Free Seeking Whom He May Devour by Fred Vargas Page A

back a wild animal into a corner with no way out. She’d have stayed outside the pen, she’d have gone round the back, and then taken aim through one of the window openings. That’s how the old bag would have shot the wolf and killed it stone dead. But for the life of me I cannot imagine her going inside the sheep-pen and backing the creature into a corner.”
    Camille frowned.
    “So tell me just what it is you’re thinking.”
    “Not yet. Not sure I’m right.”
    “Say it all the same.”
    “Bloody hell. Suzanne accused Massart and now Suzanne is dead. She could easily have been to see Massart and thrown all that werewolf nonsense at him. She wasn’t scared of anything.”
    “So what, Lawrence? Given that Massart is
not
a werewolf. What would he have done about it? He’d have had a good laugh, don’t you think?”
    “Not necessarily.”
    “He’s already got a bad reputation and kids keep away from him. What more could Suzanne’s accusations do to him? He’s supposed to be hairless, impotent, queer, crazy and God knows what else besides. So what, if people say he’s a werewolf as well? He can take that on the chin, I reckon. He’s been through worse already.”
    “Good grief, you really don’t get it.”
    “Well, tell me straight out what’s on your mind. This is no time for swallowing your words.”
    “Massart doesn’t give a damn for gossip, I agree. Fine. But what if the old bag was right? What if Massart really had been savaging sheep?”
    “You’re losing it, Johnstone. You told me you didn’t believe in werewolves.”
    “Not in werewolves, no.”
    “You’re forgetting the gashes, for heaven’s sake. You’re not telling me those were made by Massart’s front teeth?”
    “No, I’m not.”
    “There you are, then.”
    “But Massart has a dog. A very large dog.”
    Camille shivered. She’d seen that dog on the village square. It was a remarkable, long-legged, brindled dog with a massive head that stood as high as a man’s waist.
    “A mastiff,” said Johnstone. “The largest breed there is. The only dog that can grow as big or even bigger than a male wolf.”
    Camille rested her foot on the kick-stand and sighed.
    “Johnstone, why can’t it just be a wolf?” she asked. “A plain old wolf? Why can’t it be Crassus the Bald? You couldn’t find him yesterday.”
    “Because the old bag would have shot him from behind . Through the window. I’m off to see Massart.”
    “Why not Lemirail?”
    “Who’s Lemirail?”
    “The medium
gendarme
.”
    “Good God. Too soon for that. I’m just going to have a chat with Massart.”
    Johnstone revved his engine and soon was vanished over the hill.
    He did not come back until lunchtime. Camille was feeling knocked out, she wasn’t hungry, she’d just put out bread and tomatoes and was nibbling as she leafed without paying much attention through yesterday’s newspaper. Even the
A to Z
would not have aroused her interest today. Johnstone came in without a word, put his gloves and helmet on a chair, glanced at the table, added some ham, cheese and apples to the spread, and sat down. Camille did not attempt to spring the conversation to life as she usually did. As a result Johnstone ate in silence, shaking his locks now and again, casting eyes wide with amazement at Camille from time to time. Camille wondered what would become of them if she did not take a verbal initiative. Maybe they would stay at the same table for forty years eating tomatoes in silence until one of them dropped dead. Maybe. The prospect did not seem burdensome to Johnstone. Camille cracked after twenty minutes.
    “So, did you see him?”
    “Vanished.”
    “Why do you say ‘vanished’? He’s entitled to go out for a while.”
    “Sure.”
    “Was the dog around?”
    “No.”
    “There you are, then. He was out. And anyway, it’s Sunday.”
    Johnstone raised his head.
    “Apparently he goes to seven o’clock Mass every Sunday,” Camille said, “in some other