The Fethering Mysteries 06; The Witness at the Wedding

were on offer, giant skin-straining sausages, olive oil in plastic mineral water bottles, infinite arrays of herbs and nuts. Yet even these were not as exotic as they once had been. Most of the goods would be available in any large English Sainsbury’s.

There were a few individual touches. Live chickens with trussed legs, and rabbits shut in tiny boxes defied English sensibilities. A few ancient crones sat over trays offering handfuls of meagre root vegetables. But set against these survivals of peasant tradition were the omnipresent stalls selling replica designer T-shirts, CDs, DVDs and the other initialized technology of the twenty-first century. The music that blared from the speakers was American.

Nor could the crowd of sellers and buyers be characterized as uniquely French. The ethnic mix was much more varied since the last time Jude had been at a French country market. Tall deep black North Africans and women in saris mingled with the locals. In the crowd, bright Romany skirts balanced the severity of Muslim headgear.

Jude knew the development was good, that the only future for the world lay in the celebration of its diversity. But she could not suppress a slight nostalgia for the days when countries felt different, when you could recognize a person’s nationality by theirfootwear, before the ubiquitous trainer achieved world domination.

As she had the thought, she smiled inwardly, thinking of the robustness and lack of political correctness with which Carole would undoubtedly have expressed not dissimilar views.

The retirement home was an old farmhouse, most of whose land had been long sold off, one of those four- square symmetrical buildings with tall windows flanked by neat white shutters. This, at least, thought Jude, as Gaby brought the car to rest in the visitors’ car park, is archetypally French.

The smartly suited woman on reception instantly recognized Gaby, and, once her travelling companion had been introduced, a flurry of voluble greetings ensued. Jude was pleasantly surprised by how readily her understanding of French returned, though she feared fluency of speech might take longer. Despite the unhappiness in which her two-year sojourn in France had ended, she still felt a charge to be back among French speakers.

The receptionist said she’d better show them the way to Gaby’s ‘belle Grand’mere’, because she had changed rooms since the girl’s last visit, “now she cannot move around so well.” Gaby would probably see a change in the old lady, “But she still manages, and is grateful for every day she remains with us.”

The room was at the back of the building. The bed was empty, a wheelchair stood by the French windows, and a blanket-wrapped Grand’mere was propped up in a lounger on a small balcony that looked over fields to the dark green edge of a forest. The balcony could be completely glassed in, but that warm June day one window was open and the room was full of the smells of outdoors.

“Your visitor has arrived, Madame Coleman,” said the receptionist, as Gaby rushed forward to greet her grandmother, wrapping the frail body in her plump arms. After much excited banter and the ceremonious handover of the fruit from Villeneuve-sur-Lot, Jude was introduced. There seemed no problem in her being there. No explanation of her presence was requested or given.

When she got a chance to look at the old lady, she was struck by the family likeness, emphasized by Grand’mere’s fragility. Marie’s prematurely pinched face was uncannily reflected in the old lady’s age-eroded features. The short-sighted vagueness in the faded eyes was also reminiscent of her daughter. And the tight perm – she was evidently very well soignee by the staff at the home – echoed her granddaughter’s bubbly curls.

Grand’mere and Gaby spoke instinctively in French, but Jude did not have too much difficulty in keeping up. She was surprised by how on the ball the old lady seemed. From what Carole had passed on of Marie and Robert’s opinions, she had been expecting someone totally blind and in the last stages of Alzheimer’s. But, though physically very frail and with limited vision, there seemed to be nothing wrong with the old lady’s mental processes.

And for her, there was no question of hergranddaughter being called ‘Gaby’. Her birth name was Pascale, and that is what she was called. Gaby did not argue; she had learnt over the years not to challenge the old lady’s formidable will.

After the initial affectionate greetings, Grand’mere said how shocked she had been to hear of Howard Martin’s death. “It is terrible that once again the happiness of our family should be darkened by the shadow of murder.”

“Yes.” As she agreed, Gaby looked straight at Jude. There was a lot of meaning in her look. Although they had never discussed the subject, the girl knew that Carole and Jude had taken more than a casual interest in the two recent murders and were desperate for explanations. Part of Carole’s motivation for the trip had been removing the threat to her future daughter-in-law, but the two neighbours were also caught up in the fascination of the puzzle for its own sake. Gaby’s look at Jude seemed to say that she knew all that, and that she too wanted to use the visit to find out a few basic truths about her tainted family history.

“You know, Grand’mere,” she said firmly, “that the police believe Michael Brewer killed Dad.”

“That is the way the police think, in every country. Here in France too. The person who has committed one murder is the first suspect when another murder occurs.” She sighed. “Yes. It is thirty years. He has served his sentence for his wickedness, and now is the time for the next stage of the process. Evil cannot be hidden for ever. He caused so much pain to our family.”

“Did you know Michael Brewer well?” The question was instinctive; only once she’d spoken did Jude realize that her interposition into a family discussion might be out of place. But Grand’mere seemed either not to notice or, if she did, not to mind.

“Oh yes. My husband was very keen on shooting. Mick was a gamekeeper. They would shoot together. Often they would make a night of it, drive round, I think, in Land Rovers with big lights, you know, to shoot rabbits. And then they would go off somewhere to drink. Mick had drink stashed away somewhere on the estate. Always, after my husband went off shooting at night with Mick Brewer, he came back drunk. I did not approve of this.” The asperity in the last line reminded Jude of the old lady’s reputation for strictness on moral matters.

“And I gather Howard would also sometimes shoot with Michael Brewer too?”

“Yes. He was often one of the party. But then, I don’t know, they fell out. Howard I think took advantage, went shooting somewhere without Mick’s permission perhaps.”

That tallied with what Carole had reported from her conversation with Robert Coleman. “And I heard that Howard was shooting the night Janine Buckley was killed. He alerted the police to the burnt-out car.”

The old lady did a small, quintessentially Gallic, shrug. “That is quite possible. I do not know the details. All of that period is a blur of great unhappiness. With my dear husband dying and – I was very ill,” sheadmitted. “For a long time I was very ill. There is much from that time that I have done my best to forget.”

“Grand’mere,” asked Gaby, “if you knew Michael Brewer so well, were you surprised when you discovered that he was a murderer?”

“But of course. You do not expect this from anyone, least of all from a family friend. But I do not claim to understand the workings of evil – what drives someone to do something of that nature. Only the good Lord can give an explanation of such terrible things.”

“But you knew Janine Buckley too, did you?”

“Oh yes. She was a very close friend of Marie. She was often in the house. They were two very lively girls, so high-spirited, so talkative, so naughty.”

“Naughty?” echoed Jude.

“Yes, she was always supposed to be doing her school homework, supposed to be behaving like a good Catholic girl, but her head was only full of thoughts of pop music and of boys.” The disapproval in Grand’mere’s voice was strong. “Fortunately, Marie behaved herself in that respect. She knew what was expected of a good Catholic girl. Sex before marriage is always wrong.”

Gaby’s eyes evaded the stern look that accompanied this. Grand’mere sighed. “If only poor Janine had remembered that. I often think, if Janine’s parents had brought her up as a better Catholic, she would still be here with us today.”

Jude, with Gaby’s tacit approval, continued the questioning. “Given the fact that Marie was so high-spirited and lively, wasn’t it rather a surprise when she suddenly gave up on her A-levels and married Howard?”

“Perhaps, in one way. In another way, it made perfectly good sense. I don’t think you can understand, Jude,