Cezanne's Quarry (10 page)

Martin did not frequent the cafés. They reminded him too much of his carefree life as a student in Paris. Still, he considered the Cours the most beautiful place in all of Aix. He especially admired the tall plane trees that were planted in double rows on either side of the boulevard. Their sturdy blond trunks patched with silver-gray bark offered a muted, gentle contrast to Provence’s garish red-orange earth and vivid blue skies. In the summer, their olive green leaves formed a sheltering sun-dappled archway overhead. Today their branches swayed in the breeze, changing the patterns of light and shade along Martin’s path. The Cours sparkled with possibility. It lifted Martin’s spirits. He was escaping from the unhappy surprises of the morning, and he was setting out on an adventure. How many men get to walk upon—nay, have the very right and duty to embark upon—a path not taken?

Spotting the Vernet apartment was not hard. The two gendarmes posted outside the entrance were catching the curious glances of shoppers. They saluted smartly as he approached, and Martin, putting on a solemn face, nodded in reply and headed up the stairs. He rang a bell fastened beside a heavy wooden door, which was polished to a soft mahogany sheen. Arlette LaFarge curtsied as he entered, took his hat, and led him into a large rectangular salon. She had calmed down since her morning’s outbursts. Her black dress and the white cap and apron said a great deal about the airs that Solange Vernet had put on in Aix.

“I can prepare some tea. I think Mme Solange would have liked that,” Arlette said, her lips quivering. She seemed to be clinging to form as if her life depended on it. What else did she have in a strange town without her mistress?

“Thank you, I would like that,” Martin said, welcoming the opportunity to be left on his own. The salon had been the staging ground for Solange Vernet’s and Westerbury’s ambitions. The maid’s absence gave him time to get a feel for the place without being watched.

Hands behind his back, Martin strolled slowly around the room, taking in the order and opulence of the arrangements. Chairs, divans, and side tables formed a large elongated oval around an empty space in the center of the room. In one corner stood a small grand piano. In front of a divan opposite the windows, a low mahogany table held glasses and a brandy snifter. The side tables held candelabras and gas lamps; books, cigar humidifiers, and settings for refreshments. Everything necessary to make the guests comfortable and, presumably, talkative.

Sunlight filled the room. The dark blue velvet drapes had been pulled back from the five high windows that faced onto the Cours, boldly exposing the salon to the indifferent aristocratic houses across the way. Solange Vernet had hoped to be the center of a “circle,” the hostess to entertainments. If she really was a hatmaker of humble origins, what on earth had she been thinking?

The walls held four pretty, not particularly distinguished, landscapes and city scenes, one at the east end and three on the long wall in the middle. None hung on the west wall. Martin approached and looked closely. A small hole in the yellow-striped wallpaper indicated that a painting had been hanging there. One of Cézanne’s? He took his notebook from his pocket and added “missing painting” to the list that he had made up in his office: “the message,” “the boy,” “arguments.”

“Monsieur le juge, will you sit over here?” Arlette reappeared, placing a large tray with a teapot, two cups and a plate of little white, crustless triangles, on the table in front of the divan. It was all very English, making Martin wonder if the service reflected Westerbury’s influence, or was yet another sign of Solange Vernet’s aspirations.

“Sir, do you mind if I join you?” This was odd, a maid and a guest, but of course Martin agreed. After all, this was a strange household, and Arlette LaFarge looked as if she could use some sustenance. Martin set his notebook and pencil beside him as she pulled up a chair. He scrutinized her as she began to pour the tea. There were few indications that this sallow creature had ever been pretty. Now her face, under the dark fringe of hair, was worn with care and her dark eyes red with crying, signs of grief and anxiety that would only make her more suspicious and timid. He needed to prod her gently.

“I’m glad to see that my men did not cause too much damage here.”

The comment seemed to startle Arlette, who held the pot in midair for a moment before carefully setting it down, as if she were deciding whether he was one of “them,”or something nicer. She took a sip of tea, then smiled weakly. “No, sir, not here. Just opening drawers and looking all through the piano and under the cushions.”

“But?”

“But . . . the bedrooms and M. Westerbury’s study are a mess. They tore through everything. I can fix most everything except ‘the collection.’ They poured all his rocks and things on the floor. M. Westerbury was very upset.”

“But he hasn’t stayed here to put things right?”

Arlette shook her head. “He’s been in and out. Restless. Unhappy. Yes, very unhappy,” she added, as if she was deciding that the safest course was to depict Westerbury as the grieving lover.

“I’m sorry. I know this must be a difficult time. But I must ask you some questions. I’m sure we both agree that we want to find the man who murdered your mistress.” Martin was watching her every reaction very carefully. He desperately needed to recruit Arlette to his side.

Her cup rattled ever so slightly in the saucer. She put it back on the tray.

“All you have to do is tell the truth when I ask you questions. You might even think of things I’ve left out. You loved your mistress. You can help me, can’t you?” Martin gave her some time to think while he took a sip of the hot tea. It was good.

Finally, Arlette nodded her consent, and sat back, waiting. She was biting hard on her lower lip. Martin started off as gently as possible.

“First, how long did you know Mme Vernet? And how did you meet?”

“Five years ago. She took me in.” Arlette said this with a steady voice. The past seemed to be a safer topic than the present.

“Took you in?”

“Yes. You see, she ran the hat shop she had inherited from her aunt, the Widow Charpentier. And Mme Solange took after her. Everyone in the neighborhood knew they could go to Aunt Marie—that’s what we called the Widow Charpentier—if they were desperate. And Mme Solange was the same.”

“Was Solange Vernet born in Paris, then?” This had been a small point of Westerbury’s testimony, but Martin wanted to get a sense of how honest he had been.

“No . . . no. She and Aunt Marie always used to say they ‘found each other again’ when Mme Solange was about sixteen. She came to Paris from a village on the Seine.”

“Do you know which?”

Arlette only shook her head, and fixed her eyes on the brightly colored Persian rug that covered the center of the floor.

“Please do eat something,” he urged. “You must be very hungry and tired after what you went through this morning.” As soon as he said this, he was afraid that his expressions of solicitude were coming off as false and manipulative, which to some degree they were.

But the maid reached for a sandwich and began eating. She was hungry. He also took one. Cucumber and butter.

“I understand that your husband beat you. Is that why you went to the hat shop?”

“He hit me a lot. For everything. He’s not a bad man. Only . . . only,” she swallowed hard, “poor, a drunkard. We never had enough money.”

“Children?”

“No . . . maybe that would have helped . . . I don’t know.”

“And Mme Vernet? How could she help you?”

“She stood up to him. When he learned I was staying there and tried to get in, she told him he could not and that if he hit her, she would call the police. She shook a broom at him.” The beautiful and graceful Solange Vernet with a broom, challenging a brute? It was Martin’s turn to shake his head.

“Things got easier after M. Westerbury moved in. Then we weren’t so afraid. It was good to have a man around.”

“And he was never violent.”

“No . . . never.”

Martin noted the hesitation in her voice. “When did M. Westerbury move in?”

“About three years ago. They met at his lectures.”

“So the household had three people? You, Mme Vernet, and Westerbury?”

“And five apprentices. Mme Solange did not want to leave Paris until they found a place. They were poor, like she was when she came. She was good and patient with them. Just as Aunt Marie had been with her.”

“But even if the shop was quite successful, it could not have bought all this?” When Martin had questioned Westerbury, he had asked about the finances, but now he saw how right Franc had been. They had been living like kings.

“I don’t know about that, sir,” Arlette said. “I just keep the house.” She began chewing on another soft triangle. “I think before M. Westerbury came, Mme Solange would have given everything she had when she died to charity or to a child that she took in, but he changed things.”

Could this change have caused a breach in Arlette’s admiration for her mistress, one that Martin could exploit to uncover Solange Vernet’s secrets? “How did you feel about that?”

“About what, sir?”

“The change from . . .” Martin searched for the words which would not sound disapproving, “her change from being an Aunt Marie, a benefactor for the neighborhood, to being a kind of society woman?” A bluestocking, he thought to himself.

“That’s not my place, sir. Besides,” Arlette smiled for the first time, “after they met, Mme Solange was so happy—he made her so happy. How could that be bad? She was never bad.”

Truly? Even though Solange Vernet had become someone’s mistress, Arlette spoke of the dead woman as if she were some kind of saint. Martin reached for another sandwich, this one filled with ham. He bit into it as he searched for a way to get around the maid’s loyalty.

“Let’s talk about life in Aix then,” he said. “You arrived?”

“In February.”

“Did you know any of Mme Vernet’s or Westerbury’s new friends?”

Arlette took a few sips of tea and thought for a moment. “I saw them when they came on Thursday evenings, but never outside of that. Some of them left cards. The inspector took them.”

Martin remembered a little table and umbrella stand outside the door. More accoutrements of social ambition, having visiting days, receiving calling cards.

“I don’t suppose you know what went on during Mme Vernet’s Thursdays.”

“Oh yes, sir. I did. Not that I understood. But see that?” She pointed toward a narrow wooden chair near the door. “Mme Solange couldn’t make me come all the way in. But she hated the idea of
ringing
for me. She said as long as I was going to serve things, I should be allowed to listen, too.”

This was more surprising than the maid serving herself tea. Had he walked into a den of anarchists? Or just a trio of parvenus, plotting to climb the social ladder?

“Where did Mme Vernet sit?”

“Over there.”Arlette pointed to a green chair by the east window, a place from which a gracious hostess could easily rise to greet newcomers, but not a chair from which one held forth.

“And M. Westerbury?” He followed her finger to a large brown chair with an ottoman, which took the central position at the western end of the salon, well suited to speechifying. “Who played the piano?”

“No one, yet. But Mme Solange was looking forward to having musical evenings.”

“She didn’t play?”

Arlette shook her head.

Westerbury had said Solange Vernet had taught herself to read and write. If she did not play an instrument or sing, it was indeed true that she had not had a formal education. “What did the others think of her?” Martin asked.

“Excuse me?”

That had come out crudely. “M. Westerbury told me who the guests were, and they came from a very different place in society than Mme Vernet. Did they hold that against her? Did they treat her well?”

“Oh yes, sir, yes. Everyone liked Mme Solange.”

“But . . . did they know her background, that—”

“She didn’t talk about that, sir, no. Mostly it was M. Westerbury who did the talking. He is very learned. He told them about all the great English geologists he had studied. He even helped my mistress with little things, like how she should act, what we should serve—”

“Like the tea?”

“Yes, sir, just like that, the tea and things, so, as he liked to say, ‘we could offer something different.’ He was sure we could get around ‘social prejudice,’ as he liked to say, if we showed how polite and learned we were.”

Really? Did the maid also believe this? “And Paul Cézanne, the painter, where did he sit?”

Arlette chewed more slowly. Then she shrugged. “Anywhere. He only came a few times anyway.” This show of nonchalance came off as just that—a show, an attempt to avoid a dangerous topic.

“I was noticing the paintings,” Martin said. “That one,” he pointed toward the west wall, “seems to be missing. Do you know where it is?”

“M. Westerbury took it down.” The chewing had stopped.

“Why? Was it by Paul Cézanne?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that, sir.” Her fingers pressed into the bread, squeezing out little bits of butter. Martin was quite sure she did indeed know about that.

“Was it new?”

Another shrug.

“Look here, Arlette. If you do not tell me the truth about everything, I will have to arrest you as an accomplice to murder. The murder of someone you claim to love. Someone who saved you.”

“But I don’t know who killed her.” Arlette put her sandwich back on the tray.

“What you mean to say,” he could sense that this was not the moment to let up, “what you really mean, is that you are not sure if Westerbury did it. Isn’t that right?”

“No, no, no, no.” Arlette shook her head. “No!”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“No!”

“We could protect you.”

“No!”

Her denials came out in sobs, her face contorted. Did she suspect that the Englishman had killed her mistress? That she was living with a murderer?

“Then you must know that the only way to prove M. Westerbury’s innocence is to tell me all you know. You understand that, don’t you?”