‘Did he declare it to the owners?’ asked the detective quietly. No doubt one of the kitchen help had been about to steal it.
‘Of course he declared it, Inspector. Our grandfather had a reputation for being the most honest of men. How else could he have become the Henri Masson? Everyone trusted him absolutely. There was never any suggestion of impropriety. How could there have been?’
A saint-one could see this pass through the detective’s mind, causing nothing but jaded doubt, even though the cross had been purchased from the owners for more than its value. The big ox-eyes lost themselves in studying Henri. They observed the delicate chiselling of the face, the fine and aristocratic nose, high cheekbones, dark brush of the eyebrows and long curve of the lashes. The lips that were not wide and coarse but soft and lovely, though they hardly ever smiled and were now so serious their expression matched the darkness of his eyes. The hair, jet black and fastidiously trimmed because Henri was such a tidy person. Tidy about his life and hers-everything was to have its proper place. Tidy about the affairs of business because one had to be so tidy there and grandfather, he had been so tidy himself. Ah yes.
‘Tell me about Father Adrian Beaumont, please, Monsieur Charlebois. Your relationship to him, last contact-anything that might be of use no matter how seemingly insignificant.’
It would not go well, and she knew this now. Henri was so tense and irritated by the unpleasant surprise of finding a detective in the house and his little sister entertaining him.
‘There is not much to tell, Inspector. We attend Mass at the Basilica, as our parents and grandparents did. Father Adrian was known to us, of course. Any dealings with the bishop went through him. We met a few times recently but only to discuss some of the paintings that are stored in the church. I was adamant that they be moved to more suitable quarters-drier, you understand. The constant humidity of these parts plays havoc with old masters. Father Adrian would not hear of it and in this, I am afraid, Bishop Dufour concurred.’
The detective would note all Henri’s little mannerisms, the way he nervously rubbed the back of his left hand, the way he used his seriousness to force home a point, the way, when pressed, he would touch his left cheek and let the fingertips linger until they trailed down to the lower jaw, his mind still deep in thought. Every word so carefully debated before escaping from his lips.
‘Your sister thought you might have gone to see La Bete humaine?’
Henri shook his head with that rapid little motion of firmness he always used on such occasions. ‘I distinctly told Madame Doucette, the senior secretary at the Lycee du Parc, that she was to tell Mademoiselle Charlebois I had been summoned to Dijon.’
‘Why?’
Ah, such an expression of sympathy and concern had entered Henri’s eyes. It showed exactly how clearly he had been worried about her but his use of ‘Mademoiselle Charlebois’, not Martine-why must he always use her formal name when dealing with others?
The detective asked again why he had gone to Dijon.
‘The shop had been broken into and some things taken, Inspector,’ said Henri firmly. ‘An icon, four canvases that were cut from their frames, some silver and a few small pieces of jewellery. Good pieces. In all, about seven hundred and fifty thousand francs.’
The detective’s expression became grave at the size of the loss. ‘When … when did this happen, monsieur, and when did you leave Lyon and return?’
Henri gave the brief, tight little smile he always saved for such grim moments of relish. ‘Last Tuesday night, the twenty-second. I’ve only just returned, Inspector. There are several who will gladly tell you I took the train on the afternoon of the twenty-third at four o’clock and that, as is my custom always, I stayed in Dijon at its Hotel Terminus, room seventeen. You may ask the manager, the desk clerk, the maitre d’ and the maids if you like. All will swear to my being there from the evening of the twenty-third until today at two o’clock.’
‘I did not ask for the precision of an alibi, monsieur. Is it that you felt the need to give me one?’
Ah merde, Henri …
‘Why else, then, are you here, Inspector, troubling my sister?’
The detective ducked his head to signify that this might or might not have been the reason for his visit. ‘Tell me about Claudine Bertrand,’ he said, knowing that she had had no chance to warn Henri whether anything untoward had already been said.
St-Cyr was troubled. They looked at each other, this brother and sister, the one perhaps thirty-six years of age and the other not more than twenty-six. Alarm in Monsieur Charlebois’s eyes but carefully masked by concern; nothing but concern in hers. Ah maudit, what were the two of them up to behind closed doors?
‘Claudine was a childhood friend, Inspector. From time to time I tried to help her a little. I once gave her a job in the Dijon shop but she was unhappy away from Lyon and unsuited to the work.’
‘And Madame Ange-Marie Rachline?’ he asked, his voice so quiet the question startled them both.
‘What does she have to do with this?’ asked Henri.
There was still that hostility when questioned about Ange-Marie, even after so many years. Henri, she wanted to say. Henri, be careful. He would not look at her, he would not see the tears collecting so rapidly she was forced to excuse herself and go into the kitchen to stand before the sink with head bowed, gripping the edge of the basin.
‘Henri … Henri … Dear God, please guide his tongue,’ she whispered and heard:
‘My sister and Ange-Marie have never seen eye to eye, Inspector. Mademoiselle Charlebois blames Ange-Marie for the situation Claudine found herself in.’
‘And yourself, monsieur?’
‘I did not judge. Both had been childhood friends. One retains that special sense of loyalty. One does what one can to help and leaves judgement to God.’
‘You gave Mademoiselle Claudine a supplier’s bottle of perfume.’
‘Etranger, yes. From an estate sale, It pleased her and it pleased me that it did, though I must confess I had little liking for the scent. It was much too strong. There was far too much musk and civet.’
‘When did you give it to her and where?’
Ah how guarded their questions and answers were!
‘In the shop on the morning of that fire. Claudine came to see me. She wanted help-financial help-to start a new life somewhere else. She was insistent but …’
Henri’s expression was pained. The back of the left hand was touched and then the top button of his jacket … He could not know that Claudine had come to see her that very same afternoon. Ah no …
‘But I had given so much in the past, Inspector, I could not give any more-there was the robbery too, you understand, and the cash that would be needed to carry on. Claudine owed me … A moment, please. I have the account book.’
‘A moment yourself, monsieur. Please,’ cautioned the detective with an upraised finger. ‘A new life some place else?’ he asked.
Henri gave that shrug she knew so well, that reassuring smile. ‘Claudine was always short of money, Inspector, and always wanting to leave Lyon. It was nothing new, I assure you. She keeps two daughters in a convent school in Orleans. She was always saying she wanted to live closer to them but of course, with the Occupation, that was impossible. Virtually all her earnings went to them and now I shall have to take care of it for her.’
Two daughters. ‘Who is the father, monsieur?’
‘That … that I do not know nor … nor did I ever ask.’
Henri went over to the secretaire to pause briefly as if struck by the sight of the bracelet just lying there-how could his little sister have been so careless? Is that what he was thinking, the poor darling? wondered Martine.