A Provençal Mystery (23 page)

“Go on.”

“
Dishes. This sounds like anybody’s junkroom. Haven’t they ever heard of the Good Will in France? Bon Volonté, is it? Don’t they have thrift stores here? It seems . . .” I stopped talking when I saw the next column of shelves. “Jackpot. Records of meetings of the council—the mother superior and her inner circle. Thank God they’re so neat. The boxes are piled according to year. What year was it?”

“Nineteen forty-four.”

“It would have to be under other boxes, wouldn’t it? Nothing is ever easy.” I started lifting boxes off and handing them to Rachel, who piled them in reverse order so that they would be easier to put back.

Breathing in the musty smell, I pulled off the paper tape that sealed the box for 1944 and took off the lid to reveal sets of folders, labeled by the month.

“It was in March,” Rachel said, as she pulled out a manila folder from the box. She started reading, translating as she went. Even the turning of pages seemed to echo in the stone room. “Here it is. Listen. ‘17 March: The subject of the debate before the council is our stance on hiding Jewish children from the Vichy government. Sister Marie says that Vichy is relocating the Jews, and the children are kept in a boarding school up in the north. Therefore there is no need to save them. Sister Anne disagrees. She has heard in the village that the Jews are being shipped to Germany, where they are being exterminated. What are we to do?

“'Without our permission, Sister Agatha brought a Jewish child, a little girl, Ruth, who is in the cellar now.' “

Rachel looked up from the folder: “That was my mother!” she said. Even as I saw the look on her face, close to transfigured, I could only guess at how she felt. Inked words on a page connecting to a lost life and making it real, immediate. I wondered if she imagined the little child breathing in the cellar smell and crying for her mother on her cot in the dark, as I imagined Rose mourning Jeanne on hers.

Rachel continued reading: “'Sister Agatha says that she has found a family in the mountains willing to take Ruth. Agatha needs to learn about obedience, Sister Marie says. It was too late to do anything but follow Sister Agatha’s wishes for this child, but what about others who might seek safety here? Sister Catherine reminded us that the Chateaublancs are benefactors of the convent. They have denounced Jews—the Vallebois. This child is a Vallebois through her mother.’”

Rachel stared down at the document, her face impassive.

I said, “So Agatha was not a collaborator. It’s just as well you didn’t kill her.”

“You know I would never kill anyone,” Rachel said, then, smiling, added, “at least not unless I was sure she was really guilty.” More and more, I was seeing that she had a wicked sense of humor.

“I guess I do. This makes me even more suspicious that Chateaublanc had something to do with Agatha's death,” I said, my voice seeming to echo. “A relative of our Chateaublanc was a collaborator. And arranged to have a Vallebois family close to eliminated. Did Agatha know about it? What could the connection be here?”

“This could be why Chateaublanc can't seem to find the documents I'm asking for,” Rachel said.

“And maybe Griset knows about this, too, and is using it to blackmail him in some way,” I replied. “I wonder how old Chateaublanc was then?”

“He had to be a child,” Rachel said. “The collaborator had to be his father or uncle. None of this is really enough to implicate our Chateaublanc because it happened too long ago.”

“It would hurt his reputation for the collaboration to become public,” I said, “but maybe it already is known, and people just don't talk about it. Other people in Avignon must have been aware of who turned in your relatives.”

Because we had found something we weren’t supposed to find, I was suddenly afraid. The underground silence seemed to shout. Ominous. I said, “I want to get out of here, but I also want to see if there is anything from the Old Regime. It’s my only chance.”

Rachel nodded. “First let’s put these boxes back.”

After all had been replaced, I played my flashlight over the shelves. “Exactly what are we looking for again?” she asked.

“Documents about Mother Fernande, Rose’s mother superior. I cannot find records for her entry into the convent—as a novice, then with her profession of vows. These would show who her parents were. Her father was a seigneur, according to the diary, but we don't know that he was a Chateaublanc.”

Row after row, the years of the convent’s life flashed under the circle of light—but nothing before 1815.

“We have to go to the end of the corridor,” I said.

We walked down the shadowy length trying to make as little noise as possible, and as we did, the facing wall came into view. A large padlocked wooden door stopped us from going any farther.

“Behind that door is a way to the street, the escape route Rose took. The two dotted lines on the convent plans. This is a serious old lock,” I said. And it was: made of brass, at least three inches wide, it hung between two thick half-round shackles; in its center was a large keyhole. “It's nothing I can pick. At least not in a short time.”

Rachel laughed, “Or ever?” she said.

“Probably not,” I replied. I could imagine Rachel catching students in moments of hyperbole or wild conjecture and returning them to reality.

Then the flashlight began to dim.

Chapter 20

The following morning, I waited for Chateaublanc to leave the room, then ordered the Chateaublanc family papers from Griset. I wanted to see if a Chateaaublanc seigneur from the seventeenth century had left any bequests to Our Lady of Mercy, and if the papers would reveal that he was Fernande’s father. Fernande might not have been a Chateaublanc. In the region the convent served, I had found evidence of more than one seigneurie—a territory over which a seigneur (lord) had jurisdiction.

Late in the afternoon, after Chateaublanc left the archive for the day, Griset brought the folder to me. "Ordinarily, these papers are not available, Madame Red," he said. "But for you. . . "

"Thanks."

"At a price," he said suggestively.

"Forget it, Griset. Nothing doing," I replied, smiling because I knew he expected it, but not in a mood to banter with him.

"I’ll just have to get myself a blow-up doll," he said in mock despondency and returned to his work.

The folder was thick, but it contained very little from the 1600s—only two minor property acquisitions: a house in Villeneuve and a vineyard near St. Remy.

I approached Griset as he leaned against the wall of the reading room, watching his clientele and smoking.

"The Chateaublanc file seems incomplete," I said.

"And why do you say that, Madame Red?" He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“Where is the seigneur's will and testament?”

"A very good question."

"Do you have any answers?"

"None that I can say." He looked around the room, then, "Perhaps what you search for is elsewhere."

Elsewhere? That could mean the city library perhaps. But it was nearly five on a Friday, too late to go to the library. I would have to wait until Monday. A whole weekend lay ahead with no chance to scour the archives or the library for evidence.

A whole weekend. I envisioned myself cutting and pasting the draft of my article as I leaned over my laptop. Little headaches. Back-of-the neck tension. Waking up in the middle of the night with half-baked ideas.

I wanted to escape—escape the article, escape Avignon with its bullying Palace, escape the all-too-familiar streets. I had always wanted to visit the
villages perchés
, those old stone towns set on hills in the scrubby, wild Luberon mountains that lay only a few kilometers to the southeast of Avignon. I’d found two villages called Chateaublanc on a Michelin map—the one up on the mountain was called Old Chateaublanc; the other, down in the valley, New Chateaublanc. They were very close together. Why not go there and do some sleuthing? Maybe I’d spend Saturday night in Aix. It was still winter and the hordes of tourists would not yet have arrived.

I broached the idea to Rachel when we were both in the reference room. “I feel like escaping. Let’s get out of here for the weekend. We’ll go out in the countryside and stay overnight in Aix. You can drink the water in the fountains in Aix. That says something about the place, doesn't it?"

Rachel looked only slightly regretful. "I can’t. Martin and I have a dinner date."

“Really! Dinner date! That’s serious stuff.”

“Don’t get so excited. It’s just food and conversation.”

“I don’t suppose you’d cancel it?”

“Not a chance.” Rachel was smiling.

“You’re really stuck on him. After all that’s happened.” I was not as surprised as I sounded.

“You said it, I didn’t. I wish I could go with you, but. . . “

“I get it, Rachel,” I replied. But I didn't get it. I was afraid for her. Fitzroy, with his ungovernable temper, was still on my list of suspects, even if he wasn't on hers.

Jack Leach had once mentioned to me that he knew of a good little hotel in Aix, so as the researchers stood in the hallway talking about their weekend plans, I asked him again for the name. He was happy to oblige.

“It’s very quiet, right near the Méjanes, the archive there,” he said. “They're are open on Saturday. I’m going tomorrow.”

“I thought you went a week or so ago,” I said.

A haze of sweat appeared on his upper lip. Then he said, “No, I was sidetracked with some other business. Personal.”

We all stared at him.

“Personal business,” he repeated as if he were practicing assertiveness training.

“Don't step on a toad, Jack,” Madeleine said,

Seeing the closed, stubborn look on Jack's face, I knew it was fruitless to pursue the question of his personal business any further right then. I filed away a question in my mind: why was Jack so evasive? And why did Madeleine keep repeating the phrase “step on a toad”? Maybe she used the saying to tell me that she had, too.

“Perhaps we can go together,” Jack said.

“Sorry, Jack, I’ve got random plans,” I replied. I guessed that he was showing Fitzroy how diligent he was—
he
worked on Saturdays. And maybe he wanted to avoid taking the bus.

Fitzroy threw his coat over his shoulders but did not put his arms in it. "Do you know the Méjanes?” he asked me.

"Yes, I do, but I am not going near an archive this weekend," I replied.

"What do you plan to do then?" asked Jack.

"Enjoy myself by myself," I said. “Visit a
village perché
. I’ve always wanted to. Old Chateaublanc, maybe.”

"Bravo!" said Griset, who had been listening to the exchange. “Enjoyment! Too little of it in this world.”

Roger pursued me down the hall as I was leaving, briefcase over my shoulder. “Be careful, it’s dangerous to be out in nature by yourself,” he said.

“Don’t be silly,” I replied.

“Why don't we go together? I need to search for artifacts in that part of Provence. I know it well. Agatha grew up there, and I sometimes visited her side of the family. They had a little farm.”

I was tempted but didn't immediately reply. Instead I asked, “Is the farm still there?” and pushed the elevator button. The elevator doors opened immediately to admit us.

“Sadly, no,” he said. We rode down to the ground floor in silence. I knew he was waiting for my answer.

“We have different things to do,” I said, as we walked down the stone stairs to the plaza. “I'm going to rent a car so I can do what I want when I want.”

“We’ll take two cars,” he said. Then he looked at me, his eyes sharp. “What do you mean ‘things to do’?”

I regarded him for a moment, then said, “See what I can find out about the Chateaublancs.”

“Are they subjects in your journal article?”

“No, but, as I told you, I think it maybe it was Chateaublanc who killed Agatha.” I spoke softly. We stood facing each other at the bottom of the stairs. People thronged the plaza—winter tourists, residents cutting across the expanse on their way to the restaurants and shops in the medieval part of the city.

“Chateaublanc?” said Roger. “I doubt it he's the one. What motive did he have? I think it's more likely that it was Jack Leach. He’s certainly acting suspicious enough. But go at it, if you want. As a member of the Ministry of Culture I might be of use to you. We could meet in New Chateaublanc at the Saturday market. Have a picnic, a French picnic. I will bring the tablecloth and the wine. ”

I imagined us sprawled under an ancient tree with the wine, the cheese, the bread, the roast chicken—and I relented. I also wondered where we might go from there, perhaps to the hotel in Aix. “All right.”

“Why did you agree? Because of the picnic or because of the possible information?”

“Both,” I said, grinning. “The picnic goes without saying, and as for the information, you can tell me what things mean.”

“Things?”

“Things people say. I’m not always sure.”

“Your French is very good even if you’re accent isn’t.”