Gerald Durrell - The Picnic and Suchlike Pandemonium

“But how could that be?” I asked, bewildered. “How did his assailant leave the room?”

“That’s exactly what the police wanted to know,” said Gideon dryly. “As you know the French police are very efficient but lacking in imagination. Their logic worked something like this: I was the one that stood to gain by my uncle’s death because I inherit the family fortune and his library and several farms dotted about all over France . So, as I was the one that stood to gain, enfin , I must be the one who committed murder.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I broke in indignantly.

“Not to a policeman,” said Gideon, “especially when they heard that at my last meeting with my uncle we had quarrelled bitterly and one of the things that the servants heard me saying to him was that I wished he would drop dead and thus leave the world a cleaner place.”

“But in the heat of a quarrel one is liable to say anything,” I protested. “Everyone knows that . . . And how did they suggest you killed your uncle and then left the room locked on the inside?”

“Oh, it was possible, quite possible,” said Gideon. “With a pair of long-nosed, very slender pliers, it could have been done, but it would undoubtedly have left marks on the end of the key, and as you can see it’s unmarked. The real problem was that at first I had no alibi. I had gone down to Marseilles and, as I had cut my visit to my uncle short, I was too early for my ship. I booked into a small hotel and enjoyed myself for those few days in exploring the port. I knew no one there so, naturally, there was no one to vouch for my movements. As you can imagine, it took time to assemble all the porters, maids, maîtres d’hôtel , restaurant owners, hotel managers and so on, and through their testimony prove to the police that I was, in fact, in Marseilles and minding my own business when my uncle was killed. It has taken me the last six weeks to do it, and it has been extremely exhausting.”

“Why didn’t you telegraph me?” I asked. “I could have come and at least kept you company.”

“You are very kind, Peter, but I did not want to embroil my friends in such a sordid mess. Besides, I knew that if all went well and the police released me (which they eventually did after much protest) I should want your help on something appertaining to this.”

“Anything I can do,” I said. “You know you have only to ask, my dear fellow.”

“Well, as I told you I spent my youth under my uncle’s care, and after that experience I grew to loathe his house and everything about it. Now, with this latest thing, I really feel I cannot set foot in the place again. I am not exaggerating but I seriously think that if I were to go there and stay I should become seriously ill.”

“I agree,” I said firmly. “On no account must you even contemplate such a step.”

“Well, the furniture and the house I can of course get valued and sold by a Paris firm: that is simple. But the most valuable thing in the house is the library. This is where you come in, Peter. Would you be willing to go down and catalogue and value the books for me. Then I can arrange for them to be stored until I can build an extension to my library to house them?”

“Of course I will,” I said. “With the greatest of pleasure. You just tell me when you want me to come.”

“I shall not be with you, you’ll be quite alone,” Gideon warned.

“I am a solitary creature, as I have told you,” I laughed, “and as long as I have a supply of books to amuse me I shall get along splendidly, don’t worry.”

“I would like it done as soon as possible,” said Gideon, “so that I may get rid of the house. How soon could you come down?”

I consulted my diary and found that, fortunately, I was coming up to a rather slack period.

“How about the end of next week?” I asked and Gideon’s face lit up.

“So soon?” he said delightedly. “That would be splendid! I could meet you at the station at Fontaine next Friday. Would that be all right?”

“Perfectly all right,” I said, “and I will soon have the books sorted out for you. Now, another glass of port and then you must away to bed.”

“My dear Peter, what a loss you are to Harley Street,” joked Gideon, but he took my advice.

Twice during the night I awakened, thinking that I heard him cry out but, after listening for a while all was quiet and I concluded that it was just my imagination. The following morning he left for France and I started making my preparations to follow him, packing sufficient things for a prolonged stay at his late uncle’s house.

The whole of Europe was in the grip of an icy winter and it was certainly not the weather to travel in. Indeed no one but Gideon could have got me to leave home in such weather. Crossing the Channel was a nightmare and I felt so sick on arrival in Paris that I could not do more than swallow a little broth and go straight to bed. The following day it was icy cold, with a bitter wind, grey skies and driving veils of rain that stung your face. Eventually I reached the station and boarded the train for what seemed an interminable journey, during which I had to change and wait at more and more inhospitable stations, until I was so numbed with cold I could hardly think straight. All the rivers wore a rim of lacy ice along their shores, and the ponds and lakes turned blank, frozen eyes to the steel grey sky.

At length, the local train I had changed to dragged itself, grimy and puffing, into the station of Fontaine. I disembarked and made my way with my luggage to the tiny booking office and minute waiting-room. Here, to my relief I found that there was an old-fashioned, pot-bellied stove stuffed with chestnut roots and glowing almost red hot. I piled my luggage in the corner and spent some time thawing myself out, for the heating on the train had been minimal. There was no sign of Gideon. Presently, warmed by the fire and a nip of brandy, I had taken from my travelling flask, I began to feel better. Half an hour passed and I began to worry about Gideon’s absence. I went out on to the platform and discovered that the grey sky seemed to have moved closer to the earth and a few snowflakes were starting to fall, huge lacy ones the size of a half crown, that augured a snowstorm of considerable dimensions in the not too distant future. I was just wondering if I should try walking to the village when I heard the clop of hooves and made out a dog cart coming along the road driven by Gideon muffled up in a glossy fur coat and wearing an astrakhan hat.

“I’m so very sorry, Peter, for keeping you waiting like this,” he said, wringing my hand, “but we seem to have one catastrophe after another. Come, let me help you with your bags and I will tell you all about it as we drive.”

We collected my baggage, bundled it into the dog cart and then I climbed up on to the box alongside Gideon and covered myself thankfully with the thick fur rug he had brought. He turned the horse, cracked his whip and we went, bowling down the snowflakes which were now falling quite fast. The wind whipped our faces and made our eyes water, but still Gideon kept the horse at a fast trot.

“I am anxious to get there before the snowstorm really starts,” he said, “that is why I am going at this uncivilized pace. Once these snowstorms start up here they can be very severe. One can get snowed in for days at a time.”

“It is certainly becoming a grim winter,” I said.

“The worst we’ve had here for fifty years,” said Gideon.

We came to the village and Gideon was silent as he guided his horse through the narrow, deserted streets, already white with settling snow. Occasionally a dog would run out of an alley and run barking alongside us for a way, but otherwise there was no sign of life. The village could have been deserted for all evidence to the contrary.