Free Cold Winter in Bordeaux by Allan Massie Page A

with several lines of ribbons on his chest. The driver held the car door open for her. Both got in and it drove away. Lannes waited till it was out of sight before approaching the house and ringing the bell. As on his first visit – more than two years ago now – it was several minutes before the door opened.
    ‘Oh, it’s you again,’ old Marthe said, and sniffed. ‘Since you’ve come to the front door this time, I suppose it’s not me but his lordship you want. You may get some sense out of him and then again you may not.’
    ‘How are you keeping, Marthe?’
    ‘What’s that to you, or anyone? I live as I’ve lived since the old devil was killed, and you did nothing about that.’
    The ‘old devil’ was the Comte de Grimaud, whose mistress she had been more than half a century ago and who even in their old age would have his hand up her skirt. They had bickered like cats on a rooftop and neither would have admitted what Lannes believed to be the case: that each was the only person the other had ever truly loved. She had a right to be disagreeable, and Lannes respected her sour temper, even liked her for it.
    ‘Madame de Thibault de Polmont looks well,’ he said. ‘I just saw her leave with one of her German friends.’
    ‘The silly old bitch. I’ve no time for the pack of them.’
    Jean-Christophe, who was now the Comte de Grimaud, was sitting in the high-backed, winged chair in which his father had first received Lannes, and which he had, as it were, annexed as soon as the old man was buried. He wore a plum-coloured velvet smoking jacket and black-and-white checked trousers and his yellow shirt was open at the neck. A decanter of port and a half-empty glass stood on the little table by his side. He was already bleary-eyed and, perhaps because Marthe hadn’t troubled to introduce Lannes but had merely opened the door for him, it was a moment before he recognised his visitor. When he did so, he drained his glass and said, ‘I’ve done nothing. You’ve no right to disturb me. You’ve no right to be here.’
    Each time he had met him, Lannes had felt both pity and repulsion. It was more than ten years since the man had narrowly escaped a prison sentence on account of his sexual tastes which were directed towards young girls. His father had employed all his influence, which was considerable, to get the charges dropped; influence and money, for he had paid off the parents of at least three girls. He already despised his son, and perhaps it was the harsh contempt he had always shown him which prevented Jean-Christophe from ever coming to maturity. Lannes didn’t know whether there was indeed an explanation for such tastes, or whether viciousness was innate. Perhaps you could never be certain about such things. Perhaps indeed men like Jean-Christophe were to be pitied. That didn’t, to Lannes’ mind, make their behaviour forgivable or less repulsive. To take advantage of children. Well, he thought of Clothilde as she had been at the age of eleven or twelve …
    ‘I’m investigating a murder,’ Lannes said. ‘That gives me the right. But it’s information I want. I’m not accusing you of anything.’
    It would have been ridiculous even to pretend to do so; he knew very well that the wretch in the chair was incapable of the act of self-assertion which murder so often is. It was no surprise to see him refill his glass and take a gulp of the wine.
    ‘A woman called Madame Peniel has been killed. You knew her of course, you and your lawyer, Monsieur Labiche.’
    ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. I’ve never heard of the woman.’
    The count dabbed his temples with a red and white spotted handkerchief.
    ‘I’ve spoken to the man who says he was her father. Édouard Peniel, formerly known as Ephraim. He’s in one of our cells now.’
    ‘I’m glad to hear it, but he’s a liar. Whatever he says will be a lie.’
    ‘Undoubtedly he’s a liar,’ Lannes said, ‘nevertheless … ’
    ‘I