The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel (15 page)

“You have a separate circuit for the garden?” Bruno asked. Rollo nodded, saying that the fuse had blown in the night. Possibly the boar just blundered into the fence and rather than reeling back from the shock had somehow trampled wires together and made a short circuit. Or perhaps some tree branch had fallen on the fence in the storm. There was one likely candidate—a rotten branch about two meters long and as thick as Bruno’s arm lay atop some of the tangled wires. Bruno looked up the slope at the woods, trying to assess distances and wind strengths, but he could see no tree near enough from which it might have fallen.

Feeling baffled, he stooped to look at the wires and was surprised to see fresh metal gleaming at one broken end, as if the wire had been recently cut. This was suspicious. He strolled up to the edge of the woods, about twenty or thirty meters from the broken fence, and pushed through the undergrowth and the first belt of trees to where he knew a hunters’ trail ran along the ridge. He saw wide tire marks in the rough grass. Some saplings in the wood had been crushed as if a big vehicle had recently come through. The tire tracks did not continue to the edge of Rollo’s property, but there were tracks of something smaller, perhaps a bicycle. They were too narrow for a wheelbarrow. Bruno measured them and took a photograph with his phone, crouching low to the ground so the shadows of the marks stood out in the rising sun. Maybe they were tracks of mountain bikes.

“Did you hear any vehicles in the night or see any flashlights in the woods?” Bruno asked when he returned. Rollo shook his head.

“Any gunshots?” Bruno asked, and again Rollo said no.

Poachers and some unscrupulous hunters liked to work by night, using flashlights taped to their rifles to locate and then shoot the game. Some hunters could have been working the woods and driven the panicked boar onto Rollo’s land. But that wouldn’t explain the severed wire or the appearance of that rotten branch when there was no tree from which it might have fallen. But somebody could have brought that branch. He remembered something he’d read about a court case against some hunters in Burgundy who’d tranquilized some boar and left them to wake up in the garden of some antihunt campaigner they disliked. Could that have happened here? It would have taken two or even four strong men to carry drugged boar from the woods to Rollo’s garden. But they could have been draped across a mountain bike and moved that way.

“Have you made any enemies lately among the hunters?” Bruno asked.

Rollo looked startled. “Not that I know of. I’m not a hunter, but I’ve nothing against them. We used to get venison and pheasants from them often enough, in return for letting the Limeuil club hunt my land. It’s my property all the way back through those woods. But we asked them to stop recently when our daughter-in-law said the gunshots were frightening the baby. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering. You know what happened to Imogène’s deer.” Bruno decided against mentioning his suspicions to Rollo, at least until he had more to go on than a freshly cut wire. “I thought maybe some of the hotheads might have been in the woods last night and panicked the boar into running this way. But usually they’re careful not to drive boar toward houses, particularly if they belong to friends.”

“More power to the hunters, if you ask me. I wish they’d wipe out every damn boar in the
département.
I’m tempted to sign up to join them and start hunting the
sangliers
myself.”

Bruno promised to file a report for Rollo’s insurance, stayed for a cup of coffee and some further commiseration, but kept his suspicions to himself until he got back to his office. He searched on his computer for that case in Burgundy he vaguely recalled and found the reference. As he read the account, he realized it had stuck in his mind because it had triggered some new rules in France over the ownership and storage of tranquilizer guns. On the whole they were restricted to zoos, nature reserves and licensed veterinary surgeons. But in certain circumstances where usually protected animals were becoming a menace, they could be used by a registered hunting club.

He called the
préfecture
and they e-mailed to him a list of the registered tranquilizer guns in the
département.
There were only a dozen or so, among them the prehistoric wildlife park at Le Thot. The only unusual listing was for a fish farm that was suffering losses from a family of otters and had been approved to use the gun to tranquilize them and move them much farther up the river. The guns looked like conventional rifles but were powered by compressed air and fired a small dart. The precise tranquilizer to be used and the dose had to be approved by a vet and the weapon securely stored when not in use.

He called first at the St. Denis veterinary clinic, where Veltrier showed him the dart gun stowed in a locked cabinet, and similar precautions had been taken at the new wildlife park at St. Félix. But the director of the fish farm said he’d never seen their gun; it was in the care of the part-time gamekeeper they had hired to solve the otter problem. The director did not know where the darts were kept, nor did he have on file the vet’s certificate for the tranquilizer to be used. Bruno asked to see where the gamekeeper stored his gear and was taken to a corner of a storage barn, mostly filled with fish meal, and was shown a metal locker. It was unlocked and empty except for a pair of rubber boots, a camouflage jacket and an almost-empty bottle of cheap cognac.

“I checked his hunting license and his membership card from the Lalinde club,” said the fish farm director. “And he had a lockable chest in the back of his truck where he kept his weapons. Fabrice usually works at night, when we’ve all gone for the day. He’s done a good job so far, catching one breeding pair and taking them back upriver into the next
département.
”

“Fabrice?” Bruno said, his ears pricking up. This was also the gamekeeper at the Patriarch’s château. “What’s his surname?”

“Daubert, Fabrice Daubert, I think he’s from Bergerac.”

That triggered a memory. A man called Daubert had been suspended for a year from one of the regional rugby clubs for dirty play.

Bruno gave the fish farm director a warning and said he’d better have the paperwork up-to-date and the storage of the dart gun secured for Bruno’s next visit. He then called his colleague, Quatremer, the municipal policeman at Lalinde, to get a number for the secretary of the hunt club and mentioned his interest in Fabrice.

“Damn good shot and knows his hunting,” Bruno was told. “Not very popular, though. Fabrice is a bit too eager to get the first shot in and claim the biggest bag of the day. But he seems well settled now; gamekeeping suits him and it’s a steady job, or rather two jobs.”

“I know about the fish farm,” said Bruno. “What’s the other job?”

“I don’t know about any fish farm,” Quatremer replied. “His first job is over your way with that famous pilot, the Patriarch, and the second one is working for the son at the vineyard near here. They know him through the hunt club. He’s fallen on his feet there because the job comes with a cottage on the estate. Apparently there’s some problem with the pheasants. Don’t ask me what that means; it’s just what I heard.”

“How long has he been with the Lalinde club?” Bruno asked. “I know some of the guys there, but I hadn’t heard that Fabrice was a member. And after he was banned from rugby, I’d probably have heard.”

“Just a few months. He transferred from the Bergerac hunt club, and someone at the vineyard put in a good word for him. It was probably Victor, the owner; his wife is the club secretary.”

Wary of trespassing on Quatremer’s turf, Bruno asked if Quatremer would like to check on Fabrice’s dart gun, whether it was secured and if it had been used recently. Quatremer pleaded pressure of work and said Bruno should feel free to make the checks himself. So he took the now-familiar road to the vineyard and was not surprised to learn that Fabrice was now installed in what had been Gilbert’s home, but that he was working at the Patriarch’s place that day. He got Fabrice’s mobile phone number and left a message asking him to call urgently and also scribbled a note for him, which he left with the secretary who ran the vineyard office. With that he drove home, showered and changed, selected half a dozen of his best duck eggs, since he knew the countess loved them, and drove up the valley to the Red Château for the promised lunch.

The maid led Bruno through the familiar great hall to the wing that had been the countess’s hospital room when he had first been here. Now it was a light-filled sitting room with comfortable armchairs covered in chintz, and it led to the sunny terrace from which he heard the sound of women’s voices. He was the third guest to arrive, after Chantal and her brother, Marc, the one the countess was planning to be the husband of her great-granddaughter. Chantal and Marie-Françoise were sitting on each side of the countess, who was gingerly holding a modern mobile phone, and showing her how it worked. Marc was sitting facing her, his own phone in hand, chuckling as he sent her text messages.

“I’m far too old for this texting nonsense, Bruno, and my fingers are far too big,” said the old lady as he bent to kiss her cheeks. Unlike the solemn black skirt and jacket she had worn to the Patriarch’s party, the Countess was dressed in a light gray pantsuit over a high-necked white blouse that seemed to have been copied from a man’s pleated dress shirt. There were two canes by her side but no wheelchair.

“What would I want with the Internet?” she went on. “I’ve never liked the telephone. If it’s important, then it ought to be important enough to visit somebody and see them face-to-face or write a letter. I never seem to get any letters these days, except for that lovely card you sent, Bruno. I should have written to thank you for wheeling me around Marco’s place, not the other way around.”

Marc rose to shake hands, and the two young women kissed Bruno and asked for all the gory details of Imogène and her deer. Had he really spirited her away amid a volley of gunshots from angry hunters? Had he stayed to see the slaughter? Would she really be put on trial for murder? Or was it manslaughter? He held up his arms and explained his own modest role in the events.

“On the whole, I had the least exciting evening of anybody involved. Mainly I was in Périgueux for a meeting with the prefect. Almost anybody else in St. Denis will know more about what happened than I do.”

“You deserve a drink anyway,” said the countess and told him to help himself from a well-stocked trolley. The others were drinking white wine, and he joined them, noting it was the new Réserve du Patriarche that he’d been offered at the tasting. Marc rose and craned his neck to see whatever sports car produced the fierce, mechanical growl that suddenly came from the lane, its volume increasing as it reached the courtyard. A few moments later the Patriarch came in, bowing as he held open the door for Fabiola. She was instantly taken in an embrace by Marie-Françoise. Fabiola had been the first doctor to tend to Marie-Françoise after the nightmare in the cave and had then helped her find the right dentist to repair her battered jaw and good language tutors to help make the transition from California.

“I presume that ghastly sound was your car, Marco,” said the countess, rising to her feet with a single cane and an act of will as the Patriarch came forward to kiss her cheeks and then greet the others before turning back to her.

“My little Ferrari is older than our grandchildren,
ma belle,
but the car and I would both be honored if we could take you for a spin again. You always loved driving with the top down.”

“That was so I could leap out before you killed me, my dear.”

Bruno saw the two of them exchange a look of complete understanding and great affection. It must have been almost sixty years ago that they had become lovers, and they still shared this deep fondness for each other. Bruno could only hope that if he ever reached a similar age, he’d be able to exchange a glance like that with an old love. With a pang, he realized he had not given a thought to Pamela since their parting that morning. The Patriarch, he was sure, would have been far more gallant. Bruno glanced across at the young people clustered now around Fabiola, noting that despite the countess’s plans no chemistry seemed to be developing between Marc and Marie-Françoise. Instead he and his sister had their arms around each other as they listened to Marie-Françoise describe how Fabiola had helped her settle into her new life in France.

The Patriarch poured himself some wine and turned to Bruno. “We’ll be meeting again at the
confrérie
the first Saturday of next month. A dozen duck pâtés for us to taste and pick the best, I believe, and five or six of goose. Then we march in procession to the old square, I make a speech about your virtues, you take the oath as a
chevalier
and then we baptize you. That means we tap you on each shoulder with a duck and present you with your seal of office. After that we go to lunch, which usually goes on until the early evening. Take my advice, either make sure you have somebody sober to drive you home or take the train.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. How are your pheasants? I heard you’re having trouble with them.”

“
Tiens,
you’re well informed. Yes, we’ve got a few foxes to get rid of, and I’ve hired a gamekeeper to get the woods back in proper shape. That poor woman and her deer got me thinking about getting the game back into balance. They need predators, and we humans are the last ones left. Victor and Marc seldom hunt, and now that Gilbert’s dead there’s only me and Madeleine left to keep the numbers down. Hunting was about the only thing that kept poor Gilbert sober; he was always good around guns. I hear you like to shoot. Where do you go?”

Bruno explained that he had honorary membership of all three hunt clubs based around St. Denis, but that he usually went to the woods around St. Cirq and Audrix. “At least you can sometimes get the compensation of mushrooms even if the dogs can’t raise a single
bécasse,
” he said.

A gong sounded; a maid appeared farther down the terrace and stood by some double doors. Limping determinedly, the countess led them to lunch, declaring that this was to be a California-style modern meal as proposed by her great-granddaughter.

“That means very little food by our Périgord standards, Marco, just a little
salade périgourdine
and cold vegetable soup, and for us carnivores there’s some smoked ham,” the countess said. Bruno saw her hand quivering with the effort of walking with the single cane. “Marie-Françoise initially wanted to serve only fruit juice and mineral water, but I put my foot down over that.”

The banter continued and the Patriarch’s wine was praised until he tapped his glass and asked to hear the full story of the rescue of the countess and Marie-Françoise’s ordeal in the cave. Bruno protested that the real heroes of the incident weren’t present, his friends J-J and Sergeant Jules. J-J, chief of detectives for the
département,
had fired the crucial bullet, and Jules had hauled Marie-Françoise from the underground lake. He turned to Fabiola, saying she had been the one who saved the countess by discovering and exposing the false diagnosis.

“That’s not the way Marie-Françoise tells it,” said Chantal. “And it’s not the version that appeared in
Paris Match.
”

“Things never really happened the way they get written down as history or as journalism,” said the Patriarch. “In retrospect, events have to make sense and take place in order, one thing leading logically to another. It’s never that way at the time. So we have half-a-dozen different accounts, but they all agree that it ended happily. And now I’d like some coffee before going home to hear my daughter-in-law rehearse her speech yet again.”

“Is it for this evening’s debate in Bergerac?” Bruno asked.

“More than that, it’s the event that will shape her political future,” the Patriarch replied. “Madeleine’s a very ambitious woman, and of course related to you,” he said to the countess.

“She goes back to Eleanor of Aquitaine through Eleanor’s daughter Alix of Blois, while my ancestor was Eleanor’s daughter Joan, who became queen of Sicily and mother to a line of dukes of Toulouse,” said the countess. “And we’re related all over again through the de Rohans and through the Rochechouarts, which is the connection to Madame de Montespan.”

“So much of France’s history has been made by a long line of extraordinary women,” said the Patriarch, turning to Bruno. “It serves to put us men in our place.”

“But it’s usually you men who write the history,” said the countess, drily. She took a final sip of her wine, crumpled her napkin and left it beside her empty plate. “Marie-Françoise, would you look after our guests, please? Marco and I need a moment to ourselves.”

It seemed like a signal that lunch was over, but Marie-Françoise led them into the formal garden, an old-fashioned affair of gravel paths and trimmed topiary, and then down some stone steps where an obviously new swimming pool had been installed. At the far end, a series of glass arches seemed to pile on top of one another. It took a moment for Bruno to realize these could be extended to cover the pool so it could be used year-round. Marie-Françoise pointed to a large pool house covered with solar panels.

“Men to the left, girls to the right and there are swimsuits and towels if anyone wants to swim,” she said. “This was Granny’s welcome gift to me. She said since I’m from California I must miss having a pool. It’s heated so you can use it anytime.”

Marc and Chantal went straight to the changing room, Bruno and Fabiola accepted Marie-Françoise’s offer of another coffee, and she went to the central door of the pool house. Inside was a kitchen with cupboards of plastic glasses and crockery. She plugged in an espresso machine that stood on a counter beside a large refrigerator and put cups and saucers onto a tray.