A Grave in the Woods, page 2
Chapter 2
They set off across the road and up the steps to the higher square and avoided the market stalls that filled the long Rue de Paris and took the narrower rue Gambetta to the old parade ground by the gendarmerie. As they walked, the mayor explained that there was a British TV company involved. They were the makers of Do-It-Yourself Château, a program popular on daytime TV and now sold to other broadcasters around the world. They would follow the trials and tribulations of five or six British families who were each restoring a different French château, usually with a happy ending as old ruins became hotels or grand family homes. Apparently, transforming such ruins into wedding venues was very popular, the mayor said, since such episodes ended with some attractive couple tying the knot.
“It seems weddings make wonderful television, usually having at least one crisis and being very telegenic,” the mayor continued, adding that he could show Bruno the TV recording Monsieur Birch had made of his previous restoration.
A couple of hundred meters beyond the old gendarmerie they came to a belt of shrubland with trees on the left. The mayor stopped.
“Look down here,” he said. “You see that big square of dirt? That’s the old tennis court. He cleared off a couple of patches to see if it was still sound beneath, and it seems to be fine, easily restored.”
After another fifty meters they came to a pair of rusted iron gates that still bore patches of faded blue paint. The gates opened with a screech of metal, and they entered, walking along a narrow driveway shaded by trees. On their left was a solid but dilapidated building, perhaps the old stables, since it had a tall double door for coaches and what looked like a hayloft above. That space would be turned into four self-contained gîtes, the mayor explained. Beyond it to the right was the château, a handsome structure despite the missing shutters, the overgrowth of ivy and missing roof tiles. It had an imposing central door, two stories—each boasting six double windows—and more rooms and smaller windows in the roof, all topped with a tall chimney stack.
“There’s a lot of work to be done,” said Bruno, as Balzac trotted off to explore the overgrown garden, pausing to lift his leg on an apple tree that had been left unpruned for many years. “How much land goes with it?”
“A bit more than four hectares, stretching beyond the tennis court and across the stream. It reaches most of the way up to the Resistance memorial on the road leading to St. Avit.” Looking around, Bruno focused on the remains of what had once been a formal garden, with rows of trees, unkempt paths and a long-dry fountain of crumbling stone.
“Down there is what used to be the restaurant and then farther on, behind that low building, is the swimming pool. That will need restoring,” the mayor said. “Behind those trees is an old forge, which Monsieur Birch says could be made into another fine gîte. I asked Michel to take a good look at the various buildings, and he said the main structures and roof timbers were all sound. There’ll be a lot of work, new plumbing, electric circuits, repairing the roof and bringing the insulation up to code, but very little that’s structural. And since Monsieur Birch has already done a fine job on the other old château, he should be able to handle this, and it would be a handsome addition to our town.”
“So, what’s this about a grave? Where is it?”
“I don’t know. But there was a reference to it in the property deed, a small separate plot, three meters by two, and part of the overall estate. I’d hate for that to block what could be a fine project.”
“If it’s in the deed there should be coordinates for the exact location. What does the notaire say?” Bruno asked. “Was it our own Brosseil who drew up the deed?”
“No, Brosseil’s grandfather added the grave to the deed some sixty or so years ago. The date is not entirely clear. Michel tried to find the exact spot, but the whole area is overgrown woodland. It would need clearing to know if the grave is there, and if it’s occupied, if that’s the right word.”
“Anything in the town records about a burial? I presume you’ve asked Father Sentout about the church records. I seem to recall that family members could traditionally be buried on private property.”
“Theoretically that’s still the case, but so hedged in with conditions and inspections of water tables by hydrological and other experts that I thought I’d leave all that to you, Bruno. Father Sentout says he has no record of such a grave. But he told me that if a grave has been abandoned for more than thirty years, it can be emptied and the remains properly interred elsewhere or cremated with a proper record of the location of the ashes. A formal legal notice would have to be published so that lawyers and notaires could have a chance to contact any descendants who might file objections.”
“Well, I can go see Brosseil and learn what I can. Do you have an address for this Monsieur Birch?”
“Yes, he’s rented a place in Audrix so he could register his boy for school here. He seems like a decent enough fellow and he speaks reasonable French. He told me he’d learned it when working in the Alps during the skiing season. He was the chef at various luxury chalets.”
“Hence the cooking school idea,” Bruno said.
“Indeed. Birch has his head screwed on right. He said it wouldn’t make sense to run the château as a hotel, since it would only be filled for four months of the year. So he plans to live in it with his family in one wing and rent out the other five or six rooms as bed-and-breakfast places so he wouldn’t have to employ staff all year-round. And he’d have four gîtes to rent out, five when he restores the old forge. I think you’ll like him; he cooks and he used to play rugby. What’s more, he seems keen to get the tennis court back in order.”
“What about the bankruptcy and the creditors?” Bruno asked.
“I had a quiet word with the judge. Our unpaid property taxes have priority among the creditors, and if we suspend that claim, Birch has offered to pay enough money to the court to give the other creditors about a third of what they are owed. Since they wrote off those bad debts more than ten years ago they’ll be happily surprised by their windfall. The judge is prepared to approve that, and then we would start getting about six thousand a year in property taxes, plus a couple of year-round jobs and three or four more part-time jobs in season. And there’ll be work for our craftsmen and decorators for a year or so. St. Denis will have a paying asset rather than a crumbling liability.”
“You said suspend the town’s claim on the unpaid taxes, rather than waive them,” Bruno said.
“That’s right. And when Birch eventually sells the place, we’d want our unpaid taxes, which he agrees would come out of his profit. He obviously believes he’d make more than enough on the deal and most of it would have been swallowed by inflation. Everybody would win, Bruno, so long as you can sort out the problem of the grave, which may well be empty for all I know. And now I understand that you’re going to meet some friends for lunch at Ivan’s, where we’ll part company.”
Chapter 3
The friends in question—Horst and Clothilde—were waiting for him at the restaurant. Both were prominent archaeologists at the museum of prehistory in Les Eyzies. A stranger was with them, a woman who looked to be in her thirties, dressed in jeans and a fleece jacket over a military-style khaki shirt. She had dark hair tied into a neat bun at the back of her neck. Her expression was serious, almost solemn, and she wore not a scrap of makeup that Bruno could discern. Her eyes were a clear blue and she had a pleasant, slightly guarded smile, as if she were nervous, or perhaps naturally shy.
Before any introductions, Clothilde, a small, redheaded powerhouse of a woman, rushed up to give Bruno a hug and a kiss on each cheek.
“We were so worried about you, but the mayor always said you’d make a full recovery. And nobody believes that story about Russian criminals shooting you at a traffic stop when half the French army just happened to be on hand for your rescue. Speculation has been running wild, as you can imagine.”
“It always does,” said Bruno. “But I’m almost as good as new.” He broke off to shake the hand of Horst, a cheerful German professor with a white beard who had finally married Clothilde in the St. Denis mairie after years of on-again, off-again romance. They had pursued each other from rock paintings in Australia to tombs in Egypt; from prehistoric burials in southern Africa to Scythian sites in Ukraine. Bruno had been a witness at their wedding. Clothilde joked that she’d agreed to marry Horst only because of the bathroom he had installed in his house. It boasted a shower with different nozzles firing jets of hot water from every direction, with a sauna and hot tub attached. Bruno had long been promised an invitation to try it.
“This is our friend Abigail Howard,” said Clothilde, “known to all her friends as Abby. She’s a former pupil of mine from the U.S. who’s staying with us. She’d like to stay longer, so she’s currently house hunting. She wants to pick your brains about starting a business here as a specialist guide for American visitors.”
When he shook Abby’s hand Bruno felt calluses, which made him suspect she might be a serious tennis player. She went down on one knee to make friends with Balzac, murmuring something in excellent French about having grown up with basset hounds. Balzac seemed to take to her at once. Ivan now came out of the kitchen, arms outstretched to embrace Bruno, but then held back, asking if Bruno’s shoulder was yet healed.
“Almost,” said Bruno, using his good arm to embrace the chef who was also the owner of the restaurant. “And who is your new friend in the kitchen whose cooking all my friends have been recommending?”
“Marta, from Kraków,” said Ivan. “She makes wonderful pierogi, and you’ll love her zurek, a white borscht made with sour rye, celery root and hard-boiled egg. And she makes the most delicious apple-and-sour-cream cake with rum. You can have that for dessert.”
“Where did you meet her?” Bruno asked with a grin, knowing Ivan’s habit of coming back from each annual vacation with a woman of a different nationality who would bring her local cuisine to titillate the taste buds of the residents of St. Denis.
“I haven’t had a vacation yet this year, but now that she’s here I don’t need one,” Ivan said, casting a fond look toward the kitchen. “No, she came to me. She heard from someone in Bergerac that I was looking for a deputy chef. She was working as a waitress in a place where the owner kept trying to entice her into the pantry, and the owner’s wife suggested she try here. I’m glad she did, and you will be, too.”
As they took their places at the table, Bruno asked Abby if she played tennis, and Horst answered quickly, “She’ll wipe the floor with you, Bruno. She was on a team that won the U.S. college championships.”
“Really?” asked Bruno, suitably impressed. “I help to run a kind of tennis school for our youngsters at the local club. Maybe you could come along one day and do some coaching.”
Her reaction startled him. Abby was looking over his shoulder, her mouth open and her eyes wide. He turned to see what she was staring at and saw a Valkyrie.
Bruno was no midget at one meter eighty-five, but the woman who appeared through the kitchen door was at least fifteen centimeters taller, with shoulders to match. A burst of tightly curled blonde hair was piled up above a thick white headband. She greeted them all and put a beefy arm around Ivan, who barely came up to her chin and gazed up at her adoringly.
“You are all welcome,” she said in an unusual accent that seemed both guttural and liquid at the same time. “I am Marta and I am cooking today. The soup is zurek, the main course is to choose between a chicken schnitzel or fresh trout with caraway seeds, and my special cake for dessert. Which one of you is the policeman?”
“I am,” Bruno said, putting out his hand to be shaken, but she took it to pull him toward her and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Ivan told me you stepped in to cook for him when he was ill, and Father Sentout says you have a good soul, for a pagan.”
“And he’s a real expert on rugby, for a priest,” Bruno replied. “Have you ever played? We have a good women’s team here.” He was thinking that with Marta playing number 8, adding her weight and strength to the back row of the forwards and her height in jumping for the ball when it had to be thrown back in after going off the field, she’d be a formidable asset.
“I have never played, but I need some exercise,” Marta replied. “Maybe I could come to watch your women practice and do some running?”
“Tomorrow afternoon at five,” said Bruno. “If Ivan can spare you.”
“Good. I know where your club is. I pass it when I go jogging. I should be back here soon after six to help Ivan cook. Now I have to return to the kitchen.”
“Believe me, her cooking matches her personality, so we’re in for a feast,” said Clothilde, as they took their seats. “Now, as I said, Abby wants to know about the regulations for guides and whether she would need a brevet, since in France we seem to need formal qualifications for most jobs. She wants to put together a special tour of American connections to the region.”
To be a licensed guide authorized by the tourist board, with the right to escort visitors into museums and national monuments, evidence of special skills and training was usually required, Bruno explained. A two-year training course would be followed by an exam to earn the brevet. But to be a private guide, particularly in a specialist field like American links to the Périgord, there’d be more leeway, especially with a recommendation from someone like Clothilde, a curator of a national museum.
“Abby is an archaeologist with a doctorate from the University of Virginia,” said Clothilde. “Horst and I would be glad to write a letter of recommendation to the prefect and to the tourist board, stressing her excellent qualifications to be a guide for our regional archaeology sites. If it would help, we could make her a visiting curator at the museum; she would give a course of lectures in English as well as French.”
Bruno thought that Clothilde was going to unusual lengths to help this friend. There would be more to this than met the eye. But Clothilde and Horst were old friends. Naturally, he’d help if he could.
“Making her an official adjointe of the museum should more than suffice,” said Bruno, and then turned to Abby. “If you plan to make a living from this, you might want to establish yourself as an auto-entrepreneur, paying a modest fee for social insurance. But you’d need a carte de séjour, proof of legal residence.”
“That’s not a problem,” she told him briskly. “I had an Irish grandmother, so I qualified for an Irish passport, which makes me a European citizen with the right to live and work anywhere in Europe.”
“Lucky you,” said Bruno. “Does this mean you’ll be living in France permanently?”
“I only have a year’s sabbatical from my teaching job in the States, which should be time enough to see if this can work or not. I’m staying with Clothilde and Horst for the moment, but I’m looking for a small place to rent,” she said. “I think somewhere around St. Denis would make sense.”
“We may be able to help with that,” Bruno said. “I have two friends who rent out gîtes on their property, and I think they may have one available. It’s a small house but comfortable, with a private garden and access to their pool and grass tennis court. I think Fabiola—she’s the owner—asks about five hundred a month, which includes electricity, and there’s a big woodburning stove in the living room.”
“It sounds perfect,” said Abby. “I’m grateful, and I’m also curious that you’ve just tried to recruit me as a tennis coach and get Marta to join your rugby team. You sound more like the local sports director than a policeman.”
“That’s just my hobby,” Bruno said, and swiftly changed the subject. “I’m curious about something, too. What special American connections do you intend to feature?”
“Well, I’d start with Thomas Jefferson and his admiration for Archbishop Fénelon as a leading intellectual father of the Enlightenment, and take them to visit the château where Fénelon was born, and to Rouffillac where he stayed. I’d also take them to the château at La Bachellerie near Terrasson, whose plans we think Jefferson copied as the design for the White House. Then there is Ezra Pound and his friend T. S. Eliot, who began writing The Waste Land while the two poets were on a walking tour in the Périgord. Many people, including me, think it’s the greatest poem of the twentieth century,” she said, almost vehemently, warming to her theme.
“And of course,” she went on, “Pound virtually adopted the troubadours of the Périgord, translated the songs of Bertran de Born and even wrote poems in their Occitan language. Since Eliot also wrote the verse play Murder in the Cathedral, about the killing of Thomas Becket, I’d take visitors to the Chapel of St. Martin, near Limeuil. It was one of three churches the pope ordered Henry II to build as a penance for Becket’s murder, two in England and one in France.”
She paused, and gave a gentle smile that Bruno thought made her look much more attractive. “I love the medieval frescoes in that Chapel of St. Martin, not just the big ones behind the altar but the little ones, too. They’re fading but still so beautiful.”
Bruno smiled in return and nodded approval. “You can tell your clients that the experts say they represent two Old Testament prophets, but we locals all think that the fresco of the two men with the bottle in the side chapel represents Becket and King Henry in happier times, when they were bosom buddies and drinking companions.”
“I’ll make a point of it,” she said, for the first time smiling at him warmly. Bruno felt a little like a schoolboy being praised by a teacher.
“I’d also want to talk about the American paratroopers who were dropped near Cadouin in August 1944 to help the Resistance. There weren’t many Germans left here by then, but the Americans were able to join the liberation parade in Périgueux. Then there are the Lindberghs, the family of the first pilot to fly across the Atlantic. His son married Monique Watteau, a local writer who had earlier been the mistress of the actor Yul Brynner. Then I’d take them to Josephine Baker’s Château des Milandes. She wasn’t just a superstar of the Jazz Age; Martin Luther King Jr.’s widow asked her to take over the leadership of the civil rights movement after her husband was assassinated.”
