Monsieur Pamplemousse Afloat (7 page)

Perhaps not surprisingly, since it was billed as ‘a gastronomic feast based on local specialities’, the meal began with the ubiquitous
jambon persillé
. The ham was not a patch on the one which had been served at lunchtime. Manufactured rather than made with love and care. The pots of mustard on the table were not even from Dijon.

Monsieur Pamplemousse only toyed with the
boeuf Bourguignon
that followed. The wine came in
large jugs and was too young for his liking. To say that it lacked ‘body’ was putting it mildly. It tasted as though it had been made by someone with a grudge against society; a product of one of Boniface’s ‘wine lakes’. Either someone was pulling a fast one or they had sadly underrated their visitors’ taste buds. The serving girls, dressed in period costume, seemed hard put to raise a smile between them and gradually an air of gloom descended on the gathering.

Even the flowers were artificial and not very good at that. He watched as a fly settled on one of the blooms. It stayed there, clearly preferring the aroma of plastic to that of the food. He could hardly blame it.

At one point, as the meal was nearing its end, Monsieur Pamplemousse heard raised voices coming from a nearby room. Two men were engaged in a furious argument. It was conducted in French so most of it went over the heads of the other diners, but the venom behind it was all too apparent. One of the men spoke with an American accent and he appeared to be answering complaints about some aspect of the way that the place was being run. The quarrel was short and sharp, punctuated by the slamming of a door, which brought conversation around the table to a temporary halt.

Abeille turned to him. ‘What was all that about?’

‘I think it was a clash between the old and the new,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘A debate between
those who are resistant to change and those who are for it.’

Debate was putting it mildly. It had been a real slanging match. As they rose from the table and followed their guide down a stone stairway leading to the vaults, he decided the encounter had contained all the hallmarks of a bitter family quarrel; part of a continuing battle. A clash that had its roots in the dim and distant past.

The bulk of the audience was already seated. They looked cold, as well they might, for the atmosphere was damp and bone-chilling. A thermometer registered eleven degrees C. Abeille was going to regret her choice of dress before the evening was over.

The second row had been reserved for
Le Creuset
’s party and he found two places at the far end, near a lighting stand. At least when it came on it would give off a modicum of heat.

Judging from the batch of reserved empty seats in the middle of the row in front of them, local dignitaries and others of importance were expected.

As the audience sat waiting for the performance to begin, Monsieur Pamplemousse allowed his attention to wander. The vast stone-flagged, vaulted room they were in must have pre-dated the mansion itself by several centuries. Its walls looked as old as time – over six metres thick some of them, according to the guide.

Black drapes hung from the roof around the area where the performance was due to take place, but on either side he could see endless corridors lined with rows of bottles. It was like sitting on the hub of a giant wheel whose spokes radiated out in all directions; north, south, east, west and points in between.

The flooring in the corridors was of tightly packed gravel and the lighting came from candles burning in traditional wrought-iron holders. It made counting difficult, but at a guess the section nearest to them must have contained close on a thousand bottles; and that was only one stack. Multiply the total number by their market value … they were sitting in the middle of a small fortune. He would have given a lot to have tasted some of the older wines, rather than the mouthwash they had been served at dinner.

A hush descended on the audience as a small group led by Madame Ambert entered through a side door. She was closely followed by a man of about the same age. His face was bronzed and lined as though he had spent most of his life in the sun. Despite the chill, he was dressed in an open-neck shirt and thin plaid trousers. Several others followed, all men, presumably under-managers and other officials of the company.

Bringing up the rear was another older man. Monsieur Pamplemousse recognised him from a picture in the brochure. Fabrice Delamain,
wine-maker to Clos Ambert-Celeste. He, too, had the appearance of someone who had spent much of his life in the open air. He looked ill at ease in his suit.

As soon as the new arrivals had settled themselves the house lights slowly dimmed until, apart from the candlelit corridors, the vaults were almost completely dark. Music issuing from loudspeakers hidden in various nooks and crannies filled the air.

Whoever was in charge of staging the production had obviously opted for working within pools of light, allowing the actors the freedom to appear and disappear as the script demanded, for as the pageant began a single overhead spot revealed a parrot on a raised perch. There was no sign of it being tethered in any way, and for a moment or two it was hard to tell whether or not it was real.

The opening music slowly segued into the sound of chanting as twelve hooded figures in white habits appeared from out of the shadows and moved in slow procession past the bird, paying their respects one after the other.

Monsieur Pamplemousse closed his eyes as the familiar words brought back memories of his childhood. It was almost possible to picture the scene as it must have happened. And were the responses really being spoken by the parrot, or was it a theatrical trick? He opened one eye. It was impossible to tell from where he was sitting. The
bird’s beak was certainly moving and the shadow being cast on the floor grew and receded in turn as it shifted uneasily on its perch.

He was about to close his eyes again when he became aware of a movement nearby. At first he thought it was a rat, then he realised it was Pommes Frites arriving.

‘Oooh!’ Abeille gave a squeak. Luckily it coincided with the moment in the story when Vert-Vert set sail up the river Loire and the chanting of nuns gave way to a boisterous rendering of an ancient sea shanty, so it was lost in the general hubbub. Above it all there rose the voice of the narrator.

Monsieur Pamplemousse reached down and felt a familiar wet nose. ‘It is a sign of good health,’ he whispered.

‘Yeah? That’s what they all say! Have you got a handkerchief I could borrow?’ Taking advantage of the light on her right, Abeille wiped herself dry and set the video camera going.

The cast were barely halfway through the song when Monsieur Pamplemousse suddenly felt Pommes Frites’ hackles rise. Ears cocked, body tense, muscles at the ready, he stared through a gap in the row in front. It was an all-too-familiar
stance. Immediately put on the alert, Monsieur Pamplemousse concentrated his attention on the action, although for the life of him he could see nothing untoward.

The scene had changed to the quayside at Nantes where a group of nuns dressed in dark-grey habits anxiously awaited the arrival of the boat.

But it was not to be, for as the sound of cheering onlookers began to mount several things happened in quick succession.

At almost exactly the same instant as one of the nuns stepped forward with outstretched hands to greet Vert-Vert, Pommes Frites made a lunge – it could have been a fraction of a second earlier, or even a fraction later – but whichever way it was it took Monsieur Pamplemousse completely by surprise. Vert-Vert gave a loud squawk, fluttered into the air, and after hovering panic-stricken for what seemed like an eternity, plummeted to the floor, where he lay on his side, plainly no longer of this world.

It was all so unexpected the audience sat completely stunned and for a moment or two the actors looked equally thrown. Eventually Fabrice Delamain stepped forward and placed a large handkerchief over the corpse and everyone relaxed.

Bereft of its star, the cast manfully ad-libbed the second half of the poem. Extemporising much of it on the spur of the moment, intermingling past tense sadly with present, there were times when their
performance bore all the signs of desperation, but at least the final lines were given an added poignancy.

It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse as he joined in the applause that if someone had had the foresight to provide a small coffin the reception accorded the twelve thespians might have been warmer still. Even so, they took many more calls than they could possibly have bargained for. Relief, coupled with a desire on the part of the audience to get their circulation going again, added its quota.

He glanced down to see how Pommes Frites was reacting to it all, but he was nowhere to be seen. As the applause died away and the house lights came up, Monsieur Pamplemousse turned and looked idly back over the rest of the audience, hoping to catch sight of him. Those at the back were already making a quick getaway up a second flight of stairs which was being used as an additional exit. He caught a momentary glimpse of a familiar figure.

Could it be? Was it possible?

He would have sworn it was the man from the TGV again. One moment he was there, the next moment he had gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

‘Hey! Look at that!’ Abeille tugged at his arm. ‘Would you believe it?’

‘I know. I have already seen him.’

‘No, I don’t mean behind you,’ Abeille tugged his arm again. ‘Look … over there.’

Reluctantly, Monsieur Pamplemousse diverted his attention back towards the acting area. A stage hand dressed from head to foot in black – one of several responsible for moving the scenery during the performance – was holding aloft the handkerchief that had been used to cover Vert-Vert, a look of disbelief on his face.

‘See what I mean?’ exclaimed Abeille. ‘Someone’s made off with the goddam parrot!’

The rain started to come down in the early hours of the morning. Monsieur Pamplemousse switched on the bedside light and checked the time by his Cupillard-Rième watch. It said three seventeen precisely. He had been wakened a few minutes earlier by a movement of the boat, then voices. It sounded as though Sven and Martin were attending to the moorings, but it was impossible to hear what they were saying above the noise of the wind.

After a while the sound died away. He lay back and closed his eyes, wondering where Pommes Frites was. Even though Pommes Frites had been the first to board the coach for the journey back – ready and waiting in fact – he had certainly been behaving very oddly, almost as though he had something to hide. There was no doubt in Monsieur
Pamplemousse’s mind that he wouldn’t be far away and that all would be revealed in due course. All the same, it would be good to see him sooner rather than later. At least it sounded as though the rain was coming down in sheets rather than lethal balls of ice; a plus of sorts.

Try as he might, he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that Pommes Frites had in some way been responsible, if not for the death, at least for the subsequent disappearance of Vert-Vert. It seemed too much of a coincidence for it to be otherwise.

According to the programme notes, the parrot had been on loan from a pet shop in Beaune, but he dismissed the thought that it might have made a miraculous recovery and flown back to base when no one was looking. Parrots didn’t behave like homing pigeons. It was even less likely that in true thespian style it had been ‘resting’; there was something very final about the way it had hit the ground.

It could have had something to do with the excitement, of course. It might have been a very old parrot, set in its ways, metaphorically speaking unused to seeing its name in lights. Did parrots suffer from stage fright? He had never heard of a parrot having a heart attack through exposure to applause. Rather the reverse – they enjoyed showing off. On the other hand, nothing in this world was for ever. Like everyone else, they had to die one day. Fortunately, the only person to witness Pommes
Frites’ possible part in the affair had been Abeille, and she was hardly likely to say anything.

Abeille! Wondering if she was awake too, Monsieur Pamplemousse made the fatal mistake of deciding he would dwell on her for a minute or two before going back to sleep. The minute or two became four or five, then multiplied as he grew more and more restive. It had been a mistake taking a nap the previous afternoon; even more of a mistake to try picturing Abeille. Clothing her from head to foot in a nun’s habit rather than the dress she had been wearing produced exactly the opposite effect to the one he had intended.

He tried thinking about the man on the train instead. That was a series of odd coincidences and no mistake. But then wasn’t it often the case that you visited a strange town and then kept seeing the same person over and over again until you were almost tempted to greet them as old friends? Except that travelling around on a barge was hardly the same thing.

Sleep came to Monsieur Pamplemousse at last, but it was a fitful affair, and when he eventually came to nothing had changed. It was still pouring with rain, and there was still no sign of Pommes Frites. Neither was there any sign of the coach.

Having shaved and taken a leisurely shower, he toyed with the idea of wearing one of the open-necked shirts Doucette had packed for him. He decided against it. It was definitely suit weather.

He was in the middle of putting the final touches to his person when he heard the coach draw up outside. Glancing out through the porthole again he saw Boniface climbing out laden with
baguettes
. The rain had turned into a veritable deluge and he was having difficulty in staying upright on the slippery surface.

Making his way up on deck, Monsieur Pamplemousse found the dining saloon was empty. Everybody else must be having a lie in. He could hear someone hard at work in the kitchen with a bread slicer, and shortly afterwards a smell of burning toast drifted through a ventilator grill. The odour of freshly ground coffee followed soon afterwards.

While he was waiting he scanned the contents of some bookshelves in a corner of the room. It was a catholic selection; mostly French and English novels and guidebooks, with a scattering of German paperbacks. Probably they had all been left behind by previous guests. He skimmed through a visitors’ book on top of the piano. It was full of complimentary remarks, along with the occasional drawing.

‘Had a wonderful time! Can’t wait for next year!’

‘Weather and food couldn’t have been better!’

He wondered what would be written at the end of the present trip.

Monique squelched into the saloon and placed a basket of toast on the serving table. She looked as though she had been out on deck. It was probably the only way to reach her quarters.

‘
Ooh, là, là!
’ She raised her eyes despairingly heavenwards.

It was the informed opinion of the crew that the bad weather would last for the rest of the day. Monsieur Pamplemousse would do well to find himself a good book; preferably a long one.

She returned a moment later with a pot of coffee, a jug of cold milk and a glass of fresh orange juice.

Monsieur Pamplemousse helped himself to some toast before turning his attention to the rest of the food on display. There were several dishes of
confiture
; raspberry, strawberry and plum. It looked home-made; full of whole fruit. Alongside the jam there were jars of honey, a plate of sliced Morvan ham, a large bowl of fresh fruit and a smaller one of yoghurt.

Some twenty or so minutes later, replete and at peace with the world, he removed his napkin and gave a deep sigh. It was a satisfactory start to the day.

He wondered if Pommes Frites had breakfasted as well. Knowing him, the answer was probably
oui
. Perhaps even now … He peered out through the rain-dappled window, but the towpath was empty in both directions.

Feeling at a loose end with no one to talk to, Monsieur Pamplemousse returned to his cabin. In his absence the bed had been made and the room cleaned. Ten out of ten for efficiency. A fresh-air fiend
must have been at work, for the portholes had been opened and screwed back. At least it was warm rain and he was on the port side of the boat, sheltered from the prevailing wind.

Removing his jacket and shoes, he was about to make himself comfortable when there was a knock on the door.

‘Hi!’ Before he had time to answer, Abeille entered. She was dressed in a pink silk négligée which reached the floor, and she looked slightly the worse for wear, as though she hadn’t long been up. Somewhat incongruously she was still clutching her video camera.

‘Ssh.’ She slipped in quickly, closed the door behind her, and put a finger to her lips. ‘JayCee would kill you if he found me in here.’

It struck Monsieur Pamplemousse as a singularly unhappy opening to a conversation, but he didn’t pass any comment for fear of sounding churlish. Why on earth the boatbuilders hadn’t provided locks on the doors he couldn’t think. It wasn’t as though it had been built on the cheap. Perhaps they were obeying some obscure waterway regulation.

‘I think I am able to take care of myself.’

‘JayCee has connections … like Endsville.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse digested both the information and the tone in which it had been conveyed. ‘In that case …’ He began putting his shoes back on.

‘Don’t worry. He’s the original couch potato. Anyway, he hit the bottle last night. He was in the bar when I left – he was still there when I got back. He’ll be out cold for another hour at least … listen.’

Abeille held the door open a moment. Monsieur Pamplemousse heard what she meant. It was no wonder she looked as though she had spent a sleepless night.

Closing the door again, Abeille powered the camera and held it up so that he could see into the viewfinder.

‘Hey …’ She pressed the start button on the recorder. ‘You’re a detective. Take a look at that.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse peered at the tiny screen. All he could see was a curious montage of what appeared to be a number of white tree trunks intertwined with each other. The automatic focus had had its work cut out trying to follow the action. Much of the time the subject matter was too close for it to cope. Given the size of the picture and the absence of any kind of establishing shot it was hard to tell what was going on, let alone where.

‘Is it a forest of some kind?’

Abeille snatched the camera back and took a look herself.

‘Gee. Pardon me. I thought JayCee said he’d wiped it.’ She flipped the recorder section into fast forward and waited several moments before trying again. ‘That’s better.’ She pressed another button,
then made a final check. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Of course.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse reached for the camera, but she held back.

‘How many nuns were supposed to have taken part in last night’s show?’

‘Twelve, according to the programme.’

‘Try counting.’ She handed him the camera. ‘I’ve put it on hold.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse raised the viewfinder to his right eye. This time the picture was of the pageant. The scene was a riverside quay in Nantes. It must have been recorded during the last few seconds before Vert-Vert met with his maker, for in the left of the picture the leading nun was in the act of stepping forward to greet him. Despite being on still frame, the definition was remarkably good. Video cameras were getting more sophisticated all the time. They could often see things denied the human eye. Certainly his own camera wouldn’t have coped without first being loaded with a faster film. He hadn’t used it for that reason. Even so, it was impossible to identify any of the nuns individually, for their faces were either in shadow or partly obscured by the hoods.

Starting from the left, there were …
un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq
… He paused when he got to twelve and tried again, this time taking it from the right.

‘I make thirteen!’

‘Watch this.’ Abeille released the button, allowing
the tape to run on past the point where Vert-Vert disappeared out of the bottom of frame. Having zoomed in on the body, she had zoomed out and panned on to the group again. There were now only twelve.

‘Isn’t that kinda leery?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse looked at her curiously. ‘What led you to spot it?’

‘I was once in a live show called Snow White and the Seven Pervs. The guy running it was such a tightwad he made do with five. Two of the pervs doubled up. Ever since then I’ve always counted, I guess.’

It was a simple, if slightly bizarre explanation.

‘Have you shown this to anyone else?’

She shook her head. ‘Take a look at the parrot.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse ran the tape back a few frames to where Abeille had zoomed in on the parrot, then put it on to still frame again. Pressing the rubber cap to his eye to keep out the light, he checked the viewfinder focus with an external rotating sleeve, then took a closer look. There was a dark patch on the feathers just below the left wing. It didn’t need the addition of colour to guess what it was.

‘What do you reckon?’

Monsieur Pamplemousse considered the matter carefully before replying. It certainly put a whole different complexion on things.

‘Who’d want to kill a parrot for godsake?’ exclaimed Abeille.

‘Somebody in animal rights?’

Abeille absorbed his words for a second or two. ‘But if they were big in animal rights they wouldn’t want to kill it,’ she said at last.

Monsieur Pamplemousse wished he hadn’t spoken. It had been a poor joke at best.

‘Perhaps the bird just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ he suggested. ‘It is a classic case of which came first – the chicken or the egg?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse, ‘that something … either a movement from the actors, or the noise, or maybe even Pommes Frites, upset the parrot, causing it to fly up like it did. It is possible it simply got in the way of what was intended for someone else.’

He took another look in the viewfinder, but the figures in the foreground of the picture were merely vague, out-of-focus shapes. Had he and Abeille been sitting nearer the middle of the second row it might have been a different matter.

‘May I keep the tape?’

‘Feel free.’

‘Is there any way of getting the picture blown up?’

‘Only by plugging the camera into a TV.’

While Monsieur Pamplemousse was unloading the camera Abeille crossed to the porthole nearest the dressing table. ‘There isn’t a goddamned aerial in miles. What do people do all day? They can’t go
out, that’s for sure – not in this weather …’ She broke off as her attention was caught by something further along the towpath.

‘Hey! There’s your dog! He looks wet through.’

‘He will be all right,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. He tried to keep the note of relief from his voice. ‘Pommes Frites enjoys the rain.’

‘How can you say that? That’s like saying horses enjoy staying out in fields all winter. Who knows what they like except another horse? Don’t you have an SPCA in France?’

‘We have something similar,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘At this very moment many thousands of its members will be getting wet through taking their pets out for a walk.

‘Besides,’ he pointed to the
CHIENS INTERDIT
notice on the back of the door. ‘Dogs are not allowed.’

‘So you’re going to let him die of pneumonia? It’s true what they say – the French don’t give a damn about animals.’

Monsieur Pamplemousse stiffened. ‘France happens to be a world leader in dog ownership. There is one dog for every six persons. It costs three times as much to visit a vet as it does to go to a doctor.’

‘And that makes it good?’

‘In Paris alone there are half a million dogs. They eat at the best restaurants. They have
caninettes
following them around clearing up where they have been. They have their own beauty parlours. They
have everything except the vote and that is probably only a matter of time.’