She opened the door to them. Her head was neatly tied up in a black handkerchief. She was implacably aproned and her sleeves were rolled up. Her face, normally sallow, was perhaps more so than usual and this circumstance lent emphasis to her eyes.
“Good morning,” she said.
Alleyn introduced Fox and produced the ostensible reason for the call. He would pack up his son’s effects and, of course, settle his bill. Perhaps she would be kind enough to make it out.
“It is already prepared,” said Mrs. Ferrant and showed them into the parlor. She opened a drawer in a small bureau and produced her account. Alleyn paid and she receipted it.
“Madame will understand,” Alleyn said in French, “that under the circumstances it would regrettably be unsuitable for my son to remain.”
“Parfaitement,” said Mrs. Ferrant.
“Especially since the injuries from which he suffers were inflicted by madame’s husband.”
Not a muscle of her face moved.
“You have, of course,” Alleyn went on, changing to English, “been informed of his arrest. You will probably be required to come before the court on Monday.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Nevertheless, madame, you will be required to attend.”
She slightly inclined her head.
“In the meantime, if you wish to see your husband you will be permitted to do so.”
“I have no desire to see him.”
“No?”
“No.”
“I should perhaps explain that although he has been arrested on a charge of assault there may well follow a much graver accusation: trading in illicit drugs.”
“As to that, it appears to me to be absurd,” said Mrs. Ferrant.
“Oh, madame, I think not. May I remind you of your son’s errands last night? To and from the premises occupied by Sydney Jones? Where your husband and Jones handled a consignment of heroin and where, with your connivance, they planned their escape?”
“I know nothing of all this. Nothing. My boy is a mere child.”
“In years, no doubt,” said Alleyn politely.
She remained stony.
“Tell me,” Alleyn said, “how long have you known the real object of your husband’s trips to Marseilles and the Côte d’Azur?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Are they for pleasure? Do you accompany him?”
She gave a slight snort.
“A little romance, perhaps?”
She looked disgusted.
“To take a job?”
She was silent.
“Plumbing?” Alleyn hinted, and after another fruitless pause: “Ah, well, at least he sends postcards. To let you know where he is to be found if anything urgent crops up, no doubt.”
She began to count the money he had put on the table.
“There is another small matter,” he said, “on which I think you can help us. Will you be so kind as to carry your memory back to the day on which Dulcie Harkness was murdered.”
She put her hands behind her back — suddenly, as if to hide them — and made to adjust her apron strings. “Murdered?” she said. “There has been no talk of murder.”
“There has, however, been talk. On that day, late in the morning, did you and your husband visit Leathers?”
Her mouth was a tight line, locked across her face.
“Madame,” said Alleyn, “why are you so unwilling to speak? It may be I should not have used the word you object to. It may be that the ‘accident’ was an accident. In order to settle it, either way, we welcome any information, however trivial, about the situation at Leathers on that morning. We understand you and your husband called there. Why should you make such a great matter of this visit? Was it connected with your husband’s business activities abroad?”
A metaphysician might, however fancifully, have said of Mrs. Ferrant that her body, at this moment, “thought,” so still did she hold it and so deeply did it breathe. Alleyn saw the pulse beating at the base of her neck. He wondered if there was to be a sudden rage.
But no: she unlocked her mouth and achieved composure.
“I am sorry,” she said. “You will understand that I have had a shock and am, perhaps, not quite myself. It is a matter of distress to me that my husband is in trouble.”
“But of course.”
“As for this other affair: yes, we called at Leathers on the morning you speak of. My husband had been asked to do a job there — a leaking pipe I think he said it was, and had called to say that he could not undertake it at that time.”
“You saw Mr. Harkness?”
“I remained in the car. My husband may have seen him. But I think not.”
“Did you see Sydney Jones?”
“Him! He was there. There was some talk about a quarrel between Harkness and the girl.” Her eyes slid around at him. “Perhaps it is Harkness to whom you should speak.”
“Do you remember if there were any horses in the stables?”
“I did not see. I did not notice the stables.”
“Or in the horse paddock? Or on the distant hillside?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“What time was it?”
“Possibly about ten-thirty. Perhaps later.”
“Had you been anywhere else that morning?”
“To L’Espérance.”
“Indeed?”
“I do la blanchisserie de fin for the ladies. I deliver it there.”
“Is that the usual procedure?”
“No,” she said composedly. “Usually one of their staff picks it up. As we were driving in that direction and the washing was ready, I delivered it.”
“Speaking of deliveries, you do know, don’t you, that young Louis — to distinguish him,” said Alleyn, “from the elder Louis — delivered a note from your husband addressed to me. At the police station? Here very late last night? He pushed it under the door, rang the bell, and ran away.”
“That’s a bloody lie,” said Mrs. Ferrant. In English.
The conversation so far had been conducted in a lofty mixture of French and English and, in both languages, at a high level of decorum. It was startling to hear Mrs. Ferrant come out strongly in basic British fishwife.
“But it isn’t, you know,” Alleyn said mildly. “It’s what happened.”
“No! I swear it. The boy has done nothing. Nothing. He was in bed and asleep by nine o’clock.”
The front door banged.
“Maman! Maman!” cried a treble voice, “Where are you?”
Mrs. Ferrant’s hand went to her mouth.
They heard young Louis run down the passage and in and out of the kitchen.
“Maman! Are you upstairs? Where are you?”
“Ferme ton bec,” she let out in the standard maternal screech. “I am busy. Stop that noise.”
But he returned, running up the passage, and burst into the parlor.
“Maman,” he said, “they have nicked papa. The boys are saying it. They nicked him last night at the house where he gave me the letter.” He stared at Alleyn. “Him,” he said, and pointed. “The fuzz. He’s nicked papa.”
Mrs. Ferrant raised her formidable right arm in what no doubt was a familiar gesture.
Louis said, “No, Maman!” and cringed.
Alleyn said: “Do you often give Louis a coup for speaking the truth, Mrs. Ferrant?”
She thrust the receipted bill at him. “Take it and remove yourself,” she said. “I have nothing more to say to you.”
“I shall do so. With the fondest remembrances of your sole à la Dieppoise.”
Upstairs, in Ricky’s room Fox said: “What do we get out of that lot?”
“Apart from confirmation of various bits of surmise and conjecture I should say damnall, or very nearly so. If it’s of interest, I think she’s jealous of her husband and completely under his thumb. I think she hates his guts and would go to almost any length to obey his orders. Otherwise, damnall.”