Agnes nodded, not taking her eyes off the photo, as if mesmerised. ‘Do you have others of this group?’
‘There are some, but I would need time to find them. The collection is not in order yet.’
‘In that case, this one will do.’
‘I will have to copy it — it’s the only one I have. I’ll need an address to send it to.’
‘I would rather take it now.’
‘Now? But it’s late… I can send it first thing tom-’
‘That won’t be possible.’ Agnes seemed suddenly agitated. She leant over and picked up the envelope. ‘I’m travelling tomorrow and need it immediately.’ She opened the envelope and counted out some notes. ‘I’m sure you still have your equipment?’
Poudric hesitated for a moment. Then need overcame tiredness. He had a powerful sense that this woman, whatever her claims, was no student of History, and had an ulterior motive for acquiring this photo. The energy coming from her was almost palpable. But who was he to judge? He folded the notes into his shirt pocket and stood up. ‘You will have to give me time to set it up and for the print to dry. Would you care for more tea while you wait?’
The woman sat back, her face calm again. ‘No. Thank you. I’ve been waiting long enough. A few more minutes won’t matter.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Rocco? An uncultured ruffian. He needs locking up.
Rocco knocked on the rear door of the cottage Claude had directed him to the previous day. It was on the outskirts of the village, along a narrow lane leading out into an open expanse of rolling pastureland. A sign pointed to the next village, Danvillers, five kilometres away, along a surface which looked little used and was dotted with cowpats drying in the early morning sun.
The house was small and sturdy, surrounded by flower and vegetable beds with barely a spare centimetre of unused space. The earth had been tilled to a fine grain, the borders straight as a city block and without a weed in sight. A large chicken run stood at the end of a long garden, but the inhabitants appeared to have free roam of the place, with one old hen nestled contentedly by the back door in a small dust bowl of her own making.
The air smelt gamey, buzzing with a swirl of fat, lazy flies. Rocco had passed two farms on his way down here, both with large manure heaps inside enclosed yards and crawling with chickens, so he was hardly surprised by the insect life. It wasn’t unpleasant, though, and certainly better than the noxious air in the cafe where he’d forced down the half-baguette and bowl of hot chocolate which passed for breakfast, topped off with toxic tobacco fumes from the patrons at the bar.
The cottage door opened to reveal an elderly woman with white hair and thick glasses. She was of medium height and compact, dressed in a blue apron over a grey dress, with a triangle headscarf pinned carefully in place.
‘You’re the inspecteur?’ she said, and motioned him inside.
‘That’s me.’ He was no longer surprised at the way information was circulating in this place. There was no telephone wire to the cottage, so he put it down to some secret sort of underground network known only to the locals. Or maybe they had a team of fleet-footed kids doing the rounds, letting everyone in on the latest news as it happened.
The cottage kitchen was clean, simply furnished and like walking into a museum. But it was homely and neat, a small oasis of tranquillity hung with the smells of cooking and soap. Fading photos of a large man in cavalry uniform sitting astride a huge white charger were dotted around the room, and Rocco recognised the atmosphere of widowhood.
Mme Denis went to a sideboard and pulled open a drawer, extracting a small bundle of keys. She dropped them on the heavy table, then went to a stove and picked up a coffee percolator.
‘I brewed this fresh for you,’ she said. ‘Big man like you needs a stimulant to keep going. My husband was a big man.’
Rocco didn’t really want more coffee. But he sensed a ritual about to unfold and that he was a central part of it. A refusal might offend.
She produced two heavy, brown cups and filled them with coffee, then took an aluminium jug of milk and a cardboard box of sugar cubes, and slid them across the table, motioning him to sit. She had strong hands, Rocco noted. It explained the orderly garden.
‘The house next door,’ she said, sitting down with a sigh, ‘is available. It’s clean and dry, although you’ll have to put up with the fouines in the attic.’ Lucas must have looked blank, because she said, ‘Fruit rats. They’re everywhere in these parts. You don’t get them where you come from?’
He shook his head. Paris had plenty of rats, both two- and four-legged. But not the fruit variety.
‘They’re harmless,’ Mme Denis assured him. ‘They make a bit of noise in the attic at night, scrabbling around up there, but as long as you don’t leave food out, you should be fine.’
He drank his coffee, which was as strong as boat varnish, but good. He added sugar cubes and milk. Then he began the negotiation for the rent. If he stayed at the local bar-tabac, where the regional HQ in Amiens could get hold of him easily by telephone, they would pay his board. Opting to get his own place meant he would have to pick up the bill himself.
He decided that if all he had to worry about was a few fruit rats, he could put up with the expense. A telephone, though, was a must. He mentioned it to Madame Denis.
She pursed her lips. ‘There aren’t many in the village, although they put up the wires. The mayor, of course — he’s got one. And the garde champetre.’ She smiled. ‘Be warned, though: you’ll get a lot of visitors if you have one of those put in.’
‘But I’m a policeman — a flic.’
‘Doesn’t matter. When people want to call friends and family, you’d be amazed how forgiving they can be. What about your laundry?’
‘No problem. I used to be in the army. I’ll manage.’ It wasn’t something he had given much thought to.
She cast a critical eye over his clothes, which consisted of a long, dark coat, dark cotton shirt and charcoal trousers — the latter Swedish imports and expensive — and his shoes, which were from London. Good-quality clothing was one of Rocco’s few luxuries. ‘Those fine fabrics won’t last long out here, not if you pound them to death in a sink. There’s a laundry service calls by twice a week. Leave it in a bag with Francine at the co-op and they’ll pick it up and return it in two days, sometimes three. You’ll need to plan what you wear.’
When he had finished his coffee, she led him out of the house and along the lane to the house next door. Rocco was pleasantly surprised: it was a large, villa-style property set back off the road behind a railed, overgrown garden. Outhouses and a garage stood off to one side, and the rear plot disappeared into the distance, sprouting a vast wilderness of unknown species.
‘Are you a gardener?’ she asked him, handing him the keys.
‘No idea,’ he said frankly, staring at the expanse of rampant territory waiting to be tamed. ‘I had some tulips in a window box once.’
She looked unimpressed. ‘Flowers. What happened?’
‘They died.’
She made a phuitt sound. ‘In that case, you’ll need the services of Arnaud.’
‘Is he a landscape gardener?’
She smiled indulgently at the term. ‘You’re a city boy, aren’t you? Arnaud pretty much lives at the cafe. He’ll do whatever needs doing. Just make sure he completes the work before you pay him, otherwise he’ll be drunk as a skunk for a month.’