Emerging from the woods, I saw Jacques coming towards me on his tractor, spraying gravel over the verglas of the track. He pulled up beside me and reached down to shake hands. When we had exchanged the usual pleasantries and concerns regarding the weather, I told him I had come from the etang.
Jacques frowned. It would be wise not to go there, he told me.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “C’est dangereux.”
“Is it deep?”
He shrugged again, and taking a pouch from his pocket began with painful slowness to roll a cigarette.
“Did somebody once drown?” I prompted.
He ran his tongue carefully along the paper and fumbled in several pockets to find his matches. At last the flame hissed and he held it to the tobacco. “Helene,” he said, inhaling deeply. “Helene Bazire.”
“Gerard Bazire was the previous owner,” I said.
He nodded. “Helene was his wife.”
I stared down towards the house. “How did it happen? Was she alone? Did she fall or...?”
“Who knows how these things happen,” said Jacques. “She drowned. That is all I know.” He spurred the engine.
“Is that how it got its name?” I shouted over the din, but Jacques didn’t answer. He let out the clutch and the tractor lurched forward.
It was bitterly cold that night and we had severe doubts as to whether our guests would arrive, but shortly after seven-thirty we heard the crunch of tires on gravel and the slamming of doors. They came in, red-nosed and rheumy-eyed, stamping frost from their feet as they unwound numerous layers of clothing. I poured us all a pastis, including Stella, which was unusual.
Penny said it was nice to be somewhere warm for a change, pounced on one of the many bowls of amuse-gueule Stella had set out, and huddled in front of the stove. She nibbled frantically, as if she’d not eaten for a week, though unless the bulk was caused by further hidden layers, her figure told otherwise. Heaven only knew what lay beneath the colossal mohair jersey, and I, for one, preferred not to speculate. But they seemed a pleasant enough couple. We talked of general things — houses, the best places to shop, the peculiar customs of the French — and were finishing our third glass of pastis when Stella informed us the food was ready. We were already a jovial foursome when we sat down to dine.
The wine, in its turn, flowed freely. Even Stella, normally so abstemious, was swilling it back with the rest of us and I hoped she wouldn’t regret it later. She and alcohol have always made uncomfortable bedfellows. By the end of the second course it was clearly having its effect and she was expounding loudly on her forthcoming volume, having discovered, to her apparent delight, a fellow enthusiast in Neil. I let her continue, removed the plates, and brought the cheese, watching with amusement as our guests ignored the creamy richness of Pont l’Eveque and Roquefort of which we were so fond, and devoured instead the much-yearned-for cheddar. Would we be like that, I wondered, in two years’ time?
Stella continued both to drink and to talk gardens. She and Neil were leaning closer now, becoming animated. Her face was flushed and her eyes had a sparkle I had not seen in them for a long time. Penny, on the other hand, appeared bored.
“Shall we talk about something else?” I said at last. “We don’t all share your enthusiasm, darling.” At which Stella spun towards me.
“For gardens, or for my new book?”
“For gardens, of course,” I replied patiently.
She continued to stare.
“It must be really exciting,” said Neil, somewhat ingratiatingly, “having a wife who’s a successful writer.”
Stella laughed. “Oh, I don’t write, Neil. Only writers of fiction write, isn’t that so, darling? They are the creative ones, whereas I merely record facts.”
She spoke in jest, but there was no denying the underlying sarcasm. Neil shifted uncomfortably. It was, of course, the drink talking.
“I once made the mistake of referring to her first book as a coffee-table tome,” I said lightly, trying to put him at ease. “I’m afraid she’s never forgiven me.”
“Nonsense,” replied Stella. “What is there to forgive? That’s exactly what it was, lots of pretty pictures and not much text. A mere piece of frippery.” She reached for the bottle and yet again replenished her glass.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” I asked, but she ignored me and offered the bottle to Neil. He did decline, on the grounds that he was driving.
“Stay,” said Stella magnanimously. “We’ll put the radiator on in the spare room. Won’t we, darling.”
I waited for a further polite refusal, and when none came reluctantly climbed to my feet and went upstairs. Our new friends were pleasant enough, but I had no wish to prolong their visit.
When I returned, Stella had served the final course and was struggling to open a bottle of Sauternes. “Let me,” I said, fearing, in her present condition, some frightful accident with the corkscrew. For a moment I thought she would refuse to let it go, but finally she relinquished it and resumed her seat.
“I’ve been telling Neil and Penny about our reputed haunting,” she said. “Penny thinks we should be concerned.”
“I would be,” Penny affirmed, looking around the room as if some ethereal being might at any moment materialise through the wall. “I wonder whose ghost it is?”
“Probably Helene Bazire’s,” I said, pouring the wine.
“Who?”
“The wife of the previous owner,” said Stella. “Why do you say that?”
I realised I had not told her of my conversation with Jacques.
“She drowned in the etang,” I said. “Jacques told me this morning.”
“Good God. When?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“What etang?” asked Neil.
Briefly I described the pond in the woods and its sinister reputation. Penny shivered. “How did it happen?” she asked.
“Jacques doesn’t know. At least, he says he doesn’t.”
Her eyes widened. “Does he think she was murdered?”
“I don’t know. I’m merely repeating what he said.”
Stella looked thoughtful. “Her husband mistreated her, you know. Gabrielle told me.”
“Then perhaps he did it.” Penny sat forward excitedly. “Perhaps he killed her and pushed her in. Ghosts are supposed to be the corp...” she stumbled over the words, “the corporeal manifestations of victims of violent death,” she said at length, and slumped back in her chair. “I’ve drunk too much,” she giggled.
It was becoming apparent that we all had.
“Sounds like a good basis for a story,” said Neil to me. “Perhaps you can use it in your next book.”
I smiled stoically and Stella laughed. “What an excellent idea, Neil. God knows he needs something to stir the creative juices.”
My hand firmed around the stem of the glass. “I have plenty to inspire me without resorting to ghost stories,” I said coldly, and Neil and Penny exchanged glances.
“Neil’s brother’s read your books,” she said. “He phoned during the week and I told him we’d met you. He teaches English in Lincoln.” She shot a sidelong glance at her husband. “He said you haven’t published anything for ages. He wondered if you had writer’s block.”
Beside me Stella gave a snort of laughter. “Writer’s block doesn’t exist, does it, darling? It’s — and I quote — ‘a fiction in its own right, propounded by those who lack ideas.’ ”