Cezanne's Quarry (6 page)

“Come now. This is a murder investigation. More to the point,” Martin pronounced each word with great precision, “you are a suspect. You can either answer my questions or I can hold you in prison for the next forty-eight hours.”

“Barbaric country,” Westerbury muttered to no one in particular as he resumed his seat.

“If I decide you are the murderer, you will rot in your cell until the trial,” Martin added. This was more brutish than he liked to be, but he did not like Westerbury’s attitude. He seemed to think that Martin had been some kind of coward or hypocrite because he had not come to their salon.

“Look,” said Westerbury, retreating a bit, “Solange was an independent woman. And tolerant. She could believe in me and science at the same time that she believed in the saints and the Virgin Mary. It gave her comfort to think of them watching over her. She knew I was not here to tear down religion. I’m a deist, not an atheist. It doesn’t have to be like it is, here in France. Here, if you declare yourself a republican you feel it necessary to reject not only the Church but any semblance of religious feeling. And yet men of your party like your women brought up by nuns. So they’ll obey you, I suppose. But whom do they obey in the end? Their anti-clerical husband, or the parish priest who has the power to save their souls? Solange and I were striving for middle ground where science and religion, and men and women, could truly meet.”

Although he did not like being lectured to by a foreigner, Martin had no riposte for this. He knew from his own experience that what Westerbury was saying was not far off the mark. But how in the world did a foreigner and a Parisian hatmaker come to believe they could change things?

“As for money,” the Englishman continued, “it really wasn’t an issue. You don’t fall in love with a milliner for her money.”

Not unless you yourself are penniless
, Martin thought. Then he asked, “What about other men?”

“Solange was faithful to me, I’m sure of it. We told each other everything.”

Martin gave Westerbury time to go on, but the Englishman chose silence. He picked up his hat and ran his fingers around the brim, turning it slowly. All that could be heard was the scratching of Joseph’s pen, and then the scrape of the clerk’s chair along the wooden floor as he shifted his position. Given Westerbury’s eagerness to expand on other topics, Martin was sure the Englishman was lying about this one.

“Even if what you say is true,” he paused so that Westerbury could absorb his skepticism, “we will still need a list of all your acquaintances.”

“Surely you don’t believe that any of them would—”

“Please give their names and professions slowly so that my clerk can record them accurately.”

Resigned, Westerbury began describing his circle quietly and mechanically. The only women who attended the salon were an aspiring artist and the wife of a law professor, who attended with her husband. The other men, a dozen writers and professors and a bookdealer, seemed respectable enough, and probably all republicans.

When Westerbury stopped, Martin laid down his pen and waited. Westerbury kept turning his hat slowly in his hands. Finally, Martin insisted that he did not believe the list was complete. When the Englishman shrugged, Martin pounced. “What about Cézanne?”

Despite Westerbury’s best efforts, Martin detected a flinch. Even Old Joseph turned around, sensing a dramatic confrontation in the offing.

After glancing from Martin to his greffier, Westerbury began. “We knew Paul Cézanne, but he was not, precisely speaking, a member of the circle. If you knew him, you’d know he is a misanthrope, a bear, someone who. . . .” The Englishman groped for the right words. “Someone who is not really fit for the kind of world that Solange wanted to create. She liked laughter. She loved what you French call
esprit
. She thought that if we all took ourselves too seriously, we would never agree on anything. Cézanne, God knows, takes himself very seriously.”

Martin wrote down and circled the artist’s name several times. “Then why was he a friend?”

“There you go,” said Westerbury, pointing his hat at Martin’s pen. “There you go. Here’s an example of something that Solange and I could disagree about without getting angry with each other. She thought he was a misunderstood genius. She felt sorry for him. She wanted to encourage him. She was that way, you know, generous. There was nothing to be jealous of. I would not have minded even if . . . even if she had agreed to sit for him.”

“Quite generous of you,” Martin mumbled and looked up in time to see Westerbury scowl. “And what,” he continued, “do
you
think of Cézanne?”

“Frankly, I think he is a bore.”

“Capable of murder?”

This question seemed to catch the Englishman off guard. One could almost read his thoughts: Should he try to save himself by accusing his rival? Or would that be admitting to his jealousy? Martin sat very still as he waited for a response, hoping against hope for some reaction. A rash accusation. Or a theory of the crime. Anything. Even Joseph’s pen did not move. Finally, Martin added, “What would you say if I told you we found a piece of a canvas in the quarry and that it may have been painted by Cézanne?”

“Nothing.” Westerbury was breathing hard. “I would say nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

The Englishman only nodded. Once again he began to stare out the window, drifting away into a sea of private troubles.

Martin straightened his position in his chair as he frantically rehearsed in his mind what he needed to ask about the days immediately surrounding the murder. “Mr. Westerbury, where were you on August 17th and 18th?”

“Tramping about Mont Sainte-Victoire. Trying to decide whether it should become the cornerstone of my work. I camped there overnight.” This came out in a monotone.

“Alone?”

“Quite.”

Martin wrote down “no alibi” and gave Westerbury time to consider his vulnerability on this issue. Silence.

“And Mme Vernet? Where do you think she was?”

“At home. The only thing she had planned for the week was to follow the Procession on the Feast of the Assumption. Most of our circle was out of town. So she was going to take the time to read and to write.” He hesitated. “Letters.”

“Do you have any of these?” said Martin, alert. The letters might offer some clues about Solange Vernet and her past.

“No, they were sent.”

Sent. Gone
. “You don’t know what these were about.”

“No, I don’t.” The Englishman’s eyes were fixed on the floor.

“Then, when was the last time you saw Mme Vernet?”

“We were supposed to sup together, late, when I returned from Sainte-Victoire. But Arlette said she had gotten a message—”

“A message?” Martin asked sharply.

Westerbury shook his head. “There’s no hope there. I got so worried when Solange was still gone this morning that I asked Arlette to tell me everything that happened before Solange left. She only told me that Solange had read the note, dressed, and rushed out of the house. She didn’t recognize the boy who brought it, either.”

“Did the maid see the note? Would she recognize the handwriting?” Martin’s excitement was mounting.

Westerbury looked up at Martin. “She doesn’t read.”

Taking up his pen again, Martin wrote, “Search for message in Vernet apartment and at the scene. Look for the messenger.” Then he set it aside. “Do you think that the note summoned Mme Vernet to the quarry?”

Westerbury shrugged.

“Were you in the habit of going to the quarry?”

“I’ve taken my students there to hunt for fossils and to show them the strata formations,” the Englishman said with a weary sigh, “to give them some idea about the age of the earth and its powers of regeneration.”

“Women?”

“Yes, women.”

Cartloads of corseted women wandering with baskets and pickaxes? What did this man think he was doing? “And Mme Vernet? Did she ever go there?”

Westerbury’s “yes” was barely audible. He was still clinging to his hat, which now hung between his legs.

“When? Why?” Martin spoke in short jabs to penetrate the pall that was fast descending over his suspect.

“A few times. For picnics. She considered it a good healthy walk. We’d picnic under the trees and then I’d take her to the rocks. She always laughed about all the adventures I must have had there with ‘my ladies.’” Each word dropped from Westerbury’s lips more slowly and more quietly, until he burst out again. “
Oh God
,” he gasped in English. “
Oh God
, my beloved in that quarry. Do you know if she was violated? If she struggled?”

Martin shook his head, painfully aware of the unread medical report on his desk. As the Englishman began to weep uncontrollably, Martin considered what to do with him. Sweat was tickling Martin under his beard and collar, as much from anxiety as from the heat. Never before had he felt his own lack of experience and imagination more keenly. He had run out of questions, and he had not come close to proving anything. At least he did know some things about the Englishman, and that he had two classic motives for murder: money and jealousy. And yet, without prompting or a struggle, Westerbury had revealed the existence of a possible witness, the little messenger. Would a guilty man have done that?

Martin could, as he had threatened, throw Westerbury into prison. But that was Albert Franc’s world. A world where the inspector would feel free to beat a confession out of a foreigner without a family to stand by and protect him. That was not what Martin wanted. He wanted a valid confession and the real killer, who could easily be the artist who was the banker’s son. Since the man sniveling before him hardly seemed a danger to anyone, Martin decided to demonstrate that France was every bit as civilized as England.

When Westerbury regained his composure, Martin asked, “What was Mme Vernet’s parish?”

“Madeleine,” Westerbury whispered.

“Then you will want to send a priest to arrange a burial. You may also want to bring some fresh clothes to the morgue.”

The Englishman nodded.

“You may go now.”

Dazed, Westerbury pushed himself up from the chair and put his hat on his head. “That’s all?”

“No, I can assure you that this is only the beginning,” Martin said, trying to sound cool and in command, while desperately hoping that he would do better in his next encounter with the Englishman. “Of course, you realize that if you leave town it will be taken as a sign of your guilt or complicity. And,” he added, “I also expect that you will not threaten your maid in any way.”

Westerbury backed slowly into the foyer. When he reached the door, he gave a little bow to Martin and Joseph before opening it and rushing out into the hallway.

Martin watched as the door swung shut. The next minute, Old Joseph was beside him, meekly offering his notes, pages and pages covered with spidery handwriting as wispy as the hairs on the old man’s head. Martin took them with a sigh. It would take him all afternoon to decipher and analyze them.

“Would you like me to open the window, sir?” There was always a look of longing in the clerk’s yellowing brown eyes, as if he wanted to prove that he was still useful.

“No, thank you, Joseph. I’d like you to go find Franc and tell him to have the Englishman followed. Then you can take the rest of the day off.” When his clerk retreated and began to put away his things, Martin pushed out the window that overlooked the Palais square, letting in the voices of those going home for their midday meal. He watched until he saw the erect figure of Charles Westerbury emerge from the narrow street at the side of the courthouse, walking slowly and stiffly, as if he were putting his innocence and dignity on display for all to see.

W
ESTERBURY WAS, INDEED, CONSCIOUS OF
the deliberateness of his movements.
Just one foot in front of the other, old boy,
he kept repeating to himself,
and soon you’ll be out of sight.
Despite the wild pounding of his heart, he was not about to let them detect any signs of weakness. Especially not that brute of a detective. Nor that intolerable prig of a judge, always tugging at his neat little beard as if he fashioned himself to be some young Solomon. That clever glint in his eyes. Those little inquisitorial tricks up his sleeve.
Well, monsieur le juge, monsieur le petit juge, has a lot to learn before he can drag anything out of me.

So concentrated was Westerbury on walking a straight line that he almost ran into a woman returning from the market with a recalcitrant child in tow. He bowed to apologize for hitting her basket, tipped his hat, and put on what he hoped was a winning smile. The woman’s face was too blurred for him to know if she was one of his students. If not, who knew? For good measure, Westerbury patted the little brat on the head.
Life goes on. Must keep charming potential customers. Geology, anyone? Geology for the ladies?
Unfortunately, the woman drew her son away from him in a protective gesture and did not seem at all charmed. Westerbury knew then that he must look a sight.

As soon as the woman continued on her way, he made a sharp turn to the right, toward the apartment. Force of habit. He could not bear the thought of being surrounded by Solange’s things. Nor did he want to listen to Arlette’s wailing. He had to find a way to think things through, to wipe the image of Solange out of his mind.

Suspecting that he might still be under observation, Westerbury reversed his course with as much dignity as he could muster. When he got out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face and dab at his eyes, he realized that he was still trembling. But he solemnly continued on, past the grand fountain in the center of the rectangle that divided the Palais square from the space in front of the Madeleine. This church, named for Jesus’s whore, was where Solange had done her bit for charity. With luck, if the priests were not too hypocritical, they would allow her to be buried here as well. He’d let Arlette pick out a suitable dress and send her to the police with it. She’d like that. Arlette would light candles and keep the vigil. He would figure out how to survive until they probated the will.