondy whistled softly, raising his eyebrows. ‘Elaborate indeed. He went to a lot of trouble. It’s quite... fiendish.’
‘It would seem that’s the way his mind works.’ He flicked through Praud’s notebook. ‘Claire Bourane: “Best playing games... treats it as a joke.” Maya Ferrucci: “Thinks himself clever... manipulative.” Similar remarks from the others. Scattering clues as a decoy tactic fits the profile. It’s a curious one but you come across it occasionally in the course of a long career and when you do, it’s easy enough to recognise after that. Intelligent, but feels underestimated. Likes an audience, likes to play to the gallery, and likes especially to trick them. Seeks approval, but more than that, admiration. Takes an opportunity when it arises. Weak moral compass, right and wrong count less than self-esteem. I wouldn’t be surprised if we find other clues from the book. Honey, for example. That’s an important one. It depends what lengths he was ready to go to.’
Bondy nodded gravely, impressed, it seemed, that the lengths stretched further than he’d imagined. ‘What now?’ he asked.
‘Good question. I think there’s enough to remand him in custody but he’s not the sort to confess very readily. He was questioned three or four times over Seibel and he held firm. The same just now regarding Captain Praud. But that’s when he’s on his own. There’s a certain type of person who feels more vulnerable in public. So that’s what we’re going to do – charge him with murder in front of everyone. Make a big thing of it, a performance. My guess is that with everyone looking on, he’ll snap, or at least be shaken enough to come clean when we take him in. You’ll do the build-up, Lieutenant. Lay it on thick, the more theatrical the better. All the reasoning we’ve developed here, and at the end you produce the glove. At which point I’ll step in to make the arrest.’ He turned to Sophie. ‘The reason you’re here is that I’d like you to translate. Just a precaution. I don’t want him claiming his rights weren’t respected.’
‘Me? Why not Lyle? He’s bilingual.’
‘True. But I want a translation, not a treatise.’ One eye batted into a knowing wink. ‘In a perfect world, we’d wait for the DNA results on the glove. They’ve removed all they need for analysis but they’ll take till Friday and to be honest, I’m not expecting much. Unless there’s a bit of skin or a hair, we’re down to sweat. And whatever tiny traces there might be will be overridden by the Forsters’ gardener – he used the gloves regularly. The lab people weren’t optimistic. But it’s not vital – we have more than enough without it.’
There came a knock on the door: a forensic officer with yet more evidence. Honey, no doubt, just as Pico predicted, and for a moment Sophie got the eerie sensation of being herself in some dreamlike, jumbled copy of Agatha Christie.
‘You know Captain Eveno well, I think.’ Pico held up the bag. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’
The eeriness entered another dimension, as if someone had pressed a button and put her in a different dream. It wasn’t honey. It was Tikar.
Cyril? His name turned into a numbing, incredulous horror. But she had no time to formulate an answer, because at that moment the door flew open, and in stormed Gabrielle.
