The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (5 page)

We all nibble and take in the view. Gerard points out landmarks to me: to our right the stubby towers and glinting domes of the Hotel Negresco on the Promenade des Anglais below us; the sun caresses the red-tiled roofs of the higgledy-piggledy Old Town to our left; and the Port area is beyond, nestling under the hill surmounted by the Chateau. I hear Alistair talking to Beni about me. They laugh.
I wonder what he has said. I suspect it is not good. For me.
With his English tested and having mainly succeeded, Gerard begins to talk to Beni in French.

I try to engage Tamsin.
I try again to work out where she is from. Then I ask myself why this matters to me, and I suspect snobbishness on my part. The same snobbishness I hate so much about the English themselves. I tell myself off.
I try again to make sense of what she is telling me. She is talking about how special the area is. How she is living her dream.
I cannot imagine Alistair Townsend being anything but a part of my nightmares, but I listen, patiently.
She wanders from one topic to another.
I lose the will to live.
Beni approaches and she tells us both how excited she is that it is her birthday, that she will be getting a wonderful gift, a magical gift, from Alistair, and that we will all be amazed.

Alistair calls us to the dinner table, we move inside, and he appoints us our places. Alistair is at the head of the table, Tamsin to his right, Madelaine to his left. Next to Madelaine is Beni, then Gerard, then me, then Chuck, who is next to Tamsin.

We are all passing bread from one to another, breaking off chunks and nibbling. There is no butter. We pour olive oil and balsamic vinegar onto our plates for dunking.

Chuck asks me about my work as a criminologist, but I deflect as much as possible. He needs little encouragement to talk about his work as a spy novelist. It seems it is his passion as well as his work. He tells me stories about the Palais during the Second World War, when it was Gestapo Headquarters for the area. He tells me that the Townsends' apartment, the one we are in, was the living quarters for the senior officer. He tries to explain the relationships between the
SS
and the Gestapo.
I can feel his enthusiasm for his subject, but do not share it.
He tells me about photographs he has seen of large swastikas flying from the Townsends' balcony, of how the local population grew to hate being watched over from the Palais by the secret police. He seems gleeful.
I try to imagine those times, but I cannot.

Alistair brings a huge bowl of salad from the kitchen, and we all pass it around and eat.
The dressing is good.
We use the bread to mop it up. Alistair replaces the bowl with a huge platter mounded with steaming, garlicky snails, and a round of applause greets its arrival. Everyone comments on how wonderful Alistair's escargots always look. Apparently, he is famous for them. Alistair takes a huge portion and passes the platter to Madelaine, who needs help, it is so heavy. Beni stands to assist her. He serves her, then himself, passes the platter to Gerard, and it finally reaches me, Chuck, and Tamsin. Tamsin takes a tiny portion. Alistair takes more snails, then raises a glass of champagne and shouts, “
Bon appétit!
”

We all drink and eat. There are comments about how tasty, plump, and juicy the snails are. I agree. They are.
Alistair and his hill farmers are doing a great job!
More bread is passed around, more champagne. I speak to Gerard, who tells me about the gardens, and the way they have developed over the years into different sections—Italian, formal, Mediterranean, English Country, and so on, with all the different sections requiring different types of tending.

Alistair and Madelaine are disagreeing about something. Lots of “Non, non, it is bad for here . . .” from Madelaine, and “But it will be good—yes, yes . . .” from Alistair.

Gerard shouts, “It is sacrilege!” He slams his aged fist onto the table.
He is clearly very distressed.

“Please stop fighting at my party,” I hear Tamsin say. “The swimming pool is divisive!” I nearly choke with surprise, but all becomes calm again, and Alistair and Madelaine clink glasses by way of declaring a truce. Beni rolls his eyes at Gerard, who shakes his head in reply. Then Alistair coughs, drops his bread, clutches at his chest, and falls into his plate of snails.

Now . . . now I must concentrate. Who does what? I have to slow down the movie and study each face.

Tamsin: She throws down a morsel of bread and says “Ally! Stop it! Stop messing about!”
Her whole attitude says
 . . . 
annoyance.

Madelaine: She brings her hand to her chest in surprise, almost matching Alistair's motions and says “
Mon Dieu!
” quickly, and quietly.
She is at full alert, leaning toward Alistair. She knows something is very wrong.

Beni: He laughs and throws his hands up, booming “Alistair! No!”
His face shows amusement, but some annoyance.

Gerard: He's looking intently at Alistair.
He's alarmed. Immediately.
His hands move to the arms of his chair, so he can rise. He says nothing.

Chuck: He's facing me, with a puzzled look on his face. “What's Alistair up to now—fooling around again, I guess?” He smiles broadly, then turns to look at his dead host.

There isn't one look of relief at the table. Not one hint of guilt. All the reactions are natural, or at least, explicable.

Then I leap up, quicker off the mark than Gerard, and I rush to Alistair. I lift him, with Beni's help. I feel no neck pulse. I shake my head. Tamsin starts to wail. Chuck comforts her, holding her in his arms . . . She pulls away and rushes to the staircase.

“He's gone . . . Ally's gone!” she wails as she runs upstairs. I wonder where she is going, but I am trying to lay Alistair back onto the table top, and deciding if we should move the plate of snails first. I think it best to move it to one side, wipe the garlic butter from his face, and replace his head onto the table—gently.

Tamsin arrives with her damned twigs, Beni suggests we leave the table, and we all agree. We troop through the kitchen to the balcony. Gerard comes out and announces the imminent arrival of the emergency services. Tamsin is last to join us, as she's waggling her sticks about. When we're all outside Beni goes back to make sure that she hasn't set anything alight with her antics. It appears she hasn't.
I suspect this is a miracle.
Then Madelaine collapses, the paramedics arrive, and all hell breaks loose.

There. That's it. I'm done. In more ways than one.

I must have slept then, because the next thing I was aware of was a dig in my ribs and a nurse telling me, “Go home.”

Fantastic!

I was pleased to be getting out of the hospital at last—still alive.

I HAVE A SUSPICION THAT
Nicoise hoteliers are used to seeing guests leave on a Friday evening and return on a Saturday morning, looking somewhat the worse for wear. The relatively disinterested yet knowing glance I got from the guy behind reception when I finally got back to my hotel implied as much. When I closed the door to my room and got a good look at myself in the full length mirror, I was surprised that the reception guy hadn't let out a cry of horror upon my arrival. I know that at five four, weighing one hundred and eighty pounds and being forty-eight years old with greying hair, I'm not anything to write home about at the best of times—but good grief, even
I
thought that I looked a state!

I usually keep my hair carefully swept straight back from my forehead into a ponytail and caught with a long scarf tied in a big floppy bow. But now it was a mass of ends and lumps and knots. Yuk. My clothes, my ubiquitous set of black bouncy, drapy layers, that suits most occasions, and which never, ever creases, looked as though I had slept in it—which, of course, I hadn't; they gave me a delightful little gown to wear—you know the type. My mascara had worked its way down to the middle of each cheek, and the eye shadow had somehow wound up in my hairline. Lipstick smudged my chin, but my lips were completely colorless. No wonder the guy downstairs had that knowing look. Little did he suspect that my state of disarray was not thanks to a session of unbridled debauchery, but courtesy of a night on a gurney. I'd have traded one for the other in a heartbeat.

I put aside thoughts of all the fun ways I could have ended up looking like such a mess, and set about cleaning myself up. An hour later I was feeling much fresher, and wondering what on earth to wear. When I'd packed my sadly shabby suitcase, I'd given thought to “nibbling salade Nicoise on the sea front” clothes, and even “enjoying a glass of rosé wine at a fine hotel” clothes. “Suitable for an interview as a possible murder suspect” clothes hadn't really featured in my planning. I was a bit stumped. I decided that navy linen pants and a navy and white striped, boat-necked, lightweight top would do. (Horizontal stripes, in case you're wondering—because whatever they say about them making you look wider, I still wear them: I firmly believe that people will look at me and think that it's the stripes that are making me look twenty pounds heavier than I am. Ha! Take that, fashion editors!)

On my way out of the hotel I stopped at reception to ask for directions to the police station. It hadn't occurred to me that this would give cause for concern. The guy who'd seen me arrive in such a sorry state earlier on was clearly trying to find out why I needed to know where the police station was. Was Madame well? Had Madame experienced anything unpleasant? Was everything acceptable for Madame at the hotel? His English was really quite good, if a little formal, which was very fortunate given that my brain still wasn't up to much real effort. I reassured him that everything was just fine, that I was in town to speak at the conference for criminologists, and that I wanted to go to meet with the police to help with some research I was doing. He looked relieved and satisfied. He was also kind enough to draw a map showing me the location of the address I'd given him.

I followed the little map easily, but I didn't arrive at the police station until five past eleven—it was farther away than I had thought, and much farther than the map had suggested. I'd asked the receptionist if he thought I could walk it in fifteen minutes and he'd said yes—but he was clearly a hopeless judge of distances. I'd been almost running for the last ten minutes and I was still late.

Having told the uniformed policeman behind the plate-glass divider who I was and who I had come to see, I still sat there for twenty minutes. Waiting. By the time the English-speaking policeman from the night before came to collect me, I'd had a chance to cool down, mop the sweat off my face, and tidy up my once-again dishevelled hair.

“Ah, Professor Morgan, please come with me,” he said, as he opened a little side-door with a polite bow.

“Please, call me Cait,” I replied.

He smiled and nodded, and drew close to me. “And I am Pierre,” he whispered, “but here I am Lieutenant, or Officer, Bertrand,” he added with a warm smile, “so you had better be Professor Morgan.” He winked and opened a heavily embossed dark-wood door, holding it open for me to walk through. “Professor Morgan, Captain Moreau.”

I walked into a magnificent room: a high vaulted ceiling with a deeply embossed cornice, tall double windows with shutters, walls with plaster panels and, a good twenty feet from me, a small man sitting at a large modern desk. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his greying hair looked as though it had been freshly raked, leaving it delightfully messy.

“
Bonjour, Professeur Morgan. Entrez. Je suis le Capitaine Moreau. Asseyez-vous.
” His voice sounded gentle enough, as he motioned toward the seat he wanted me to use. Polite. He flashed his teeth, but his eyes were not smiling.

“
Merci
,” I ventured, as I walked across the expanse of the room. I hoped this man's English was better than my French. I suddenly felt nervous. Ordering food and getting directions, or even attempting to hold a polite conversation about the weather or the locale, are all within my grasp in French, but a police interview?

“
Parlez-vous français?
” he asked, reasonably enough, with some hope in his tone.

“
Je suis desolée,
” I managed, “
je parle français un petit peu seulement.
” I was pretty sure I'd said “I'm sorry, I only speak a little French” properly. His smile suggested that I hadn't
quite
got it right, but that he understood quite well what I'd meant to say.

He sighed. “
Ah, tous les mêmes, ces Anglais
,” he muttered under his breath. I wasn't letting that one pass!

“
Mais, Monsieur, je suis originaire du Pays de Galles et je vis maintenant au Canada. Je ne suis pas Anglaise
.” I smiled, knowing that I was being a little wicked in pointing out that rather than being English, I was originally Welsh and now lived in Canada. I wondered if he would know, or understand, anything about the feelings that Welsh people have when they are lumped in with the English.

He smiled and nodded. It seemed he understood something. “
Excusez-moi, Professeur, je comprends.
”

“
Bertrand, entrez. Traduisez
,” he called to Bertrand, who was still hovering at the open door. The young policeman, now designated the official translator, closed the door and hesitantly walked in. He stood at attention behind my chair. It felt a little intimidating.

Captain Moreau and I then spoke directly to each other, and we each waited for Bertrand to translate. It was an odd way to proceed, but that's how it went for the next twenty minutes. Through Bertrand the senior officer made it clear that he was making general enquiries into the events of the evening before; that I was being interviewed informally as a witness to those events; and that, while notes would be taken of what I was saying, I was not yet going to be required to make a formal statement, as there had been no decision taken as to whether an actual crime had taken place, or if our party had succumbed to a case of accidental poisoning. He further explained that if he felt that his investigations, and the results of tests being carried out by the police forensics department, suggested a crime had been committed, then I would be required to attend a more formal interview, at which time I would be required to make a legally binding statement, and he suggested I should then be aided by a French lawyer who spoke English.