‘If you believe Nathan should spend the rest of his life in prison, then you should tell them,’ I said. ‘If you are not certain of that, then leave it to Madeleine to decide.’
Sophie closed her eyes. ‘We still use the guillotine in France.’
I had assumed that with the extenuating circumstances, they wouldn’t execute Nathan, but I didn’t know what the French judicial system would decide. I could only guess.
‘Well, Sophie?’
She took a deep breath. ‘All right. So what do we do?’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I will organize this. The story for the rest of you needs to be very simple so you don’t contradict each other.’ I checked my watch. ‘It’s now a quarter to twelve. I have just said I am going to bed. You all agree. But you all leave before me — you can’t remember in what order. So it’s just me and Alden here when you go. That’s all you need to know. Everything, do you understand? And everyone get up late tomorrow.’
‘Who will discover Alden’s body?’
‘That’s not your concern,’ I said. ‘You’ll find out tomorrow.’
‘What about Madeleine?’ Sophie said.
‘She will find out too,’ I replied.
‘But she will know Alden didn’t come to bed with her.’
Damn. Sophie was right. I hadn’t thought of that. How could I hope to think of everything? I could only try.
‘That’s true. But don’t worry about it. Just go to bed, everyone.’
Elaine stood up, wiped her tears, and headed out of the door. Tony stared at his friend, hesitated, glanced at me and followed her, as did the others. Soon I was alone in the room with Alden.
First I felt for a pulse. There definitely wasn’t one. Alden was definitely dead.
For a moment the enormity of what had happened almost overwhelmed me; that a man had been killed right in front of me. But I crammed a lid on those feelings. I sat down on the sofa and forced myself to think. I thought hard and I thought quickly.
I had never been involved in a real-life murder, or indeed had any dealings with the police, although I had read three or four Agatha Christies, a Dashiell Hammett and a Maigret. That would have to do.
So what was involved in a detective investigation? Motive? Alden’s friends had none, the unnamed burglar did. Good. Interviews. Everyone had a simple story; I would need to think through mine. Alibis? In a way, we all had alibis for each other, until the moment we all went to bed. But the police might believe that any one of us could have sneaked back and killed Nathan. Not much I could do about that. Time of death? Middle of the night. Discovery of the body? Ideally, the French couple, when they woke up to make breakfast and tidy up. Possibly Madeleine, if she got up to look for Alden in the middle of the night. She might assume he decided to sleep elsewhere. Signs of a break-in? Footprints? Fingerprints? List of stolen property? Anyone hear anything in the night?
With the questions came answers thick and fast, but I forced myself to sit tight and think things through. Then I went to work.
The house was woken at a few minutes after seven by a scream from Madame Lemoine, who had discovered Alden Burns’s body in the drawing room, with a sword sticking out of his back. The police were called. The investigation, led by an Inspector Pasquier, established that Alden had last been seen by me at about midnight. The others had all gone to bed, and I had left Alden a few minutes later, finishing a bottle of champagne alone in the drawing room.
A window was broken, and earth from the flower beds was scattered underneath it, although outside in the beds themselves footprints were scuffed; the ground was hard from several days without rain. Alden’s wallet was missing, as was a small medieval silver goblet that Madame Lemoine said had stood on top of a chest next to the window. The hilt of the sword in Alden’s back had been wiped clean of fingerprints. Another sword lay on the floor by his body, this one sporting Alden’s own prints. The room itself was full of prints, but these could all be matched with the house guests. The area around the window had been wiped clean.
No one had heard anything, apart from me, who told the police I had heard a whisper in French outside in the garden in the middle of the night. I wasn’t sure of the time, but I guessed it was quite soon after I had gone to sleep. To my regret, I did not investigate. Mme Burns had heard nothing. She too had woken up in the middle of the night — she didn’t know what time — to find the space next to her in bed empty. She had argued with her husband earlier in the evening, and assumed that either he had stayed up all night drinking, or he had fallen asleep on the sofa. No one in the street leading up to the house had seen anything. Local suspects had been interviewed with no result. But since it was the weekend of the Grand Prix de Deauville, the town was a magnet for thieves from far and wide.
The investigation continued. For a day or so, Inspector Pasquier considered the possibility that Madame Burns had murdered her husband. He had been unfaithful to her, and she was very angry about it. But the inspector knew that such a quotidian situation was not proof in and of itself of murder. His instinct told him strongly that she was innocent and no evidence emerged to suggest otherwise.
So, after three days, the houseguests were allowed to return to Paris and to England. Then there was a breakthrough: a known burglar from Paris was discovered to have been at Deauville for the races. He was interviewed and his alibi was weak, drinking with fellow riff-raff in bar in town. But he was a pro. He denied all knowledge of the murder and despite all Inspector Pasquier’s stratagems, he made no slip-ups. Eventually the inspector had to let him go. The investigation continued for several weeks but was then reluctantly closed. Reluctantly, because the inspector was still convinced that the Parisian burglar was his man.
Alden Burns’s murder remained unsolved.
5
Monday 15 March 1999, Wyvis
Clémence closed the book, marking her place with the flap of the dust jacket. The killing of Alden had shocked her. It wasn’t just its suddenness, or the fact that it was the dreadful consequence of a bunch of students her age having too much fun. Nor was it only that they had colluded to hide the truth from the police, and that amongst those who had colluded were her grandfather, her grandmother and the man sitting opposite her. She had been expecting, dreading, a different death. That would come, she was sure, but there was a long way to go yet.
The old man was staring at her under those bushy eyebrows, his chin resting on one hand, in total concentration.
‘Well?’ she said.
He didn’t answer.
She pressed. ‘Do you remember any of that?’
‘I do,’ said the old man. ‘I remember that afternoon in Honfleur when I met Sophie. I remember the train coming out of Calais. And then...’
‘What?’
The old man just shook his head.
‘Do you remember Nathan killing his uncle?’
‘No. I don’t,’ said the old man. ‘I don’t remember Alden at all.’
‘What about Nathan? And Stephen, my grandfather?’
‘Almost.’
‘Almost?’ said Clémence in frustration. ‘How can you almost remember something?’
The old man wrinkled his brows in concentration, ignoring Clémence’s irritation. ‘It’s as if you are looking into a room, which you know is full of people, but there are blank spaces where the people should be. You know they are there, you know you know them, but you can’t see them, and just for the moment you can’t remember who they are. It’s most odd. Do you think it’s true? About Alden? It can’t be, can it?’
He looked at her, his brown eyes vulnerable, seeking assurance. Clémence was not in the mood to give assurance to her grandmother’s murderer.