Peril in Provence: Mary Grey Mysteries, #4

Prologue

Provence, October 28, 1937

The weather could not have been better for the Feast of St. Simon and St. Jude. The day dawned bright and sunny without a cloud in the too-blue sky and only the gentlest of breezes. Yes, there was an autumnal chill, but it was a briskness that enlivened and stirred the blood rather than keeping people indoors. It had been many years since the Feast Day had enjoyed such pleasant treatment from the elements. Throughout the day, the town square was filled with prize-laden raffle stands selling wines and cheeses. Rounds of boules were played with a level of intensity unseen since the days of duels. This year’s festivities had coincided with the arrival of several Gypsy caravans to the area, and they displayed such carnival acts as knife throwing and fire swallowing. A self-proclaimed seer set up a tent to read tarot cards, and soon a long line formed as all the girls in town waited to learn who their future husband would be. Fronsac, the local artist, made numerous sketches of everything he saw, imagining a new series of oils he would paint commemorating pastoral gaiety. Day became night, but the mood remained merry. The moon itself shone that night with golden radiance. So of course, some form of wickedness had to come along and ruin it. C’est la vie.

All this was quite obvious to everyone in hindsight, but initially on the evening in question, the mood was one of gaiety—even jubilation. For Munier, like all such villages, adored its fêtes votives.

Per tradition, the Feast was held in the town square. A small stage with a microphone had been set up where Mayor Farigoule gave his annual speech, followed by two of the local chevaliers. They spoke at length on the joys of community, fellowship, and the excellent harvest season that year as anxious toes tapped impatiently. The local priest reminded everyone of the spiritual nature of the occasion; St Jude and St. Simon were two of the original apostles and Jesus’s own cousins who would attain martyrdom in Persia. Do not forget, Father Benedict instructed, that glorious St. Jude is the Patron Saint of Lost Causes, before offering prayers and blessing.

Finally, all the fine oratory ended, and the true business of gluttony could commence as dinner was served. People sat wherever they could find seats. Madame Dellaire of the chateau and her nephew Maxim sat side by side with the peasants who worked her estate and their wives. The owner of one of the finest local vineyards dined alongside one of the area’s most infamous truffle poachers. The former had at one time threatened to shoot the latter if he ever caught him on his property. But for tonight at least, all was forgiven and the two happily broke bread together. Literally. They each grabbed a different end of a baguette, tearing it in two. Neighborhood dogs eagerly scampered below the tables, picking up scattered morsels and tossed bones. Neighborhood cats kept watchful eyes out from the alleys for the rats and other vermin who’d inevitably be attracted by the feast’s detritus.

And what a feast it was! Long trestle tables of rough planked wood groaned under the weight of their offerings: cheeses, baguettes, olive oil by the jug, canapés, bouillabaisse, rosemary-flavored chicken, roasted baby lamb with a creamy garlic sauce, and loins of pork stuffed with mushrooms. One platter even held a freshly caught wild sanglier, roasted and served with an apple in its mouth. And of course there was wine. It had been a fine year for the local grape growers, and in good Gallic tradition, everyone was now enjoying the fruits of their labor. Reds and whites seemed to flow endlessly at the table. It brought color to the English lady’s cheeks, and she talked faster. The young American polished off one drink only to find another thrust into his hands, seemingly out of nowhere, to enjoy. The two of them were a familiar enough sight—the English lady who regularly visited the local boulangerie and the American gentleman who was fond of taking country drives at lightning speed.

Now this is why I love France! he roared out to the crowd as he quaffed his glass before making a face. That, he thought, had not been one of the region’s better vintages.

Beside the stage and tables, another area had been cleared for the dancing that must always follow such a feast. By some miracle, people who moments earlier had been almost comatose through overindulgence were now on their feet and moving. An old white-haired Gypsy played the fiddle while his pretty young granddaughter danced with a tambourine. Monsieur Picard as per usual brought out his prized accordion. Many traditional old favorites were played, then the fiddler struck up the paso doble. Gaston the local innkeeper declined all attempts to cajole him to dance, preferring to instead sit on the sidelines and drink. There were plenty of others, though, who were happy to rise to the occasion. The barmaid danced with the local gendarme. The town butcher paired off with the baker’s daughter. Maxim gallantly offered his arm to the local schoolteacher to let her have a turn. Mayor Farigoule gallantly led Madame Dellaire in an impromptu waltz that earned a round of applause from all, including the mayor’s young wife Monique, who sadly could not dance that evening due to a sore toe. She, like Monsieur Duval the town’s pharmacist, watched the dancing from the sidelines.

Curiously, the American and Englishwoman were not there. Perhaps they did not like dancing. And then a couple of people felt drops of rain. Within a matter of seconds, the sprinkle became a torrent, and everyone was struggling to find shelter under the tents and newspapers. Farmers and gentry alike shook their heads glumly, not just for the end of the evening’s festivities but for what it meant to the broader climate. These were not the rains of summer with fat, warm, lazy droplets. No, these were the cold, pounding sheets of water that signaled the arrival of winter. Such floodwaters could sweep away entire fields and level streets as surely as a mine detonating. Worse yet, with the rain, they could feel the wind begin to change. The mistral had arrived once more in all its terrible glory. Uneaten crumbs of cheese and scraps of bread from the tables became airborne and blew among décolletage and shirt fronts. Tablecloths snapped and billowed like sails in full wind. Wineglasses and candles tipped over, and there was a moment’s concern for a possible fire when another disaster entirely intervened.

Regardez! a young boy called out, pointing above, and all eyes turned. Munier’s rampart walls, built over seven centuries ago, stood two stories high and along them lay a narrow path lined with a parapet. It had become almost as well trodden over the years as the city cobblestones. Atop those ramparts now were two figures. One male. One female. The latter had his arms around the former. Some in the crowd may have recognized the figures in question as being the foreign guests of Madame Dellaire. The American and the Englishwoman.

Normally, the sight of them out on a moonlit night together in physical engagement would signal an affaire de coeur. But this was no romantic liaison. Indeed, the two of them appeared to be yelling at each other, though their voices could not be made out from below. Some would later claim the woman’s face was contorted with unearthly rage. Others would say she looked frightened. Then there were those who freely admitted to being too far away to really see her face, but they didn’t get much attention. Honesty never makes for riveting testimony. What everyone from the square could see, however, was that the woman tore herself from the arms of the man with a heavy shove.

What was the purpose of the push? Was it, as the woman would later maintain, simply to get away? Was it an act of adrenaline? Or was it, as others would later charge, a deliberate act of malice? There would be a great deal of argument later about intention. It is truly remarkable how willingly people who have never claimed the gift of clairvoyance in the past would be in this instance to assert with full confidence that they—and they alone—knew to have been in the minds of the persons on the wall that night!

What no one could dispute was the result. When the woman pushed him, the man stumbled back on the parapet of the rampart wall…and went over. For one eternal moment, he seemed permanently suspended in the air. His mouth gaped open in shock, and his arms stretched up above him as if reaching for a rope to grab onto. Then gravity overtook him. The man hit the cobblestone street below with a sickening thud and a thick pool of dark liquid began pouring underneath his head. There was a moment of shocked silence.

Then came the screams.

Chapter One

October 30, 1937

Much to Shaefer’s bemusement, Mary insisted on carving a turnip for All Hallows’ Eve. It wasn’t, as Mary was the first to admit, the cleanest or most artistic of efforts, but still, she took great pride in lighting it up and putting it in the little back window.

As she and Shaefer admired their effort, they heard a knock on the door. Telegram for Mr. Shaefer, a voice announced.

Shall I? Mary asked. Shaefer was in his slippers listening to the radio.

Ja! He gestured.

Mary hurriedly answered the door to find an adenoidal youth holding out a wire message. She grabbed it, and as she read it, her face contorted.

What is it? Shaefer asked.

It’s Harriet. She’s been arrested for murder. Mary read on. In France! She’s sitting in a prison down there right now.

Most people upon hearing that a close personal acquaintance has been charged with murder would be overcome with shock. They’d find themselves at a loss for what to do. Mary Grey and Franz Shaefer, however, were not most people. The latter was a professional private investigator and the former his assistant and apprentice. They were certainly surprised by the notion; neither had ever known Harriet West to exhibit any kind of homicidal tendency. But it wasn’t quite the jolt to them as it would have been for anyone else. Shaefer in his years as a police detective in Berlin had been mixed up in countless murder investigations, and within the last year, Mary had gotten entwined in several as well.

Within an hour of receiving the telegram, the two of them were packed and on the way to catch the overnight ferry train to Paris. They took the unprecedented indulgence of booking a first-class sleeping compartment, reasoning that Harriet would almost certainly pay them back. She was, after all, a great heiress and quite a generous one at that. They also ordered freely off the dining car menu, though neither of them spoke much at dinner and they scarcely noticed their dishes. They were both lost in their own thoughts.

Almost a year earlier, Harriet had hired Shaefer to bring her brother’s killer to justice. He had done so, and her fee had helped him get his sister and her family out of Germany and sent safely on to New Zealand. Another, more unexpected result of the matter had been that Harriet West and Mary Grey fell in love. Hard to know what had been more improbable about the pairing—that Harriet and Mary were both women or the difference in social stature. Harriet was one of the wealthiest and most desirable socialites in England. Mary was the daughter of a seamstress and, at the time she and Harriet had met, had been employed as a district nurse. But for a few months anyway, they’d lived together in a fragile sort of Eden. Of course, inevitably Paradise had been lost and Mary had gone on to work for Shaefer while Harriet had run off to France.

Shaefer, knowing all this, worried about Mary. She and Harriet had separated only a short time ago. She’d hardly had time to get over her heartbreak, and this reunion was bound to stir up a lot of emotions. Criminal investigations required cool, impartial logic. He already knew Mary wasn’t going to be able to muster any of that here. But he also knew trying to prevent Mary from coming along would have been a hopeless cause.

Mary herself wasn’t sure exactly how she felt. She was caught between anxiety for Harriet’s future, anger at Harriet for leaving her in the first place, smugness that Harriet had in fact called on her in a time of crisis—well, her and Shaefer anyway. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Harriet again. She couldn’t wait to see Harriet again! It was like a pair of birds had taken up residence in her chest and were now pecking each other to death.

How would it feel to see Harriet again? She didn’t know. She couldn’t know until she actually saw Harriet. Yet knowing it was no use trying to dwell on the matter couldn’t stop her from doing so. It was as frustrating a situation as one could be in, and it was only after a great deal of tossing and turning that Mary achieved any sleep.

*

They arrived in Paris shortly after breakfast. Shaefer had traveled there before, but it was Mary’s first time. In fact, it was the first time Mary had ever been out of England at all. This was the very year the Paris Expo was being held, and under different circumstances, Mary would have been anxious to see it, particularly the Spanish pavilion with its supposedly shocking painting Guernica by that Picasso fellow. But there was simply no time to visit the Expo or to see any of the sights of Paris at all. Rather, a phone call to Harriet’s solicitors in England had gotten them money wired on credit as well as the name of a prominent Parisian attorney, Jean François Jorisse, who wanted to meet them. They immediately hailed a cab, and so all Mary saw of Paris were a few glimpses through the window of a speeding vehicle.

Jorisse’s offices lay in a quiet, yet prosperous-looking street of limestone buildings overhung with crawling ivy. Shaefer and Mary walked up a flight of dimly lit stairs to ring a buzzer, then down a corridor to a young woman at a reception desk. An extremely chic, fashionable young woman who wore an expression of determined ennui. She said nothing but with a tilt of her head indicated Mary and Shaefer could go in through an unlocked door. This led them into Jorisse’s office, a good-sized room decorated in a surprisingly modern style with sleek Danish furniture. On the wall hung several frighteningly abstract paintings made up of dark colors, squiggly lines, and no recognizable shapes. It was exactly the sort of art that Harriet had favored and which Mary had never quite understood the point of.

Jorisse was a distinguished-looking man of about fifty years of age with a heavyset figure, silver hair at his temples, and a perfectly trimmed mustache and beard. His suit was well tailored, and he smelled of expensive perfume. Well, technically it was called cologne rather than perfume, but what Jorisse wore was a finer and more flowery scent than you’d ever catch being worn by most British women let alone men. One could also tell at first glance that unlike any British lawyer there was no possible circumstance in which Jorisse would ever wear tweed. Nor did he seem the sort of fellow you could prevail on for a round of golf or, indeed, any rigorous outdoor activity at all. One modern trend Jorisse fiercely resisted was the cult of physical exercise.

Bonjour, he greeted them, holding out a manicured hand for Shaefer to shake. Your reputation precedes you, Monsieur Shaefer.

You’ve heard of me? Shaefer was pleasantly surprised by both the cordiality of the greeting and the firmness of the handshake.

But of course! Even in Paris, we have heard all about the great detective Franz Shaefer. Jorisse smiled. It is an honor to meet you in person! He added as a clear afterthought, And you too, Mademoiselle…Grey? I did pronounce it correctly?

You did, Mary confirmed.

I understand Harriet West contacted both of you, Jorisse continued thoughtfully, examining Mary. For while Shaefer’s presence was understandable, Mary Grey was something of a riddle, one he couldn’t quite unravel.

Miss Grey is my dear friend and associate, Shaefer cut in smoothly. She was also involved in the investigation into the death of Anthony West last winter.

Ah, of course. Jorisse smiled. That explains it! But where are my manners? Both of you sit! Get comfortable. They both did sit, though neither could do so with any degree of comfort in the modern Danish chairs.

What do you know so far? Jorisse began.

Absolutely nothing, except that Miss West was just arrested for murder and that she has retained you as local counsel, Shaefer responded.

Mary broke in, Now whatever the hell is going on? How can Harriet be accused of murder in some place called Muh-neer?

Non, it is pronounced Munier, Jorisse gently corrected her. Now, the facts are quite simple. As you may have known, Miss West spent considerable time this summer in the French Riviera, primarily in Cannes. It was there she met Madame Hortense Dellaire. The Dellaires are a very old, very proud family in Provence. It seems that she and Harriet West became quite friendly and Madame Dellaire invited her to an extended visit at her family chateau near the medieval town of Munier. Miss West was not the only guest Madame Dellaire invited, or even the only foreigner. There was an American journalist, Bill Holbrook. He paused significantly. It is he who Mademoiselle West killed.

Don’t you mean allegedly killed? Mary rebuked sharply.

Non. He