Michael Pearce - A dead man in Tangier

‘That’s just why I want to see him.’

‘Well, you know what you want, I suppose, but-’

‘And Ricard?’

‘Well, Ricard is one of the old settlers. And when I say old, I mean old. He must be in his eighties. He’s still riding but even he recognizes he’s got to watch it. Meunier’s warned him. He’s always warning him. “One fall, Ricard, and it will be the end of you!” But he loves it and won’t give it up. He just rides along steadily behind the others. He’s got a safe old nag, which is nearly as old as he is, and the two of them just keep going. He makes no attempt to keep up with the action these days-’

‘Fine! That’s just what I want.’

‘Really?’ said Macfarlane doubtfully.

‘Yes, really.’

‘Well, I’ll take you over. It’s not far. I’ll take you over now if you like.’

Monsieur Ricard lived with his daughter in one of the villas just outside Tangier which Seymour had passed on his way to the pig-sticking. Her husband was in Customs and worked in the port of Tangier. Monsieur Ricard no longer worked and spent most of his days sitting on the verandah looking out over the bay. From time to time, however, he would rise from his seat and walk out into the garden, where he would find something to do or something to tell the gardener to do.

‘Old habits died hard,’ said his daughter, ‘and he is still a farmer at heart. And he can’t get used to not doing anything physical.’

‘He still rides, though?’

His daughter pulled a face.

‘Despite everything we can do.’

‘What’s that?’ said Monsieur Ricard, whose hearing was not so much hard of as differential: some things he heard, some things he didn’t. ‘What’s that about riding? The hunt’s not been cancelled, has it?’

‘No, Father,’ said his daughter patiently. ‘It’s just that we are talking about it.’

‘We? Who’s we? You’re not talking to that fool, Renaud, again, are you?’

‘No, Father. It is Monsieur Macfarlane. And a friend. They want to talk about the hunt.’

‘Well, bring them here, then. What are you waiting for? Hanging about, talking! Bonjour, Monsieur Macfarlane. Suzanne, bring in some coffee. You’ll get some decent coffee here, Monsieur Macfarlane, that’s one thing I will say for her.’

‘Ricard, allow me to present a friend, Monsieur Seymour. From England.’

‘What?’

‘From England,’ said Seymour, and then, shifting rapidly to ground where he thought Monsieur Ricard’s hearing might be better: ‘Allow me to say, Monsieur, that the view from your garden is remarkable!’

‘Not bad, is it?’

‘And the gardens! One could almost,’ he said mischievously, ‘be in England.’

‘You’d do better here!’

Seymour laughed.

‘I compliment you on your skill, Monsieur.’

‘Well, well,’ said Ricard, mollified. ‘I don’t do so badly, it is true. Do I, Macfarlane?’

‘Not badly at all,’ agreed Macfarlane.

‘And you come to talk about the hunt?’ Ricard said to Seymour.

‘About a particular hunt,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Monsieur Seymour is a policeman and he is here to find out what happened to Bossu.’

‘Bossu! Well, there’s a fine fellow!’

‘Monsieur Macfarlane suggested I talk to you, not only as someone who was there, but as someone familiar with the ways of the hunt.’

‘Well, that’s true,’ said Ricard. ‘I am. And that’s more than could be said for Bossu. You know,’ he said, turning to Macfarlane, ‘I shall never understand how a man can ride week after week, year after year, and never learn a thing about hunting!’

‘He wasn’t interested,’ said Macfarlane.

‘No,’ said Ricard, ‘all he was interested in was showing off to Mademoiselle Monique.’

He chuckled maliciously.

‘Not to Juliette, although she was there too. He didn’t care a toss for Juliette, not once he’d married her.’

‘Oh, I don’t know-’ said Macfarlane.

‘It’s true!’ the old man insisted. ‘Not a toss. It was just a marriage of convenience. And they both got what they wanted. She wanted money, a house, and position. Her parents wanted money. And Bossu? Well, he got what he wanted, too: entry. Entry into the world of the Tangier social elite. For him, it wasn’t the money, it was the social contacts. For them, it wasn’t the contacts, it was the money. So they were all satisfied. Mind you, it nearly didn’t happen. Did you know that?’ he said to Macfarlane.

‘No,’ said Macfarlane, ‘I didn’t.’

‘At the last moment they found out there was someone else. Or had been someone else. Well, Juliette didn’t mind that. It was all over now, and anyway the other woman had turned him down. But there was something else. The other woman was — well, quite unsuitable. So unsuitable as to reflect badly on Bossu. And, of course that meant on Juliette, and on her family, too. As I say, it was all in the past, but even so! Could the family condone this disgraceful, disgusting thing? It turned out, of course, in the end, that they could: for some more money.’

The old man cackled with glee.

‘For more money!’ he repeated. ‘They could condone it then!’

He was convulsed with malicious pleasure.

‘They could condone it then, all right! Mind you, it always rankled with Juliette. You see, the other woman, the one they all looked down on, had turned him down; and she, Juliette, hadn’t!’

He slapped himself on the knee.

‘You’re talking about Monique?’

‘No, no. Monique was after she’d turned him down. Before he knew Juliette. Lives up the hill, you know. Juliette. I’ll bet she’s not altogether sorry Bossu has gone.’

His daughter came in with a tray of coffee.

Evidently that needed explanation.

‘Abdul was taking so long!’ she said. ‘So in the end I brought it myself.’

‘Needs a good kick up the backside!’ said Ricard testily.

‘Thanks, Suzanne!’ said Macfarlane. ‘Children well?’

They talked about the children for a while. Monsieur Ricard concentrated on softening a biscuit in his coffee. Then he pushed his cup aside.

‘So,’ he said, looking at Seymour shrewdly, his eyes functioning, for this purpose at any rate, well, ‘what do you want to know?’

No — contemptuously — he hadn’t seen Bossu ride off at a tangent. He was already ahead of him at that point. In any case, he was riding on the other side of the course. Concentrating on the hunt. He liked to keep up with them while he could. Of course, in the end they would leave him behind, that was the penalty — with a baleful look at his daughter — of being lumbered with an old nag. If he had had Chestnut he would have kept up with them. Even been in at the kill!

‘Chestnut is dead, Father,’ said Suzanne quietly. ‘He’s been dead for years.’

‘I know that!’ he said impatiently. ‘I’m just saying that with a proper horse I’d have kept up!’

‘Of course, you would, Father, but-’

‘She listens too much to that fool, Meunier!’ Ricard growled.

‘Sure, sure,’ said Suzanne, and took the tray away.

‘Well, there you are, Monsieur. I didn’t see anything. I can’t help you, I’m afraid.’

‘Ah, but you can, Monsieur. It is afterwards that I am interested in. After Bossu had ridden away, and after he had been killed. Can I take you back to that earlier stage of the chase? And, perhaps, after. The riders would be bunched at the start, wouldn’t they, all keeping up. But then they would begin to stretch out. Some of the slowest would be falling behind?’

‘Well, of course! And I can tell you, they wouldn’t have included me. Not if I had had a proper horse!’