The bluebeard club, p.12
The Bluebeard Club, page 12
part #6 of Lord Kit Aston Mystery Series
‘No,’ replied Kit. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it.
It was just after seven in the evening at the Commissariat de Police in Nice. Alastair had left the Negresco somewhat reluctantly to return to the less salubrious surroundings of the police station. Saimbron was on the point of departing himself when Kit arrived with Briant. Alastair knew there was little point in arguing but felt that a show of defiance was, at least, in order.
‘Can you enlighten me as to what purpose this could possibly serve. I’m hardly likely to run away, am I?’
On this point Kit wasn’t entirely convinced any more than he was by Alastair’s show of rebelliousness. His uncle had often talked about his times in jail, invariably following evenings of immoderate sociability. Of course, these had been in his younger days.
‘Captain Briant and Inspector Saimbron clearly don’t think you’re a criminal. But they must progress the investigation because there’s too much evidence pointing your direction. I’ve convinced them that this Bluebeard Club needs to be investigated. In fact, I don’t think Briant needed much convincing on this score. So, it seems your framing may provide an opportunity that would otherwise have been denied him.’
‘You mean I am to suffer here,’ at this point Alastair broke off his wounded appeal and pointedly looked around the small, grey cell. It was a convincing performance. His face displayed the hurt, his posture slightly slumped but not so much as to exaggerate. ‘How could you, Kit? To reduce me, your old uncle, to such deprivation to lure these ghastly people into thinking they’ve put me in the frame.’
‘Glad you agree,’ smiled Kit brightly.
‘But I’d booked a room in the Negresco,’ came the plaintive reply from Alastair. Now there was genuine regret in his tone. By anyone’s estimation, an evening’s incarceration in the walnut wood confines of the Negresco Bar surrounded by beautiful people listening to jazz music would have been just the ticket when facing a murder charge. Now such hopes had been dashed on the rocks of duplicity. He was to be bait.
‘I’m sure you’ll survive, Uncle,’ said Kit with an uncharacteristic lack of sympathy.
A quick glance towards Briant and Saimbron confirmed to Alastair that the game was, for the time being, up. He slumped onto the bed and threw his feet up and put his hands behind his head.
‘Very well. I’ll need something to read. More cigars, too, would be welcome. Now, can you tell me, what time is breakfast served?’
-
Probably for the first night in six weeks, Kit and Mary enjoyed more sleep than Kit’s notoriously late-rising uncle. The night for Alastair was not quite as horrible as he intended to make out to his nephew it had been. Calm reflection on his pitiable situation helped him recognise that it could be a bargaining chip for the future. All the same, years of soft living in San Francisco had left him unprepared for the joys of a sleeping on a hard bed and flat pillow, all with the possible prospect that it would be for naught. Quite what would come from it, Lord only knew.
However, despite the prospect of the sword of Damocles, Madame Guillotine herself, Alastair remained chipper about his prospects. His soul rarely took a turn towards the tormented unless an indecent amount of alcohol consumption the previous evening was involved. The alarming aspects of his situation had not yet sunk in. And why would they? There were Kit and Agatha to look out for him and even Mary was showing more than a little promise. More importantly, he was innocent. Common sense would prevail, and the true criminals brought to justice. He had no doubt who they were. For a few seconds his thoughts became darker as he thought of the Bluebeard Club.
Who, though? Was it all of them or just one man using them as a Trojan horse?
His first thought was Fournier. Now that he’d had more time to consider him, he realised he did not like him. His overbearing manner, particularly with his wife, was unpleasant. Yes, he could be charming company when he wanted to be; funny, intelligent, and generous. Lurking underneath this facade was a darker spirit. This was good, thought Alastair. Years of reading detective novels had not been in vain.
He called the guard and asked for a pen and something to write on. Pen and paper were duly obtained, and Alastair paused for a moment and considered the blank sheet in front of him. At the top of the page he wrote, ‘The Bluebeard Club’. Then he began to scribble some notes on his former friends. With any luck, he reasoned, they would help Kit and his sister. While he did not doubt the capability of the French detectives, he knew salvation was in the hands of his peculiar family.
It took him an hour to write but he was satisfied with the result. He read it over once and added a note or two. Just as he was finishing, he heard the door being unlocked.
The Bluebeard Club
Yves and Elsa Fournier
Fournier is a blowhard. Likeable on first acquaintance and often very good-humoured hes (sic) a bit of a bully when you know him better. The way he treats his quiet and very good-natured wife is quite beastly. He made his money from munitions, or some such thing. Elsa is his second wife. His first died over a year or two ago from tuberculosis. Personally I wouldn’t be surprised if he topped the first one. Hes (sic) a powerful man and I wouldnt (sic) want to be on the wrong side of him.
Mme Fournier is a widow. I believe her husband was at Verdun. She is from one of the French-speaking cantons in Switzerland. She is very quiet and seems in fear of her husband.
Philippe Redon and Josephine Redon
Redon is a martinet. You can tell he is ex-army. His ridiculous mustache (sic) and pompous manner. He would like to be insouciant and sophisticated. Hes (sic) neither. A knave of the first rank. He has a bit of Napoleon about him. No wonder we nearly lost the war with twits like him leading those poor brave men. I am quite skeptical if he would have either the brains or the courage to kill anyone. Hes more interested in how his mustache (sic) looks.
She and Mme Russo are like Cinderella’s ugly sisters even uglier cousins. Quite how she and the other managed to entrap these two men is beyond me. I wouldnt (sic) trust M Redon as far as I could throw a cask of wine. She and Fournier would have gone well together.
Giuseppe and Alessia Russo
Oddly I quite like Russo. Certainly more than the other two men. Of course hes (sic) ridiculous in his own way but unlike the others I think he knows this. He is well travelled and once lived in New York. He was married to an American lady but she died just before the start of the War. He came over to Europe before the situation became a horrible stalemate. I am skeptical (sic) that he could have killed anyone. Hes (sic) smart enough but hes (sic) more interested in eating good food and drinking from what I can see. Hes (sic) retired now but was in insurance I believe. That could mean anything of course.
I believe he met the present Mme Russo just a few months after his own wife died. It just shows that when the goddess of fortune is in a particularly prickly mood it can take away with one hand and give you Lucretia Borgias (sic) little sister in the other. I gather shes (sic) quite wealthy herself. Shes (sic) the daughter of a count. (Dracula probably)
16
Kit was the first to arrive the next morning to see Alastair. This had been the source of an argument between him and Agatha. In the end it was felt that Agatha, whose mood, it must be said, was unlikely to provide much consolation to her incarcerated sibling, should visit in the afternoon. This provided the second argument of a febrile morning in Agatha’s Cap-d’Ail villa. She had announced her intention to quit the assignment given to her by the prince to devote her energies to freeing her brother. She was mid-argument with Kit on this topic when she’d seen a look on her nephew’s face that she knew, and loved, so well. She’d frowned, studied him for a second and asked, ‘What are you thinking?’
Kit shrugged and shook his head. It was a thought that he could scarcely bring himself to utter. But the seed had been planted.
‘You’re not suggesting that this Bluebeard Club might be connected to the gambling operation, are you?’
One of the things that both Kit and Agatha adored about Mary was that she was as quick on the uptake as the next English amateur fictional detective. Her eyes suddenly widened, ‘Do you think that Monsieur Blanc was in league with them?’
This was flying ahead very quickly but Kit could not deny that this was exactly where his mind had been traveling.
‘It was just a thought,’ admitted Kit.
Agatha and Mary both sat back in their seats at the same moment and a reflective glint entered their eyes. Betty poured some more tea. It was an article of faith with Betty that detective work was best fuelled, nay, inspired by the consumption of tea. This was particularly appropriate at those critical moments in a case when cool appraisal of known facts had to be mixed with imaginative leaps of thinking. Betty was convinced that American policemen would have no need for guns if they placed a similar trust in the remarkable properties of tea. Her theory was still in its early stages of development, but she was convinced there was something in it.
‘Very well,’ said Agatha at last. ‘I shall visit Alastair this afternoon. If what you say is true, then it could mean that the Bluebeard Club will be ready to strike again, and soon.’
‘You don’t mean murder?’ said Betty.
‘Of course not. I meant they might feel safe to attack the casino,’ said Agatha with just a hint of impatience.
Betty was slightly affronted at Agatha and replied, ‘That’s what I mean, you don’t mean murder.’
Agatha rolled her eyes while Mary, despite their predicament, had to stifle her laughter.
-
Kit was greeted by Alastair like a long-lost son upon his arrival in the small jail cell. His delight intensified further when Kit removed from his pocket around twenty panatela cigars. This would keep his uncle going for a couple of days. In return, Alastair handed Kit his morning’s work.
Kit read through the notes made by Alastair in silence, stopping only to check on a misspelt word or three.
‘For the love of God, Kit, are you a teacher?’
‘You spelt “traveling” with two “l’s”, this is the American spelling. Scepticism has “c” not a “k”.’
Alastair made a face at Kit whose eyes were studying the notes intensely. There were more important things to be getting on with than pedantry over Americanisms.
‘Perhaps when you’ve finished pointing out the spelling mistakes, Anne Sullivan, we can move onto the grammar.’
‘Don’t start me on the grammar,’ replied Kit, not looking up. For the next couple of minutes Kit studied the two sheets of paper intensely. When he’d finished, he glanced towards his uncle and smiled.
‘I’m glad it meets with your approval, grammar aside.’
‘I could care less about the grammar, really, Uncle Alastair.’
‘Now you sound American, Kit,’ said his uncle laughing
‘Thanks, it must be all the books Aunt Agatha gives me to read. Anyway, your summary is very clear. Who is your money on?’
Alastair looked downcast at this question. He shrugged and replied, ‘The three of them are all capable. Fournier is a blowhard, Redon is ex-army and probably sent thousands to their death, so he is inured to killing and Russo is volatile enough.’
‘And the wives?’
‘I would be worried that Mme Fournier will be the next victim. He’s a very cruel man that one. The other two, yes, I could see them slipping something into a man’s drink while batting their eyelashes at him.’
Kit folded the paper and put it into his breast pocket. They chatted for a few minutes about what would happen next. Alastair gazed bleakly at Kit when informed that he faced the prospect of another day or two in the cell. Then a more reflective mood fell upon him as he reached into his pocket and extracted two of the cigars Kit had brought him. He offered Kit one of the cigars, but it was met with a shake of the head.
‘Do you mind if I do?’
‘No, please go ahead. It’s your cell.’
Alastair looked around him and a wicked grin creased his face, ‘Rather fetching, isn’t it? Dark grey is such an underrated colour.’
‘Uplifting.’
‘Very. I was thinking a nice Matisse would help break things up a little. What do you think?’
‘Undoubtedly. Would you not prefer a Bouguereau?’
‘All that naked flesh? It would be a cruel reminder…’ reflected Alastair as he lit his cigar.
The restorative effect of a cigar for a man of a certain age should not be underestimated. Aside from its medicinal properties which, to be fair, are probably nil, it gives a chap a certain air of enlightenment; a meditative soberness that hints at an intelligence which one is far too humble to acknowledge yet can’t quite hide either.
It was in such a mood of contemplative inquiry that Alastair asked Kit, ‘Tell me, Kit, did you and Lancelot talk much about marriage?’
Kit was taken aback by the question on several levels.
‘Hardly. You know how father and I are, and he’s probably about the last person to dispense guidance on the topic of matrimony.’
A shadow swept over Alastair which made Kit instantly regretful about his outburst.
‘Yes, I see what you mean. My purpose in asking the question was not to highlight Lancelot’s failings as a husband or father.’
‘Or brother,’ pointed out Kit, bitterly.
Alastair looked at Kit with a sadness in his eyes.
‘Well, perhaps I wasn’t much of a brother either.’
‘Nonsense, anyone would have reacted badly to what he did.’
Alastair shook his head and changed course. This was not what he’d wanted to discuss.
‘The purpose of my inquiry related to you and Mary.’
A look of alarm passed through Kit’s eyes, and they widened like a ham actor’s in a silent movie.
‘I was taught about the birds and the bees a long time ago, Uncle Alastair.’
Alastair laughed and replied, ‘Quite. I mean something else. You know, the two of you became engaged rather quickly. I know there was the meeting during the war, but you’ll admit it was like something from a comic novel.’
Kit wasn’t quite sure that he was a character in a comic novel. Detective story perhaps. He decided to stop interrupting Uncle Alastair and allow the circulatory inquiry to reach its final destination.
‘What I’m trying to say to you, Kit, is that marriage is tricky. It’s not easy. Right now, nothing could seem simpler or more fun. But it won’t always be this way. Women are more complicated than we are. They don’t always know what they are feeling, they won’t tell you what they are thinking, and they’ll feel hurt when you don’t understand what they want.’
‘Jiminy,’ said Kit for wont of anything else to say.
‘I know,’ agreed Alastair. He took a few puffs on his cigar to allow time for him to continue this theme.
‘What should I do if this mood descends on Mary?’ Kit was all ears now. He remembered the arguments between his own father and mother. Back then, before it was obvious to him that his father was cheating, he could see the anguish that both his parents were feeling. Even he, as much as he adored his mother, couldn’t understand why she was so distant with his father on occasion. Later, he understood more.
‘There’s nothing you can do my boy. She will feel this way and not know why. But you must promise me one thing.’
‘Yes,’ replied Kit.
‘Don’t be angry. I remember there were times when Christina could be so exasperating. We would argue. Then she would cry. And, of course, I would feel such remorse. I still feel it now. I knew so little at the start. I was like you. It was exciting, fun and Christina was, well, I won’t go on, but we were young. Anyway, Mary is an absolute ripper, Kit. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you that you have someone like her to love you. You’re a very lucky man.’
‘I know.’
‘But the Mary you know is only a small part of who she is. This is what I mean by the rush to marriage. Don’t misunderstand me. In your shoes I’d have done the same. This is when you will really come to know her. What you learn you may not always like, and what you like may not always be what you’ll see. And what you see will likely not be what she is feeling. Do you understand?’
‘No.’
‘Good, because if you’d said “yes” then I’d know that you hadn’t. For better and for worse, Kit. For better and for worse.’
A knock on the cell door told Kit that he had to leave. They parted with a shake of the hand and a brief nod. This was all that was required between two men of an English persuasion.
-
A few miles away a conversation was taking place between Mary and Agatha of such striking similarity that one could have been forgiven for thinking that the older principals had planned it before the arrival of the honeymooners. And before one of them had been accused of murder most foul.
‘My dear,’ said Agatha at breakfast in the villa. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you when we had some time to ourselves.’
Mary looked up in curiosity at Agatha. Usually, which is to say, always, Agatha had a resolution to her gaze, a stony conviction that was as superior in its reasoning as it was unshakeable in its faith. However, on this morning, there was more than a hint of hesitation and, extraordinarily in one so thick-skinned, even embarrassment.
‘Yes?’ asked Mary.
‘I don’t know if you had any conversation with your Aunt Emily about marriage.’ The look of horror on Mary’s face suggested that this had not been the case and it was also the last thing she would have wanted.
‘That would be no,’ suggested Agatha, reading Mary’s reaction perfectly. ‘I hope you won’t find it presumptuous of me to say something on the subject.’
‘No, Aunt Agatha. I’m all ears.’ Mary folded her arms on the table and fixed her eyes on Agatha.
‘Very good,’ replied Agatha although her evident discomfort suggested it was anything but. ‘The early days of marriage are undeniably a magical time, Mary. We don’t need to dwell on this.’
