The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel (14 page)

“Not much point,” he replied, not sure whether Pamela was trying not to talk about her plans in Trémolat or was genuinely intrigued by Yevgeny’s remarks. “Even if there was something odd about it, there’s no evidence to justify an investigation.”

“Have you talked to Jack Crimson about it? He and Gilbert seemed to be friends, and Gilbert took him aside at one point for a private chat.”

Bruno’s ears pricked up. Crimson had not seen fit to reveal that interesting nugget during their conversation. Bruno made a mental note to pursue it.

“What did you think Yevgeny might have been trying to tell us?” he asked.

“No idea. It may have been a male thing. Perhaps if I hadn’t been there he might have said more.”

Bruno threw her a fond and knowing glance. Pamela always seemed to assume that men shared intimate conversations just as she did with her women friends. In Bruno’s experience, men seldom did so, except perhaps in variants of that drunken Moscow-style night with Gilbert that Yevgeny had described. And while Bruno enjoyed a glass of scotch, it had been many years since he had spent an entire evening drinking it. The idea of a vodka-fueled night with Yevgeny did not appeal.

“Just here is fine, thanks,” Pamela said as he passed the
mairie
in Trémolat. He stopped the car, and she pecked him on the cheek before climbing out, saying, “See you in the stables tomorrow morning.”

Bruno turned the car around and saw Pamela standing in front of a real estate agent’s window, looking at photos of houses for sale. He assumed she was killing time, waiting for him to drive away before heading for her destination. He wasn’t going to spy on her, but as he drove quickly past the parking lot of the Vieux Logis, the best restaurant in the region, he caught from the corner of his eye a glimpse of the Jaguar that belonged to Jack Crimson.

The next morning, in the gray light just after dawn, once Pamela and Bruno had saddled the horses and ridden up to the ridge that overlooked St. Denis, Pamela reined in. She glanced briefly at Bruno and then looked away over the landscape where the sun was about to rise over the woodlands to the east. The air was cool rather than chill, a light breeze stirring the leaves that were just turning gold and red on the trees below. The birds, which had fallen silent as their horses snorted when they were stopped, broke out in song, at first a few scattered notes and then a full chorus. Balzac had stopped at Hector’s side, one paw up and poised, his tail standing proud and high, ears cocked and nose and eyes alert as he sniffed for game. Bruno leaned forward to stroke Hector’s neck and then sat up straight in the saddle, breathed in deeply and braced himself. He had wondered what time and place Pamela would choose for this declaration.

“I’ve been thinking about how to say this and where, Bruno, and I think this is best. I love you a great deal.” She paused, and Bruno waited for the inevitable “but.” Pamela surprised him by continuing, “I always shall, even though we both know that this affair of ours has no future. And while it has been lovely for me, it’s not fair to you. I know you want a woman to settle down with, to have children and a family, and I think you’re right to do so. But I can’t do that, and I can’t be that. The longer you and I go on, the later it will be for you to start finding the woman you need to share your life. That delay in your life is not a responsibility that I want to bear any longer, however selfishly I may enjoy our times together. I feel guilty about you, Bruno. So if the only way to set you free is to tell you to get out of my life, well, that’s what I shall say.”

A silence fell until finally Bruno was aware, even though like her he was gazing over the long, lazy bends of the River Vézère, that she’d turned to look at him. Expecting this, he’d even tried to rehearse some phrases to say, and in a deep and private place in his heart he welcomed it. But he was stunned by the sadness that gripped him now that it had finally happened, the sense of finality when Pamela with such clarity and determination hauled down the curtain on a year of his and her life. From the corner of his eye he saw movement and glanced down to see that Balzac had turned and was looking up at him uncertainly. The scent of rabbits was forgotten as the basset hound sensed that something had shifted in his master’s mood.

Suddenly aware of the heaviness in his throat, Bruno didn’t want to speak. He did not quite trust himself not to burst out with some phrase of anguish or recrimination that reflected the hurt he felt. Or perhaps it was the annoyance with himself for feeling so sour, so mistrustful, at the thought of Pamela moving on to another man. He had felt the tiny, spiteful curl of jealousy unfolding in his mind the previous evening when he had seen Crimson’s car in the parking lot of the restaurant and realized at once how Pamela intended to spend her evening. How could her dinner be innocent, he’d asked himself, if she did not want to tell him she’d be dining with a man he thought of as his friend?

“We’ll always be friends, of course,” she was saying. “And we’ll still ride together and look after Hector and Balzac, and cook and spend evenings with Fabiola and Gilles, but I’m closing the bedroom door, Bruno,” she went on. Her voice was very clear and firm and her back straight, a woman in command of herself and her emotions. “You have to move on, for your own sake.”

Slowly he nodded, still not able to look at her. “I understand,” he said, turning Hector’s head so his horse faced a different direction. He would not spoil this dignified scene of farewell, which she had planned, with some spiteful retort like a spurned youth.

“Thank you, it has been a wonderful time,” he said. “I think you know that there will always be a part of my heart that’s yours. But I’d better ride on alone. I’ll bring Hector back.”

“Just put him in the stable, take off his saddle and then go. I’ll take care of him when you’ve gone. Fabiola and I will exercise the horses tonight, but we’ll see you tomorrow.” Her voice was kindly but final.

He walked Hector to the edge of the woods and then along the bridle path where the hill began to slope down and the trees closed in so that he was not tempted to turn in the saddle for a final look back. Bruno knew that thoughts of Pamela would trouble his nights for some time to come, some echo of her murmured endearments and her gentle cries of pleasure echoing from the walls of his bedroom. Some scent of her would linger on his pillow, some yearning for the touch of her and the welcome of her arms would send him searching in his bed for that familiar soft shape. Even now he could feel certain memories sealing themselves into his mind: Pamela sitting up in his bed and raising her hands to her hair in moonlight; Pamela pulling him urgently to her; Pamela waking him in the morning with a warm kiss and insistent touch.
Mon Dieu,
how a woman leaves her mark on a man, he thought, and what a wonderful gift it is.

At last his horse came to the firebreak that ran across the slope the full length of these woods. Finally he gave Hector his head, feeling the strength in his steed as that familiar rhythm began to build, the trot becoming within a few strides a canter and then a steady run, just short of a full gallop. He loosened the reins a fraction and bent lower in the saddle, shifting his weight forward so Hector took the signal and picked up an extra burst of speed until Bruno was aware only of the thunder of hooves, the wind in his face narrowing his eyes, the power of the horse beneath him and the blur of the trees they were racing past.

Bruno gave a whoop of joy at the sheer exhilaration of this ride, as fast as he and Hector had ever gone together. Their speed, he sensed, was leaving far behind the meanness that had stolen into his thoughts, and the shared pleasure of horse and rider in this headlong dash left no room for the sadness that had stolen over him as Pamela had spoken. It was past, swept away beneath Hector’s pounding hooves, carried off in the wind of their passage. And he was free, untrammeled. There would be no sense of guilt if he looked at another woman with something more than appreciation. His world was opening with possibilities, with new directions…

But even as he thought this he saw the firebreak narrowing ahead, the trees thinning out, this glorious run reaching its end. He began to sit back in the saddle, exerting a gentle pressure on the reins, even though Hector had already seen the changing landscape ahead. Their pace was slowing until they reached the open stretch of parkland that led to the quarry and the road to Les Eyzies. It was time to head back. Bruno slowed Hector to a walk and turned in the saddle to see his basset hound thundering toward him, his ears flapping like wings, his tongue out and his tail stretched straight back.

Breathless from the gallop and panting but feeling wonderful, Bruno laughed aloud, patted his horse’s back, and all three of them, horse and hound and master, trotted contentedly back along the familiar hunters’ path to the stables at Pamela’s home. Bruno could almost taste the coffee and croissant that awaited him at Fauquet’s café. Perhaps two croissants this morning, he thought, since after a run like that Balzac deserved at least half of one for himself.

“Have you heard about this debate in Bergerac tonight?” Fauquet asked, handing the bowl of warm croissants and the first of two coffees to Bruno. It was a new trick he’d learned from some colleague in the trade. Two fresh single coffees always somehow tasted better than pouring them both into the same cup. “It’s going to be on TV. They’ll be bound to talk about Imogène’s deer. When do you plan to bring her back here?”

“When I think it’s safe and the hotheads have calmed down,” said Bruno, tearing off a corner of his first croissant to give to Balzac. “You know the people around here. Pretty soon they’ll start feeling guilty about her and tell each other she may be batty but her heart’s in the right place.”

The door opened and two young women entered, Roberte from the
mairie
staff and Florence, the science teacher at the local
collège.
Each the mother of small children, the two women had just come from dropping them off at the
maternelle,
the town’s kindergarten. Bruno kissed each of them in greeting while Balzac barked a welcome and Fauquet put two fresh cups on the espresso machine.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” said Florence. “I think this whole business makes for a very good teaching opportunity. I’m thinking of organizing a debate for the senior class, for and against hunting.”

“Against hunting? In St. Denis?” gasped Fauquet. “But just about everybody hunts around here.”

Florence shook her head. “Did you know that a quarter of the schoolchildren have signed up for the vegetarian option at lunch? Your generation might be hunters, but the kids are different. I’ve been impressed by the way they’ve been talking about what happened to Imogène and her deer, so it’s a good opportunity to make them sort out their thinking, hear the arguments for and against and then vote.”

“You want to do this at the
collège
?” Fauquet asked, sounding shocked. He was a town councillor, on the parents’ advisory board for the
collège
and treasurer of the school sports association. Bruno knew that if Fauquet turned against the idea Florence would face an uphill struggle.

“You mean the students themselves would speak and run the debate, not bring in any outside speakers?” he asked.

“Absolutely, we at the
collège
would just provide the space, and naturally we’d sit in to make sure the arguments didn’t get too heated, but this is purely for the students, not the parents.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” said Roberte, about to bite into her
pain au chocolat,
but putting it back on the plate as she warmed to her theme. “I wish we’d done that sort of thing when I was at school. It’s good to treat our kids as grown-ups and take their ideas seriously. And I don’t think I approve of what happened to Imogène in spite of that accident with the lawyer’s wife and kids. You can’t blame Imogène for that.”

“Of course you can blame her,” said Fauquet. “If it wasn’t for her crazy Green ideas we wouldn’t have had that accident.”

“But deer cause accidents all over the place, even when there’s no Imogène trying to save them,” countered Roberte. “And if you got rid of all the deer to stop accidents, what would you men have to hunt?”

“Sounds like the debate is getting started already,” said Bruno with a smile. He turned to Fauquet. “The good thing about a debate is the rules of order, listening to the other point of view, making the speakers organize their arguments. I think it could do the kids good, and they’re the voters of the future.”

Fauquet nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe if it’s just among the students…and a quarter of them vegetarian, you say.”

Bruno was thinking there were going to be some lively family dinners over the coming days as fathers who hunted tried to learn if their children had signed up for the vegetarian meals. As Florence headed for the door, he followed her outside and suggested it would be a good idea to keep the list from becoming public.

“I was thinking the same thing,” she said. “I should never have mentioned it. There’s a sign-up sheet for it in the canteen, and I can take that down, but the cooks will have one and the school secretary another. I’ll have a word with them.”

At that moment, Bruno’s phone vibrated, and the screen showed Rollo, the
collège
headmaster, was calling. He sounded furious, insisting that Bruno come to his home at once to view the scene of the crime.

“What crime?” Bruno asked, and groaned inwardly when Rollo replied, “My garden. It’s been sabotaged.”

Rollo’s garden was his pride and joy. He lived in a modern house above the road to Limeuil, and the rockery he’d installed on the slope down to the road was an explosion of color each spring and summer. To each side of the house were orchards of fruit trees, and on the flat land behind the house lay the finest lawn in the district, weeded, rolled and watered to a perfect green velvet. This lawn was flanked by climbing frames and tall arches for Rollo’s roses, which won all the prizes at the garden show the previous year and which led to a carefully tended vegetable garden.

Each Sunday morning Rollo ran a very popular call-in radio show on Bleu Périgord, giving gardening tips and answering listeners’ questions. Like almost everyone he knew, Bruno usually listened as he did his washing and ironing and cleaned the house and followed Rollo’s tips about dealing with slugs and snails and other threats to his lettuce and vegetables. He’d have to tell Rollo about the riding-school tip on hanging eggshells in trees.

Bruno found Rollo with tears in his eyes standing beside one of the tumbled arches, roses scattered over the once-perfect lawn, which itself had been ripped up as if by a some crazed and vengeful plowman. The vegetable garden beyond reminded Bruno of photographs he’d seen of battlefields of the 1914–18 war, showing crumbled trenches and pits like shell holes. Bruno’s heart sank; he’d seen this sort of damage before. Other than artillery, the only cause of such devastation was a troop of
sangliers,
wild boar that roamed the woods. And against them there was little that could be done; even electric fences were no guarantee against their determined aggression when hungry.

“There’s been all this fuss about a bunch of damn deer, but what are you going to do about these wild boar?” Rollo demanded. “Just look at the damage they’ve done.”

“My deepest commiserations,” said Bruno, knowing this was inadequate for the grief and anger Rollo must feel at the destruction of years of work. He was tempted to say this was the price you paid for living in the country, but that was not what Rollo wanted to hear right now, and Rollo was a friend. But what did he expect Bruno to do? He could hardly arrest a troop of wild boar. Instead, he asked, “How did the boar get in?”

Rollo led the way through the remains of the vegetables to the tumbled fence posts and loops of broken wire. Bruno recalled a brief thunderstorm overnight; there must have been a local power cut that knocked out the electrical fence. But nobody else had complained of losing power. He looked down the hill to the Domaine and saw some lights were on. To the left at the Domaine’s wine barn he could see workmen using power tools on the big sliding door. From Rollo’s kitchen Bruno heard the sound of an electric coffee grinder.