Chapter Twenty-three
Viola’s funeral in
England was a quiet affair but I was glad I went.
Afterwards,
as the family was leaving the graveside, Lord Bracewell approached me. He was a
slim, silver-haired man with an erect bearing. Clear blues eyes locked onto me
from a distance and, close up, showed only a trace of the inner hurt he
undoubtedly felt. The control of rational decorum over outright emotion kept
him from displacing that inner hurt to any public gaze. His manner was, in a
word, typically English.
“Mr
Bodine.” He offered me his hand. “I’m so glad you could come.”
“It
was the least I could do.” His handshake was warm and firm. “I liked Viola and
I’m so sorry her life had to end in such a tragic manner.”
“Yes,
well… er, hum…” His composure wavered and then settled back onto its even keel.
“I just wanted to thank you for the part you played in catching my daughter’s
killers.”
“It
seemed to be the right thing to do.” They were totally inadequate words but I
was at a loss for anything more erudite.
“Quite
so.” He wiped the corner of his eye. “Excuse me if I seem a trifle upset. This
morning I had to attend to Major Williamson’s funeral. He has no family and I
thought it my duty to make the arrangements. It’s been a difficult time for all
of us.”
“I
understand,” I said. “I suppose in hindsight I should never have left the major
alone on that boat.”
“Don’t
blame yourself, my boy. I hired Williamson and I thought he would be able to
look after himself. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me.”
“I
believe you knew him well.”
“Knew
him extremely well,” Lord Bracewell put his hand once again to the corner of
his eye. It was still damp. Then he coughed and compressed his lips to help him
once again mentally recompose his bearing. “Same school, same regiment when we
were younger. His father was a Captain in the Indian Army in the days when
there was a British Empire. Married a beautiful Egyptian woman and tried to
raise his son in the same mould as himself, but it didn’t work. Young Charlie
inherited his mother’s dark skin, but he didn’t inherit his father’s brains. It
was only the old boy network that kept him in business these past few years.”
“Nevertheless,
he didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“No.
No one does.” Again Lord Bracewell coughed awkwardly and then changed the
subject. “What will you do now, Mr Bodine?”
“Take
things easy. I thought I might stay a bit longer in Europe. There are places to
see and… well, someone special I want to spend some time with.” I grinned. “The
airline I work for can do without me for another week, so I thought I might go back
across to France for a few more days.”
“Really?
Would that be wise?” His lordship raised his eyebrows enquiringly. “In the
circumstances?”
“Probably
not, but being wise isn’t exactly my strong suit.” I nodded to where Simone was
waiting for me by her car. “That’s a very special young woman over there.
Someone very special. I first met her when I was in France and we need to spend
some time together. Get to know each other. You know what I mean?”
“I
think I do, my boy.” He clapped my arm and turned to leave. “It’s a great pity
Viola didn’t meet you before she met Hassim.”
I
didn’t reply to that.
*
Simone and I arrived at
the L’Orly farmhouse late one warm afternoon. The L’Orlys were expecting us and
a couple of the children spotted our car as it turned in off the road. They ran
back into the house, announcing our arrival with a loud chatter. We followed
them in without bothering to knock.
Seeing
Brigitte fully dressed caught me unawares. I didn’t immediately recognize her
hidden inside a summer dress, short and revealing though it was. I didn’t need
to. She jumped out of her seat as soon as we entered the gloomy sitting room
and threw herself at me.
Simone
was right behind me and there was no way I could hide from her the fact that
Brigitte was pleased to see me. How do you explain such things without
incriminating yourself? Especially when a sensual youngster wraps her arms
about you and kisses you full on the mouth?
I
tried. And failed.
“Brigitte,
this is Simone.” My intention was to put some emphasize into the words that
followed. “Simone is now the most important lady in my life.” But I suppose I
must have laid it on a bit too thick because Brigitte immediately pulled back,
and looked at me rather hollow-eyed like a puppy that’s just had its favourite
bone withdrawn. That’s when Simone showed her lady-like qualities.
“I am
so pleased to meet you, Brigitte.” She kissed the girl lightly on the cheek. “I
hope we can be good friends. After all, we have so much in common.”
“We
do?”
“But
yes.” There was a sparkle of mischief in Simone’s eyes but not one hint of
malice. “After all, we’re both been attracted to Henry, haven’t we? We must
both have the same good taste in men.”
Brigitte
hesitated, not sure if she was actually hearing what she thought she was
hearing. She looked at me and I tried to give her a reassuring grin but that
fell somewhat lop-sided. I was unexpectedly wrong-footed, even more than
Brigitte.
“So,
now we’ve met.” Simone took a seat, as cool as you please, knees pressed primly
tight together and chin held just high enough to denote confidence without
being aggressive. “Let’s talk about what we came to talk about. And then
Brigitte can show me her baby. Henry tells me he’s such a contented little
boy.”
The
ice was broken although I knew for sure that I’d have some apologizing to do
later. For the moment it was important to take advantage of the opportunity,
which Simone had dealt so neatly into my lap.
I sat
directly opposite Brigade, close alongside Simone and said, “We want to talk
about Viola’s death, Brigitte.”
“I
have told the police.”
“Yes.
We know what you told the police. We want to talk about what really happened.”
“But I
told them…”
I
didn’t allow her to continue because I had no time for half-truths. I said,
“It’s mostly guesswork, but I think I know what happened, Brigitte. I think I
know now what really happened that
day on the canal bank.”
She
looked crestfallen. “I told the police…”
“We’re
here to talk about what really happened.
Not what you told the police.”
“Oh!
You know?” Her chin quivered. “But it was not me who told you. I did not tell
you anything.”
“They
threatened you, didn’t they? What did they say? Did they say they would do
something to your baby if you told anyone what really happened that morning?”
She
nodded slowly and silently.
“You
haven’t told me anything important. I worked it out by myself, you see. I
presume that you went to the boat that morning to beg Viola not to take your
baby. But you saw three other people already by the boat.”
“Oui.”
“It
was Jacques, Colette and Aimee D’Albret, wasn’t it?”
“Oui. They came to our house very early
in the morning and they told mama that they wanted the money Monsieur Hassim gave us. But mama, she
was very angry and sent them away. Jacques was very bad with the drugs and he
said that he would kill my baby because Pierre is the bastard, and he said he
would kill Viola also because she had the boat, and it was not hers.”
“Did
you believe him?”
She
frowned. “He was very angry.”
“And
later, when you were down there by the canal, you saw that one of them had a
gun. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”
“Oui. I was behind the bushes and I heard
what they were saying.”
“Let
me see now. As I see it, Colette wanted the ring and Jacques wanted the boat.
So which of them threatened Viola? Colette or Jacques?”
“It
was Jacques. He wanted the boat. He said she had to give it to him because it
was his papa’s boat and his papa should not have signed it over to Viola.”
“But
Viola insisted that the boat was hers. That’s right, isn’t it? She said, ‘but
he gave it to me’, didn’t she?”
“Oui.”
I
paused for effect. “But Jacques didn’t actually kill her, did he? You told the
police he did, but he didn’t really. Did he?”
Brigitte
sank back into her seat and shook her head silently.
“Tell
me what really happened, Brigitte.” I put a hand gently to her arm. She was
shaking. “No one is going to harm your baby now. So tell me everything.”
She
didn’t respond at first, too emotionally screwed up. But then it started to
come out, a bit at a time until the whole sordid story was just unfolding in
front of me.
*
Brigitte clenched and unclenched her hands as she hurried
towards the canal. Tension, release, tension, release. She wanted to keep
herself under control but there was an uncontrollable anger welling up inside
her like some vast tide surging unstoppably towards a bleak shore. In part it
was an intensity that was directed towards mama because she wanted to sell
Pierre. But most of all it was a fierce, physical anger directed towards Viola
Bracewell who wanted to take the baby from her. Two strands of the same anger,
two objects of the same brooding. And what could she, Brigitte, do about it?
Nothing, except to continue pleading with mama and Viola. Pleading for the sake
of her own baby. So she hurried towards the boat where she would find Viola.
As she came near the canal she heard
sounds of a scuffle on the towpath and she suddenly grew wary. She slowed her
pace and pricked up her ears. Jacques Hassim and the two girls, Aimee D’Albret
and Colette Hassim, had arrived aboard their yacht sometime during the night.
She had seen the yacht from her bedroom window earlier that morning and,
shortly after that, they had called at the farmhouse. And now they were near
the Breton Belle.
Brigitte knew that those three were
making their way downstream from St. Malo. They were trailing the Breton Belle because Jacques had his own reasons for hating Viola and so did Colette.
Brigitte knew them well, and she did not trust any one of them. Suppressing her
anger long enough to think a little more rationally, she crept quietly across
the last few yards of grass that led down to the towpath. Then she crouched low
in the lee of a bushy hedge.
The Breton Belle was just a few yards away. Jacques, Colette and Aimee were only feet
from her. They seemed to be in considerable disarray, arguing with Viola on the
boat, but they held their voices low. Why? Brigitte couldn’t guess why, but
then she remembered. There was a stranger on board the cruiser. Viola had told
her so when she called for the milk. The Hassims must also know about the
stranger, whoever he was.
Jacques was brandishing a hand gun
and, at the same time, struggling with one of the young women. Aimee had hold
of his gun arm and was trying to remove the weapon from his grasp. Colette
stood behind both of them and was telling Aimee to leave Jacques alone. She put
a hand to Jacques’s back and tried to push him closer to the boat. He stumbled,
broke free from Aimee’s grasp and took a couple of halting steps closer still
to the Breton Belle. He stopped suddenly, turned and pointed
the gun threateningly at the two women.
In a low voice he hissed at them to
stay back. It was doubtful if he had any idea what either of the young women
were doing, his brain was most likely numbed with the effects of whatever drug
he had been able to get his hands on. They both obediently stood back. With a
gun pointed directly at them they had no option, and the fear in their eyes
told its own story.
It was only then that Brigitte turned
her attention to Viola. She stood naked on the front deck of the boat, silently
watching the fracas between Jacques and the two girls. She made no effort to
cover her breasts but held her hands demurely crossed in front of her waist. It
was her only concession to modesty. Brigitte looked at the total perfection of
Viola’s figure and hated the girl.
“What do you want now?” Viola called
out to Jacques.
He turned to face her and hissed at
her in English, speaking through gritted teeth and in the same low voice. “The
boat! You must give me the boat. It rightly belongs to me. My father intended
that it should be mine.”
But Viola was clearly in no mood to
give in to Jacques’s demands. Casting aside her limited modesty, she shook her
fist at him and shouted, “It isn’t yours! He gave it to me.”
Jacques took a step closer, the gun
now aimed at Viola’s chest. His voice was still suppressed in volume, but
filled with venom. “He never intended to give it to you. Not until you forced
him to sign it over. You persuaded him to sign against his better judgment,
didn’t you? You forced him to sign some piece of paper that says it’s your boat
so that you can sell it and take all the money. Well, I want that piece of
paper my father signed. I want it!”
Brigitte was in no doubt that Jacques
would do anything to get his hands on that paper, it was all that stood between
him and Viola over the ownership of the boat. One way or another, he had to
destroy the paper in order to get the boat. Still hidden behind the hedge,
Brigitte felt her whole body go tense.
Viola had her eyes trained firmly on
the weapon. “I haven’t got it with me. I told you that before!” There was an
element of alarm in her voice.
“You’re a liar! You’ll give me the
paper. I want it right now, and this gun says you’ll do as I tell you.” Jacques
waved the gun so that it swung down to her abdomen and them back up to her
head. He stepped closer, as if drinking in the extent of Viola’s fear. “Afraid
of guns are you? Your brother isn’t afraid of guns, is he? Not when he’s
sitting in his fast fighter plane and shooting at poor Iraqis on the ground.
Your brother killed many of my father’s countrymen in the Mother of all
Battles.” His eyes bored into her. “Maybe he killed my own brother! So, what do
you say now, you little English whore? Do you want to pay for what happened to
my brother in my father’s country?”
Viola now had both hands held
straight out in front of her. There was no mistaking the tense, deep-seated
fear in her face. She knew that the argument was changing, no longer simply a
dispute about ownership of a boat. “Put it away, will you. It frightens me. The
whole thing was nothing to do with me. I wasn’t there. How could I have been
there?”
But all reason was now gone from Jacques’s
voice. He was a desperate young man demented. “You didn’t have to be there.
Your brother was there and he killed my father’s countrymen. One of my father’s
family died, so now one of your father’s family can die. In our country, that
is justice.”
Jacques didn’t appear to notice Aimee
creeping up behind him. When he did, it didn’t seem to occur to him that she
might try to stop him. But she did. There was a short scuffle, she grabbed the
gun and tried to wrestle it out of his hand.
“Let him do it!” Colette said. “It’s
best this way.”
“No.” Aimee kept hold of Jacques’s
arm. “This is wrong. Help me stop him.”
“Not so loud. The American on the
boat will hear.” Colette came forward and put her hands to Aimee’s shoulders.
She tried to pull Aimee away from Jacques. Her voice hissed, low and insistent.
“Leave him be. It is best this way.”
Brigitte could never afterwards be
sure exactly what went through her mind at that point, or why she reacted the
way she did. She had been content to remain in hiding while Jacques was
threatening Viola, even wishing he would shoot the girl and so remove the
threat of losing her baby. But when Aimee and Colette began to wrestle with
each other Brigitte jumped out of the bushes and ran directly into the fray.
The pistol was still in Jacques’s
hand, still pointed directly at Viola. The two young women were struggling with
each other, their eyes averted from Brigitte as she dashed up to Jacques and
reached out for the gun. Brigitte’s hands clasped about Jacques’s own hands,
skin against skin, cold metal touching the ends of her fingers. There was a
brief, very brief eerie silence and suddenly that silence was broken by the
thunderous roar of a gunshot.
Viola cried out and then fell forward
into the canal.
For a full two seconds no one moved.
Then Colette grabbed at Jacques who was standing with his hands at his side,
face quite blank. There was no resistance from him now as Colette pulled him
back from the Breton
Belle.
Brigitte felt a moment of blind
panic. She stumbled away from Jacques, her hands shaking and her heart
palpitating. What had they done?
Jacques seemed to be in shock, but
not Aimee. She pointed to the boat and firmly reminded them that there was
someone else aboard. Colette looked stunned for a few seconds before she also recovered
her composure. She indicated soundlessly towards the bushes and, with Aimee’s
help, she heaved Jacques into cover. Brigitte followed them just before that other
occupant of the boat appeared on deck.
It was the American.
They remained in hiding and watched
while the man recovered Viola’s body from the canal. No one moved until he took
the body below deck.
Aimee was the first to break the
silence. “He killed her!” she hissed “It was Jacques! He killed her.”
“We’ve got to get away from here!” Colette
turned on Brigitte. “You get back to your farm. And don’t tell a soul about
this. Not if you know what’s good for you.”
While Brigitte edged away, Colette
and Aimee hurriedly took Jacques back towards the yacht. Somewhere along the
way the gun was thrown into the canal. Brigitte heard the solid sound of it
hitting the water.
Brigitte remained rooted to the
ground for some minutes in the cover of the bushes when the others returned to
their yacht. Then she turned and ran back towards the farm. What should she do
now? Tell mama? No, she could not do that. She stopped before she came to the
house and sat in the shade of an old barn. She sat there for all of ten minutes,
thinking about the death of Viola Bracewell.
A terrible thing had happened back
there and she had played a part in it. A very precise part. Whatever happened
next, she must stay quiet and tell no one what happened. But could she trust
the people on the yacht to say nothing? She had to find out. Forcing some
reluctant energy back into her limbs, she went back to the tow path by the same
route, quietly in case someone should hear her. Voices drifted up from the
direction of the canal and she recognized them. At first she wanted to go
straight to them but then caution cut in, a caution which reminded her that she
could not trust anyone now. Not now.
She crept close enough to see Aimee
and Jacques through the entangled mesh of the hedge. They were speaking in
French, discussing what they should do next. Brigitte quickly learned that Colette
had taken the American into Rennes to contact the police. In his absence, Aimee
was about to board the boat and search for hidden drugs.
Jacques seemed incoherent, troubled
by what had happened. He needed a fix, needed it badly. Aimee told him to go
back to the yacht. She said that she would find the drugs. The American would
be sure to return with the police and he must not be seen in the vicinity. If
they came back before she was able to recover the drugs she knew how to make
sure he was made to look an idiot.
Brigitte watched Jacques slink away.
Then she saw Aimee board the Breton Belle. A few
minutes later, the girl came back on deck with a purse. She studied its
contents before she threw it away into the bushes. She looked angry as she
stormed back into the bowels of the boat.
Brigitte knew that these were
dangerous people and she could not reveal herself to any of them. She quietly walked
back to the farmhouse.
*
Brigitte was shaking as
she came to the end of her story. Emotion poured out from her in the only way
it could.
I
spoke, quietly, trying not to spook her. “It was Jacques who held the gun when
it went off. Wasn’t it?”
“Oui. He said that he would kill Viola,
but I think it was an accident. There was a struggle, you see, the gun went
bang and Viola fell into the water.”
“And,
later on, you told mama about it?”
“I
could not help it. I was frightened and I did not know what to do. Mama made me
tell her all what happened.”
“And
later still, they all put pressure on you to keep quiet about the whole
incident. Mama and Aimee and the Hassims?”
“Oui. Later they told me I must not tell
anyone.”
“That’s
when the Hassims threatened you?”
“Oui. But I did not tell anyone.” She
stuck out her chin defiantly. “I was not sorry Viola was dead because now she
could not take away my Pierre. Was that bad of me?”
“Yes,
I suppose it was. Bad, but understandable. Thank you for telling me all this.”
I deliberately allowed the tension to ease off, watching Brigitte slowly
recover her composure. When I spoke again, I kept my voice calm and easy. “Oh,
by the way, what were you holding when the gun went off?”
“Holding?”
She blinked.
I continued
to speak slowly, carefully. “Where were your hands, Brigitte? On Jacques?”
“I was
holding his arm. To stop him shooting.”
“His
arm? And his hands also, perhaps?”
She
turned defensive then, it showed in her eyes and the way she angled her body
away from me. “Maybe I touched his hands.”
“Touched?
You didn’t have your own hands wrapped around Jacques’s hands?”
“What
is this? Why do you ask this?”
“I
think you had your hands around Jacques’s hands.” I let that sink in before I
continued. “You did, didn’t you? Colette and Aimee were struggling with each
other, so they didn’t see what you were doing. They thought only Jacques had
hold of the gun. But you also had your hands on it. Didn’t you?”
“Oui.”
The reply came out slowly, hesitantly.
“So, Jacques
was holding the gun, aiming it at Viola. Trying to frighten her but not
intending to kill her. He was afraid if guns, you see, so he would never have
fired it himself. He only intended to frighten Viola.”
“I
suppose so.”
“But
then something unintended happened. The gun fired and the bullet hit Viola.”
“He
must have jerked his hand.”
“Or
maybe someone jerked it for him? Someone who was standing right next to him.
Someone who was actually holding his hands.”
There
was a lengthy silence, one which I refused to break. Eventually Brigitte said,
“Viola wanted my baby.”
“There
were other ways to stop her.”
“You
cannot prove I did anything wrong. Not now. Whatever you tell the gendarmes, I
shall say it is completely untrue. I shall say that Jacques killed Viola and I
saw him do it. The other girls will agree with me. That is what they believe.”
“But Colette
and Aimee didn’t see what actually happened, did they?”
“They
think they know what happened.”
“And
Jacques?”
“He is
mad so no one will believe what he says. You see? You cannot prove anything
against me.”
“No. I
don’t suppose I can.” I sat back in my seat, wondering whether anything could
be gained by making formal accusations against her, accusations I could never
hope to prove. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it would be best if I don’t waste any
more police time.”
“Yes.
You see, you understand.” A smile quickly returned to her face. “I always
thought that you were the nice man.”
“Depends
what you mean by nice, Brigitte. Nice men don’t have sex with unmarried teenage
mothers.”
“For
you, I would do it again. And again.”
I
glanced at Simone. “I think not, Brigitte. I wouldn’t allow it to happen again
and besides, Simone would not approve.”
“That
is the pity.”
I stood
up and started to move away from Brigitte, then paused. “There is one more
thing, Brigitte. Back in St. Malo, before Viola sailed the Breton Belle from there, someone let fly with a shotgun. Someone
who might have wanted Viola dead. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would
you?” I glanced at the shotgun mounted on the wall.
An
astonished look quickly filled Brigitte’s face and she jutted her chin at me.
“You cannot prove anything against me. Nothing at all.”
“No. I
can’t can I?” And I left it at that. If the police wanted to follow up on the
matter that was their prerogative.
*
We were on the ferry back
to Portsmouth. It was a bright, moonlit evening and we stood on the afterdeck
watching the ship’s wake trailing off into the darkness.
I put
an arm about Simone’s shoulders. “You knew all along what happened between me
and Brigitte on the Breton Belle?”
“Of
course. What sort of woman would I be if I couldn’t see something as obvious as
that?”
“You’re
angry.”
“No.
If we were living together and you did that to me I would kill you. But we
still have a lot to learn about each other. So I have no right to be angry.
Yet.”
“For
what it’s worth, I’m real sorry…”
“Don’t
let’s talk about it, Henry. Don’t let’s spoil such a nice evening.”
I
clasped my arm tighter about her and we stared out across the water. “Maybe I
should have told the police.”
“Told
them what? That you had sex with a teenage nymphomaniac? That much is true and
anything else is pure conjecture. Let it be, Henry. Let it be.”
She was
right, of course.
End
No comments:
Post a Comment