Strangled in Paris: 6th Victor Legris Mystery. Claude Izner

too much to ask of Madame Guénéqué that she would leave it there.

      ‘Ha. And what’s happened to your chairs? They’re in a pretty state! And is this person going to stay here for long?’

      ‘I was waiting for you to come so that I could go out and ask the nuns at the infirmary to send someone to collect her.’

      ‘I’d do it sharpish if I were you. When my poor old man fell head first into the cider vat, his friends did the best they could to get him to cough it all up, but in the end his heart gave out.’

      ‘I’m going now. Keep the fire burning while I’m gone and, if she wakes up and wants to eat, there are eggs and sausages in the cupboard.’

      ‘Don’t you worry, she won’t die of hunger. I’ll make her some nice hot soup.’ She rolled up her sleeves and set to work. ‘He may be an old hermit,’ she muttered, ‘but he’s still got a soft spot for the ladies.’

      Outside, Corentin Jourdan filled his lungs with the damp air, relieved to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the house. The wind had wreaked havoc among the rose bushes and mallow plants: the trees were bent and splayed into tortured shapes, and crows fluttered to and fro among the broken branches. The bakehouse was flooded and the geese were honking in the little yard, which was white with their droppings.

      He released Flip and put his harness on. The horse, an Anglo-Norman with a long nose, shook his mane in pleasure at the prospect of escaping from his confinement. With his master in the saddle, left leg hanging free of the stirrup, he walked along the shore, punctuating the monotonous calls of the seagulls with his whinnying.

      They crossed the stream just as the church bell was tolling. A silent crowd gathered in front of the church doors, which were surmounted by a relief of St Martin. Urville’s gravediggers would have their work cut out this evening.

      He had to knock on the large double doors several times before a little hatch was pulled half open. A young nun stared at him while he explained his case. The sister retorted that the mother superior would do what she could as soon as possible but that all the beds were full because of the storm. He was insistent.

      ‘This woman has a high fever. Who knows how long she may have been in the water? It’s a miracle that she’s still of this world.’

      An older nun brushed the novice aside and examined Corentin, adjusting her spectacles.

      ‘Sister Ursula is right, Captain Jourdan, we are run off our feet here. Still, I shall send Landry, the gardener’s son, to collect the woman, and we’ll put her up in the annexe.’

      He thanked the mother superior warmly. He had earned her gratitude one winter day in 1892 when he had helped repair one of the walls of the infirmary which had fallen down, and had accepted nothing by way of a reward except for a bowl of coffee and some bread and butter.

      She kept her word. Five minutes later, Landry’s shock of red hair could be seen bobbing along towards Landemer behind the nuns’ old nag. From a distance, Corentin Jourdan watched the cart rattling over the potholed path.

      From the shelter of the stable, he observed the boy and Madame Guénéqué carrying the woman, wrapped up like a mummy, as best they could towards the cart. When Landry had disappeared round the bend, Corentin took the saddle off his horse and let it graze.

      ‘You missed them,’ remarked Madame Guénéqué when he came in. A pot hung over the fire, simmering and giving off an appetising smell of vegetables and ham. ‘She didn’t open her eyes or her mouth, poor thing.’

      Having finished cleaning the ground floor, Madame Guénéqué was putting on her shawl. The loft was forbidden territory, except when her employer was away.

      ‘I’m going to see old Pignol.’

      ‘Don’t forget to tell him about the roof. The weather’s settling down now, but still …’

      ‘Don’t worry, I will. See you on Wednesday, Captain. And remember to dig out that washtub for me – there’s a ton of washing to be done.’

      She shot a poisonous glance at Gilliatt, spread-eagled in the middle of the bed.

      When she had gone, Corentin Jourdan let out a sigh. A few short hours had been enough for a stranger to turn his routine upside down. He lay down next to the cat, overcome with fatigue.

      In the middle of the night he got up, poked the remains of the fire and added the remnants of one of the crates. He served himself a bowl of warm soup and sat down in the chimney corner. At his feet, Gilliatt lapped at a saucer of milk. The regular sound of the cat’s little pink tongue flicking back and forth sent Corentin off into a daydream. He recalled a vision he had once had: a naked water sprite was holding him in her arms, and a blue aura hung around her jet-black hair.

      What was happening to him? It was the first time in twenty years that he had become so obsessed by something. Ashamed of behaving like a dreamy adolescent, Corentin got up and was about to make for the attic when he saw something under the bed. He bent down and picked up the woman’s bag. Madame Guénéqué’s broom wasn’t always very thorough.

      He lit a candle and went up to the attic. Uncertain what to do, he looked thoughtfully at his find. Should he open it? If he did, he risked becoming attached to the woman, rather than freeing himself from her. He had resolved never to leave his home here where his frugal way of life, combined with the money left by his uncle, meant that he was independent, almost rich. He was entirely at peace with the world, because his heart was not pierced by any thorns of emotion, and because he hardly ever saw other people and only had a horse and a cat to look after.

      ‘Is she married?’

      Unable to resist, he picked up the bag. The leather had protected an address book, a bulging purse and a wad of papers tied up in a triple layer of oilcloth. Where to start? He began with a crinkled beige envelope, pulling out a blue notebook whose pages were covered in small writing. He settled himself on the trestle bed, began reading and didn’t stop until he had read the whole thing.

      When morning came, he put the notebook back where he had found it and went to stand by the window. In the courtyard below, a timid ray of sunlight projected the black shadow of the chimney onto the wall. Between two buildings, there was a glimpse of the sea, calm as a millpond. He looked at it for a moment, his pipe in his mouth, lost in thought. The clear horizon seemed to bode well for the day and he set off to take the woman’s bag to the nuns.

      He was told that, after a difficult night, the woman seemed, according to the doctor, to be out of danger. Her name was Sophie Clairsange. A sailor from the Eagle had brought her suitcase, full of beautiful clothes. The poor woman was still fragile, but had managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of food. Would the captain like to see her?

      Corentin instructed the novice not to reveal his identity if Sophie Clairsange should happen to ask about him. Surprised, the novice promised to do as he asked.

      He left. At Urville, he bought La Lanterne Manchoise hot off the press. A front-page article on the wreck of the schooner recorded that there had been no casualties. Elsewhere, the newspaper bemoaned the uprooting of trees in Cherbourg, which was causing chaos on the main road into the town.

      He set off back to the sanctuary of his own home.

       Wednesday 10 January

      ‘What about that washtub?’ grumbled Madame Guénéqué, when she saw that Corentin hadn’t obeyed her instruction.

      Without replying, he went up to the attic. Where had he left it? Ah yes, under the bed. He pulled out a wooden box and took off the lid. Inside he found 420 francs, which he hoped would be enough for his needs. After all, the journey there and back in third class cost less than forty francs. The trip to Cherbourg wouldn’t cost much and Landry would be delighted with even such a small sum, which he would go and spend straight away in one of the bistros at the port. Then it would just be a case of