Martin Walker - The Devil's Cave

‘It’s all a bit complex,’ Lemontin said. ‘The monthly payments for the Antin mortgage are coming from the parent SCI, in which Heloise de la Gorce is a very minor shareholder and Cesar is no shareholder at all.’

‘What is the parent SCI, do you know?’ Bruno asked.

‘ Societe Civile Immobiliere Chateauroux-Vaillant ,’ Lemontin replied. ‘That’s the Red Countess. Chateauroux is the chateau and Vaillant was the name of her mother.’

‘How are the monthly payments made, by cheque?’

‘No, by bank transfer on a standing order.’

‘Who authorized that and when did the payments start?’

‘I’ll find out.’

As he drove on Bruno wondered how a woman with Alzheimer’s could have authorized such a mortgage, and if she had not, what legal standing her sister and great-nephew would have to do so.

Fabiola opened the door to her house as he pulled into the courtyard. She told him she was just putting on her riding boots and asked him to wait. He didn’t really want company as the various questions nagged at him, but he saddled Hector, settled Balzac into the binocular case and waited until Fabiola came into the stables. She left him to lead Bess and set off briskly toward the shallow part of the river and the bridle track that led to Ste Alvere.

They hadn’t come this way for some time and he enjoyed it, the long canter over Pamela’s fields to the ford, then trotting down the path until the long straight stretch where the horses began to gallop of their own accord. At the fork in the trail, Fabiola stopped.

‘Back along the ridge or down the valley and along the stream to the bridge at St Denis?’ she asked.

‘The ridge.’ Bruno wanted the sense of liberty he found amid the big skies and wide views.

‘Did you see the Countess yourself?’ she asked as the horses began to walk up the slope to the ridge.

‘Yes, in her hospital bed in the chateau, wired up to various machines. She’s apparently been out of it for years.’

‘Who’s her doctor, do you know?’

‘No idea. She has a full-time nurse. Why do you ask?’

‘I had lunch with the pathologist at the hospital after we finished the autopsy and one of his colleagues joined us, the main specialist in Alzheimer’s. He hadn’t heard of the Countess’s case but he’d certainly heard of her. The thing was, he said he knew all the other Alzheimer’s specialists in the area and he was surprised he’d never heard about her. He wanted to know who’d made the diagnosis, so I said I’d ask you.’

‘I can probably find out,’ Bruno said. ‘It may have been someone in Paris and her sister brought her down here for the quiet.’

‘How long has she been here?’

‘I don’t know that either. Nobody seemed to know she was here, not the Mayor or even people in the Party like Montsouris. They kept it very discreet.’

‘She must have a doctor locally,’ she said as they topped the rise and the plateau spread out beyond with the view down the valley to the old abbey at Paunat. ‘I’ll ask Gelletreau, he knows all the other toubibs from Bordeaux to Toulouse.’

‘ Merde ,’ she said as her phone jangled. ‘I’m on standby tonight.’ She listened and turned her horse, mouthing ‘Sorry’ as she held the phone to her ear. ‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes,’ she said and set off back down the slope.

A familiar white mare was grazing in Bruno’s front garden when he pulled into his driveway. Eugenie, dressed in her black riding trousers and sweat shirt, rose from his chair beside the barbecue and greeted him with the words ‘Mama kangaroo.’ Balzac was still nestled in the binocular case under Bruno’s chin.

‘Say hello to the baby kangaroo,’ he replied, releasing Balzac, who trotted up to greet the visitor. Eugenie’s response to the dog was perfunctory.

‘I didn’t see you riding this evening so I thought I’d come back this way to say hello,’ she said. She was tapping her riding crop against her leg, a gesture Bruno had not seen before. In a woman less impassive, he’d have assumed it meant she was nervous.

‘I was riding with Fabiola, the doctor you met, and we took the other direction.’

‘Avoiding me?’ She gave a slow smile.

‘No, we had to cut the ride short because she was called out to a patient.’

‘Surprised to see me?’

‘A little. What can I do for you?’ His talk with Father Sentout had made him wary. Could she have come here with some thought of entrapment, ripping her own blouse and calling rape as Foucher leapt out from behind some bush with a camera? Hardly, he told himself. That sweatshirt was not the dress for such a ploy.

‘I came because I was curious to see how you lived.’ She looked past him at the small cottage that he’d restored from ruin with the help of friends and neighbours.

‘Ducks and chickens, a vegetable garden, jars of preserves lined up neatly on the shelves in your barn, it’s the real country life.’ She suddenly twirled around and gestured with an elegant arm at the view over the long field and the woods that rose to the ridge. ‘And a wonderful view,’ she said, turning to face him again.

‘I’m happy here,’ he said quietly, wondering what really had brought her here.

Eugenie went on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘I also came because I want to know why you dislike us so much and why you’re so opposed to our project.’

‘I’m not in the least opposed to it, if it gets built as planned,’ he replied, thinking this was not the time to reveal what he knew of the unpaid bills and the faked plans for the sports hall.

‘But this latest demand from your Mayor, that the Count signs over his hotel as collateral, that’s your plan. Just like all these questions about Thivion, that’s also your work.’

‘What questions?

‘You’re trying to tell me you didn’t set that reporter from Sud-Ouest onto us with all those photos of that mean little place we had to build?’

Good for Delaron, Bruno thought. Wait till they also heard from Paris-Match .

‘I suppose I should be flattered at your faith in my powers, but I don’t control the press. You’re being ridiculous. Do you want a drink?’ He really wanted to take a quick look inside, to see if she’d been in the house.

‘So you’re saying that my suspicions of you are ridiculous but that yours of me and our project are reasonable,’ she said, as if making a joke of it. ‘Could you make me a kir, please?’

‘Of course. There’s something you can help me with. I’d like to talk to the Countess’s doctor, ask him whether at some point she might be lucid enough to answer questions about her granddaughter.’

‘It’s a specialist in Paris, at the Memory Research Centre at the Laboisiere hospital. The Count brings him down in the helicopter. But I can tell you that the chances of lucidity are zero.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, but we’ll need a doctor’s opinion for my report.’ He went inside to prepare the drinks. At a quick glance nothing seemed to have been disturbed. He splashed creme de cassis into two glasses, filled them with white wine and was turning to take them when he heard her soft footstep in the hall. She must have taken off her riding boots before she came in.

‘Do you mind if I come in? It’s getting cool outside.’ Without waiting for his answer she went into the living room as if she knew the way, leaving a hint of an unfamiliar perfume in her wake. She sat back on his sofa and flashed him a brilliant smile. It was, he realized, the same smile she had worn in the photo with the Count in Gala magazine.

‘I do like a real fire,’ she said, sipping from her drink and looking at his empty grate. He nodded amiably but said nothing, wondering how she intended this meeting to develop. He found it hard to believe she would try anything so crude as an attempt to seduce him.