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In the final minutes before dinner, Sophie had two conversations: the first, with Luc, answered one question but raised another; the second, with Pico, baffled her.
Tikar-Bom, as it happened, had neither flown to Venturi nor been planted by Gabrielle – on hearing about it, Luc led Sophie into the studio and poked around in the plastic crate where Adeline had tipped the contents of Chloé’s treasure box. Against his better judgement, he said, he’d allowed her to search for treasure in the car boot sale drawer, where the one item she fixed upon was Tikar-Bom. Sophie was much relieved that Gabrielle played no part. For one thing she preferred to think that Cyril’s wife, when not consumed by jealousy, was a likeable, sensible person; for another she had no wish to be the target of a voodoo curse. On the other hand, it was hardly less spooky that Tikar-Bom, despite a reassuring inability to fly, had nonetheless found an ingenious way of getting there all the same. And the final hop of the journey, from the crate to the path by the pot shed, now required its own explanation. Assuming again that Tikar-Bom hadn’t done it all by herself, someone had given her a hand. Decidedly, she moved in mysterious ways.
As for Pico, apart from a non-committal grunt, he showed no interest at all in Tikar-Bom’s travels, and when Sophie, somewhat miffed, moved on to her talk with Isadora, the response was merely a brief pursing of the lips and one raised eyebrow. Then, with an eagerness quite unlike him, he returned to the upcoming première of The Amazing Arrest. ‘All set?’ he asked. ‘I hope you’re on board with this. It’s a bit unorthodox, I grant you.’
‘Uh, no, it’s fine. It’s your show – whatever you think is best.’
‘Quite. If all goes to plan, we’ll get a confession before the evening’s out. Bondy puts the case very well, don’t you think?’
‘Very convincing, yes.’
‘Opportunity, method, motive – couldn’t be clearer. Did he say anything else when I was out?’
‘About Martin? No.’
‘About something else? What was that?’
‘Oh, a different thing altogether. A little enquiry Madame Rousseau has been making.’
‘Indeed?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got a few minutes. Tell me.’
Why, when she’d finished, did he probe, demand details, accompany her to the alcove to see the painting itself? He gave no clue. Sophie said if he wanted the full story, he’d have to ask Magali, and he nodded. Then, after inspecting Portrait of The Artist in His Studio with all the care of a dermatologist examining spots, he said, ‘Good. The guests are assembled. If you go on out, we’ll be along in a while.’
Dinner was late. Rumbles of discontent came from Eddy and Maya, but Lyle said they were lucky to be getting dinner at all. Rumbles of tummies were stilled by crisps, hummus dip and slices of saucisson sec. Dorian was put to bed; Chloé conscientiously transported gravel from the car park to the patio. The sun began to set. Alcohol was consumed.
The aïoli had just been placed on the table when the two gendarmes appeared. General Pico stood with his hands behind his back, until the only chatter remaining was the cicadas’.
The guests turned their chairs to face Pico, making two rows of spectators separated by the table. A couple of yards behind him, centre left, Bondy stood to attention, a small cardboard box at his feet.
‘I’m aware,’ said Pico, ‘that these past two days have been unpleasant. But as I’m sure you realise, investigations of this nature often are. Nor is this one over yet, not quite. There are still a few questions that need answering but I’m glad to say we expect those answers very soon. You’ve been patient and cooperative – thank you. How you would like to spend the rest of your week isn’t my concern, but if any of you wish to leave, we have no need to retain you here any further.’ He left a pause, looking at no one in particular. ‘Except, of course, for one of you.’ He extended a hand to his partner. ‘Lieutenant Bondy, please proceed.’
Pico took a few steps to the side. Bondy moved centre stage. The terrace lights hadn’t yet been switched on, and while his body was illuminated by a ray of sunlight through the trees, his head was dimmed in shadow. This went against the most elementary rules of stage production but the effect was curiously powerful: when he spoke, the voice emerged from a headless apparition. And a clear, confident voice it was, as he launched into his role with admirable gusto, his features barely visible but the speech underlined by the mesmerizing movements of his hands.
Opportunity, method, motive – the three ingredients needed for a person to be a suspect. Opportunity: why, it took no more than a minute or two to lure Captain Praud into the shed, there to thrust a knife into his neck, severing the carotid artery; push him violently forward with the double aim of avoiding any blood spatter whilst causing the victim’s head to come down hard on the clay pots lined against the wall; and finally, for good measure, plunge the knife into his back. The killer would be back to participate in the game going on in the house before anyone noticed he was gone.
The audience noted two points: the killer was male; the killer had been playing hide and seek. All eyes turned towards Martin. His hands tightened into fists. His mouth opened but he said nothing. Lieutenant Bondy continued.
Motive. Plain as day – prevent Captain Praud from discovering a crucial clue that would incriminate the suspect in the murder of Henri Seibel.
Martin wriggled his shoulders, shifted in his seat. Sunlit beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Sophie glanced at Penelope: lips pinched in a curious smile, her eyes were fixed upon Bondy.
Method. By this, said Bondy, he didn’t mean the killing itself, with which he’d already dealt, but what came after, the cover-up. A truly astounding machination that drew upon the work of Agatha Christie. A locked room mystery (here he described the bolt and the loosened bricks); a crude attempt to frame another person (Eddy’s workshop notes by the body); clues scattered deliberately to make it seem that the person the killer was framing was in fact framing him. The first clue – here he stooped to produce an evidence bag from the box at his feet – was a broken cup, smashed against the wall behind the pot shed. He moved to the table and walked slowly past the guests, holding up the bag for all to see. Prosecutor, jury, exhibit A. you couldn’t help but admire the performance. Returning to the box, he produced exhibit B, which he displayed in the same way: a piece of green cloth found by the French window in the leisure room. And where, he asked, do these clues come from? The Mysterious Affair at Styles, which the killer referred to right from the start as being a model to be followed. Furthermore –’
‘That’s crap and you know it!’ Unable to contain himself any longer, Martin leapt to his feet. ‘If you think I’m going to sit here and –’
‘Monsieur Best.’ Pico stepped forward. ‘Please sit down and let the officer finish. You’ll be given ample time to express your views afterwards.’
Bristling with anger, Martin did as he was told. Bondy went to the box and produced another bag. ‘Now, this was found yesterday morning next to Henri Seibel. We fully expect it to reveal traces of DNA that will match that of Seibel’s killer. We further expect more DNA to be found on the second glove of this pair. You may have been wondering how Captain Praud was lured into the pot shed. Simply by telling him that the second glove was there. The killer pretended he was ready to confess, but in reality –’
‘Lies!’ Martin slammed his fist down. ‘Fucking lies! You son of a bitch!’
Sophie stared at the bag in Bondy’s hand. The glove had been slit open to scrape fragments from inside, and the colour of it confused her, as when something is in the wrong place and your mind struggles to make sense of it.
She rose from her chair and walked over to Chloé. ‘Your nature box, sweetheart – is it still downstairs? In the studio?’
‘Um...’ Absorbed in making miniature mountains of gravel, Chloé had to think for a moment. ‘Yes.’
‘What did you do with the bits that aren’t nature? You said you took them out. Where did you put them?’
Chloé put on her sorry face, the one designed to melt her parents’ hearts when she’d done something wrong (such as surreptitiously gouge Dorian’s cheek). ‘On the floor.’
‘Good, that’s fine, don’t worry. Can you show me?’
As she gathered Chloé in her arms and walked inside, everyone must have wondered why she was leaving just as the show was reaching its climax. And when she returned a couple of minutes later, passing a forensic officer on the way, it seemed indeed that she’d missed something dramatic.
‘... found,’ Bondy was saying as he displayed an evidence bag in which nothing was visible, ‘on the computer keyboard in the lobby.’ He swung it in front of Martin. ‘Would you care to explain this, Monsieur Best? The next clue in that book you’re so fond of. Honey.’
‘Bollocks!’ Martin was on his feet again, ready to leap over the table and assault him. ‘You don’t even know –’ He swivelled a finger at Penelope. ‘You put them up to this! Why, you scheming, two-faced –’
‘Excuse me.’ Sophie cut short whatever insult he had in mind for his wife. Approaching Pico, she murmured, ‘I’m very sorry, but I have to interrupt. Here,’ she said, ‘is what my daughter found at the top of the garden.’ And she held out the remains of the rubber glove that Gareth Forster had shredded.
