I WAS EARLIER THAN usual returning to the Relais but I told myself that I would do a lot of cogitating in the pool. It was notably warmer today. A platoon of cicadas in the plane trees buzzed with self-importance while high in the clear blue sky a few birds floated as serenely as if they had never heard of gravity.
I must have dozed off—it was becoming a habit I must avoid acquiring, although this time I did not encounter any monstrous insects upon awakening. Instead, I had a well-honed appetite and by the time I had changed, drunk a Kir, and gone down to the dining room, the honing had reached razorlike proportions.
I was waiting for Madame to arrive with her listing of the day’s catch when she came bustling up to say, “M’sieu, there is a lady who wishes to speak with you.” She batted her eyes in the classic matchmaking manner.
“Did she give a name?” I asked.
“No, m’sieu.”
“Is she—?”
“She is young, m’sieu, and attractive.”
“Ask her to join me,” I said.
Madame Ribereau smiled understandingly.
“Very well, m’sieu.”
It was Veronique Morel. She was wearing a dark blue suit with matching shoes. She looked very smart and trim but she put a hand to her mouth in embarrassment.
“I am sorry. I did not mean to interrupt your meal.”
To the French, nothing is more reprehensible than delaying, or interrupting the all-important process of eating. The French do not simply eat—they dine. It is crass behavior to disrupt that ceremony.
“You’re not interrupting,” I assured her. “I haven’t started yet.”
“But … I should not have—I will wait in the lobby.”
“Nonsense,” I said firmly. “Sit down and join me.”
I signaled Madame Ribereau, a close enough observer to have a waiter appear immediately with another chair.
“I really must not …” Veronique said, still spilling out apologies.
“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want,” I told her. “But please sit.”
Still she hesitated until I said, “It will spoil my meal if you don’t.”
That did it. The waiter brought a chair and she sat.
“A Kir? A glass of wine?”
“No, no, really, I just wanted to tell you something.”
“Two Kirs Royales,” I told Madame, who ducked her head and left. She would have preferred to hear what it was that Veronique wanted to tell me, so I was sure she would be back very quickly with the drinks.
“This is a very good auberge,” I told Veronique. “Do you know it?”
“Yes,” she murmured. “I have eaten here a few times.”
She had a lovely face. I hadn’t noticed at our original encounter just how attractive she was—after all, with a shiny revolver aimed at my middle, I was distracted from such perceptions. She had firm, regular features that were far above ordinary, but it was the eyes that were most striking: large and luminous, full of tenderness and understanding but strong and unwavering.
Madame arrived with the drinks. She handed me a menu and gave me the briefest of inquiring glances as she still clasped a second menu. I nodded and she handed it to Veronique.
She was still a protester. “No, really, I—”
“Madame, do you still have some of that superb Pâté de Grives?” I asked.
“Indeed, m’sieu.”
“You must taste it,” I told Veronique. “It really is excellent.”
I gave Madame a quick nod. She was gone before Veronique could protest further.
“First, we’ll drink to health, happiness, and good fortune,” I said, “then you can tell me your news.”
We drank. “This is very kind of you,” she said, recovering her composure. She took another sip of the Kir. “What I want to tell you is this—a postcard came to the house for Edouard. It was from the public library in Saint Symphorien, notifying him that a book he had borrowed was overdue.”
Madame arrived with the pâté and triangles of toast. We were going to get priority service, I could tell. Veronique daintily spread some pâté on a piece of toast and agreed enthusiastically that it was, as I had said, excellent.
“What was the book?” I asked.
“The Almanac de Reszke.”
I had another sip of Kir. The name meant nothing. “What is it?”
“It deals with the aristocratic families of France. It tells of their origins, shows family trees, indicates who they are related to …”
“When we had our first meeting—in the cave—you mentioned that your husband was researching the aristocratic families of Provence. How did you know that?”
“The last time I was in his office, he had on his desk a list of books dealing with that subject. Edouard had put a big red star next to the Almanac de Reszke.”
I urged her to have some more pâté and she did, leaving just enough for me to have a couple more toast triangles. “Go on,” I urged. “Do you have any idea what it means?”
“Until the revolution, the aristocracy ran France. There were over ten thousand of them—princes, barons, dukes, earls, counts, viscounts. Half of them died on the guillotine or at the hands of the mobs. Today’s survivors keep a low profile, but they have a lot of influence.”
“I’m surprised to hear that,” I told her.
“Ah, but it is not because they are aristocrats but because they are in positions of wealth and influence. Their education and background give them all the qualifications needed to be successful in banking, insurance, industry, the armed services, government, farming…”
Madame returned, eager to know if we had decided on a main course.
“I couldn’t,” Veronique said. “No, really, I—”
“Let’s just find out what Madame has for us today.”
Merou, a Mediterranean fish belonging to the same family as grouper, was the catch of the day. Daube, a rich dark beef stew and a Provençal favorite, was also on offer but I decided on the third choice—paella. Madame assured me that it was extra good today with freshly caught shrimp and squid as well as chicken.
“Have just a small portion,” I urged Veronique. “You can’t let me eat alone.”
“Très bien,” said Madame, giving Veronique no opportunity to decline. “And to drink?”
“Do you think Sancerre goes well with paella?” I asked Veronique.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Parfait,” said Madame.
“So,” said Veronique when Madame had gone, “I went to Edouard’s office.” She leaned forward and her face was animated. “The mail had been picked up from the floor. It had been sorted. Judging from the postmarked dates, he had been there a couple of days earlier. Anyway, the files on the Willesford case were gone.”
“Gone! Did you look around?”
“Yes, they were not in his office. I went through the books on his shelves—he has a lot of them—and I found the Almanac,” she said, her eyes brighter than ever. “A marker was in one page and an arrow was drawn to one name. It was the viscomte de Rougefoucault-Labourget.”
“Did the Almanac tell anything about him?”
“The Rougefoucault branch of the family is very old. They were prominent during the Cathar rebellion and Robert, the head of the family at that time, led a column to relieve Simon de Montfort at the Siege of Valence. King Philip Augustus gave him a château and a huge tract of land in Provence as a reward. A marriage with the Labourget family made them even more powerful a century later.”
“Doesn’t tell us much, does it?”
“Maybe that’s why Edouard was at the newspaper office. They have records of old Provence families.”
She looked down at the tablecloth and brushed away a couple of crumbs that weren’t there. “There’s something else… I want to tell you that I have not been completely honest with you,” she said in a small voice. I wasn’t completely surprised—in my business, honesty is as rare as a good German red wine.
Madame chose that moment to arrive with the Sancerre and when it had been poured, tasted and approved, and the bottle settled into its ice bucket, Veronique continued.
“We have had … difficulties in our marriage. I suspected another woman but maybe he just spent more time working.”
As we drank the Sancerre, she told me of their earlier days of marriage when she had been part of her husband’s business. She had known the details of all the cases and had often helped him to put his reports together. It was only after he had become involved in the Willesford case that he became more secretive and began to shut her out.
“What do the police say about his disappearance?” I asked.
“The police?” She looked alarmed, surely the normal reaction of a law-abiding person when the police are mentioned.
“Yes. You told them he was missing, didn’t you?”
“I told them. They know nothing.”
The paella came. The French sausage in it was not as spicy as the chorizo sausage in the traditional Valenciana version, but otherwise it compared well. It contained peas and beans but not artichoke hearts as in the original. Similarly, it had clams but no mussels. Madame served Veronique the same size portion that she gave to me and the girl turned out to have a very healthy appetite. Her plate was so clean it would not justify a dishwasher and the basket that had contained half a dozen rolls was empty. I had only had two of them, but nobody was counting.
She smiled apologetically. “I didn’t know I was hungry,” she said.
Madame beamed with approval though she tut-tutted when we declined a liqueur. I walked with Veronique out to her car, an elderly but serviceable Diane.
“We need to visit the newspaper office,” I told her.
“We?” she asked hesitantly.
The contrast struck me—the contrast between this uncertain girl and the tough broad who had held a gun on me in a cave. I was reminded of a line from My Fair Lady, something to the effect that “women are irrational, exasperating, irritating, vacillating.” This one certainly vacillated—between scared girl and pistol-packin’ mama. Still, I was convinced that tins part of my investigation could be carried more effectually with her than without her—she was French.
“I’ll do it by myself if you really—”
“No, I’ll come with you,” she said.
“Tomorrow? After lunch?” I suggested. “Let’s meet in Saint Symphorien, about two o’clock. By the fountain in front of the mairie.”
She nodded. Those luminous eyes glowed briefly, then she was gone.