And so would questions about his son and the maquis, and of his son’s relationship with Josianne-Michele.
‘Permit me, please,’ said the Surete, quickly leaving his camera aside to take from Borel the small sachet the herbalist had prepared.
‘The purple loosestrife,’ answered Borel, ‘for the mild case of food poisoning your partner has said.’
‘Yes, yes,’ answered St-Cyr, impatient at the interruption. ‘A moment, please.’ He brought the sachet to one nostril, cursed the habit of tobacco which spoiled one’s sense of smell; said, ‘Peppermint, spearmint, camomile and …’
He looked up. Borel answered, ‘European centaury and a little …’
The detective waited for him to say it. ‘Wormwood, Inspector. It’s perfectly acceptable in such small quantities and hardly dangerous.’
The girl glanced questioningly from Borel to Viviane. ‘Absinthe, Hermann. It is from wormwood that the curse of French drinkers came. Is that not correct, monsieur?’
It was. ‘And if taken regularly, Hermann, it causes poisoning of the central nervous system.’
Oh-oh. ‘Convulsions?’ asked Kohler, alarmed by the drift.
‘Convulsions, ah yes,’ said St-Cyr nodding grimly. ‘But one has to take a lot of it, or simply taste the oil.’
Son of a bitch! One could have dropped a bomb and none of them would have raised a hair. Kohler wanted to yell, Salut, Louis! but contented himself by reaching for the kettle and then the teapot. ‘Shall we warm it first?’ he asked. Hell, the thing was already warm!
Borel simply watched him and when the pot had been emptied of its camomile tea and warmed again, he handed him the sachet. ‘A half of the water,’ he said, indicating the kettle. ‘I only want her to have a few sips, a cupful at the most. Don’t drown it, Inspector.’
‘I won’t.’
They thought they knew everything, these two from Paris and yet they knew nothing. Absolutely nothing!
It was the cinematographer’s first close look at Ludo Borel. Again he was impressed – indeed humbled – by the skill with which Madame Melanie Peretti, the blind woman, had carved the santon she had hidden on that hillside. Borel’s Stocky figure spelled business and expertise in all he touched, and these same attributes were there in the carving. Oh for sure, there were the outward things, the broad shoulders, the squat stature, thick neck, large, strongly boned head. Tough … this man was tough, but understanding and skill were in his every bone.
The large dark brown eyes missed nothing as they searched the girl for clues to the cause of vomiting. Even as he watched him, St-Cyr knew Borel’s mind was rapidly formulating the tonic he would prescribe for general health – sifting out each herb, discarding some on second thought, adding others.
Only in the waxed, handlebar moustache was there vanity. The rough clothes, the worn blue plaid shirt and coarse beige sweater were clean, without patches or holes … Yes, yes, this man was a leader in the village but had come by that position not just through the legacy of his family’s business. He was the herbalist and never would question his place in the scheme of things or the need to uphold it.
Honour … there were so many professions that, alas, sadly lacked this basic ingredient. Lawyers, doctors … policemen and detectives, ah yes. These days honour was on hard times. Pride in one’s work also.
Borel had not just his own sense of being to protect but that of past generations of Borels going back at least a few hundred years.
When the tea was taken, he made the girl lie down. ‘Now you must rest, little one. Tomorrow will come and it will be another day.’
It was Hermann who said quietly, ‘How much opium did you put in that tea?’
Borel’s gaze lifted to them from the bedside. ‘Enough.’
‘But you didn’t know she’d need it, monsieur? You had already had that bottle out on your desk when I came up to tell you she was ill?’
‘I knew she would be upset, Inspector. The loss of her mother, the estrangement from her sister also … ah! so many things, isn’t that correct? I prepared myself.’
‘I’ll bet you did,’ mumbled Kohler grumpily.
‘Hermann, please! The herbalist knows the family well. The past conditions our responses to the present. He was only doing what he thought was best.’
I.e., leave it alone! Gott im Himmel, why should they? ‘Strike while the iron is hot, Louis. This one had better spill the lentils soon.’
‘The lentils … Ah yes,’ said Borel, motioning to the table.
Viviane Darnot had set out a meagre supper of olives, goat cheese, bread and rose, a jar of peppers and one of rabbit pate. ‘It isn’t much,’ she apologized, giving them the half-smile of a shy innocence. ‘Anne-Marie’s dealings in butter and eggs did not extend to myself, Inspectors. The pate was left on the doorstep by Bebert Peretti.’
‘But we did not hear him knock?’ exclaimed St-Cyr.
Again there was that smile. ‘Because he didn’t, Inspector. For myself, I knew, if you get my meaning.’
‘I don’t, mademoiselle,’ cautioned the Surete.
‘I understand these people, Inspector. Madame Peretti wishes to offer you a little something, perhaps to humour Herr Kohler and gain favour, but knows she must not offer too much. Even so, these days it is a sacrifice.’
Touche. She and the herbalist swiftly exchanged glances. The two of them began to talk of the dyes she would use for her next project and at once the impression given was that they had known each other professionally for years.
Of the lentils there was no sign until Borel took a jar from his pocket. ‘In olive oil,’ he said, ‘with black beans, sweet fennel and much garlic. I am continually experimenting, Inspectors. It’s in the blood. Also, the snails in a sauce of my own. Not quite the aioli for which we are justly famous. Indeed, something quite different but perhaps some day,’ he gave a shrug, ‘who knows, it might become just as popular.’
Snails and cold at that! Kohler reached for the rose and shunned them. ‘I’ll stick to the bread and lentils,’ he said. Louis was eyeing the damned snails with gluttony; he’d take his time too!
‘More for you, my old one,’ grumbled Kohler, shoving the dish his way.
‘Hermann, please! Must I continually correct you? The snail in its little cage is supreme. Monsieur, the sauce, it is superb. Magnificent! Crushed garlic, egg yolks, olive oil, tarragon and vermouth, I think.’
Borel was impressed. ‘We understand each other, Inspector.’
‘Good! Then perhaps, monsieur, you would tell me exactly when and why you lost the right to draw water from this place?’
Again there was a rapid exchange of glances between the herbalist and the weaver. It was Viviane Darnot who said, ‘It happened some years ago, Inspector. Alain Borel and the girls had gone for a picnic up to the ruins. They’d play their little games – Saracen and Roman, which would they be? Anne-Marie and I, we …’
Borel interceded. ‘My son had not gone with them, messieurs. He had come down here to watch two ladies making love.’
‘The girls had dared him to do it,’ said the weaver. ‘Anne-Marie was furious. You have to have known her to understand her temper. Poor Ludo bore the brunt of it. She hurt him in the worst of ways and nothing I could say or do would stop her.’
‘Without water there is nothing, messieurs. Both the family of the Perettis and my own, farm the small fields in the valley here and the pastures on the hillside. In the old days we shared the water. Now,’ he gave a shrug, ‘I let my fields lie fallow, for in summer there is no hope for them.’
‘And she never rescinded the penalty?’ asked the Surete.
The herbalist shook his head. ‘Not for these fourteen years, monsieur. Not since the girls were ten years old and my Alain was twelve. Ah he’s a good boy, and all boys have to get into mischief once in a while or they cannot learn what is right and wrong. The day was very hot. The ladies …’