The Provence Puzzle: An Inspector Damiot Mystery(39)
“Eh bien, Madame la Duchesse! I won’t be taking you with me this morning, but tonight, weather permitting, we’ll have another look inside that Chateau. Unless you have some other engagement?”
She sat up and pawed the air, hoping for more of the croissant.
“There’s much to be done today. I’ve told everyone I wouldn’t involve myself, but it seems no one’s doing anything to solve these murders or put an end to this monster business. You agree?”
She barked and wagged her tail, eyes on the croissant.
Damiot broke off another piece and gave it to her. “I must learn the facts to satisfy my own curiosity about both—murderer and monster.”
She barked again.
Standing in the narrow street, facing the small house where Blanche had lived, eleven years ago, he realized that the sun was much warmer than yesterday. He slipped out of his waterproof and tossed it into the car.
Blanche had been born in Courville, although he hadn’t known her when he lived here. Of course, there was nine years’ difference in their ages. She was only twenty-three when they had met…
Damiot pulled the metal handle beside the door, and heard a bell tinkle inside.
Perhaps Blanche had gone to Mass. More than likely she was married by now. With three or four children…
“Oui, M’sieur?”
Damiot saw a tiny old woman, thin and dark, with narrowed suspicious eyes. “Pardon, Madame. I’m looking for Blanche Carmet.”
“Blanche Carm…” She slammed the door.
He returned, puzzled, to his car and, swinging it around, drove back toward the square. Pausing at the corner of Avenue Mireille for the traffic light, he heard organ music coming from Saint-Sauveur.
Perhaps if he waited outside the church, he might see Blanche Carmet coming out from Mass. He slowed to a stop and walked toward Saint-Sauveur. In this bright sunlight the church looked almost as it had when he was a boy.
The music of the Mass flowed out to meet him as he went up the gravel path around the side, into the cemetery. Making his way between the headstones, he noticed that the red carnations on Julien Bouchard’s grave still looked fresh.
And so did the roses he had left yesterday…
Damiot touched the headstone on his father’s grave as he listened to the shrill, untrained voices rising above the wheezy rumble of the organ. To his surprise, he recognized the end of the Mass… Repulsed by the cold headstone, he left the graves and headed back toward the church.
The interior of Saint-Sauveur would be unchanged from his childhood. Warm candlelight on the old paintings, the statues, and the curiously decorated walls.
It had seemed a different place, cold and dark, when he attended the requiem masses, three weeks apart, for his parents…
He waited at the corner of the church until the first rush of villagers came through the portal blinking at the sun, pausing for a word with the priest. This was a new man. Younger than the last, but already showing a priestly paunch under his chasuble.
The two Sibilats emerged slightly apart from the others. Madame, in black, holding a missal in one black-gloved hand. Sibilat, wearing a gray suit that, with his slicked-down hair, made him seem younger. Madame had noticed Damiot and was whispering to her son.
Damiot glanced away, checking other faces, before Sibilat had a chance to look in his direction. Some of the villagers had noticed him, and more heads were turning. None of the young women resembled Blanche Carmet…
He looked back toward the Sibilats, who had already reached the street. Madame seemed to be arguing with her son, the shiny black feathers on her hat swaying up and down.
Turning toward the church again, Damiot saw that Hercule Mauron and a thin woman, obviously his wife—both dressed in their Sunday best—had paused beside the priest, who was bowing obsequiously to Monsieur le Maire. They continued on toward the street without noticing Damiot.
His attention was drawn back to see Aurore Bouchard, very smart in a tailored suit and jaunty hat, coming from the church with Michel Giroud, wearing a dark blue jacket with gray slacks. Damiot hadn’t anticipated seeing them here this morning. Aurore had observed his presence but showed no reaction, and Michel, after speaking to the priest, escorted her toward the gate.
They were followed by Jean-Paul, the waiter from the Auberge, with a pretty girl. Probably his wife. He saw Damiot and bowed, turning to speak to his attractive companion, who stared quite openly at the detective.
Damiot wondered if the murderer might be among these people coming out from the dark church into the glare of sunlight…
“Monsieur Inspecteur…”
He turned to face Marc Sibilat, who had returned across the grass.
“You were waiting to see me?”
“Matter of fact, I’ve been visiting my parents’ graves again.” He saw that Sibilat was nervous, fumbling with his tie. “Why did you think I wished to see you?”
“My mother told me you came to the shop yesterday. Asking about those flowers on Lisette Jarlaud’s grave…”
“I suspected, from their wrapping, they’d been bought in your shop. Madame remembered that she had sold them to a young farmer.”
“Achille Savord.”
“She said he came in one day while you were out.”
“I’d gone somewhere in the truck to make a delivery.”