3-Book Box Set: Locked-room Mysteries & Murder

By Kim Ekemar

THE PATRICIDE
After a fire, the wealthy landowner Patrice Lafarge is found alone and dead in his bedroom locked from the inside. Inspector Rimbaud reviews the case and counts on the help of his sharp-witted Aunt Emilie. What at first appears to be an accidental death is after the autopsy declared to be a homicide. One of the children at home on Clos Saint-Jacques to celebrate Patrice Lafarge’s 75th birthday over a May weekend has to be the killer, but – who did it, how was it done and for what reason?

“This clever ‘whodunit’ set in 1935 France introduces a winning pair of sleuths who probe the death – behind a locked door – of Patrice Lafarge, whose heirs had gathered at his country estate to learn of a change to his will. As in many Golden Age puzzle mysteries, the plot is the key ... Readers who enjoy pitting their wits against that of the author will find themselves satisfied by the surprising solution.” – The BookLife Prize in Fiction

“It’s a very well written and edited book, which I recommend for readers who enjoy classic mysteries and want to immerse themselves in the pleasures of a locked-room murder challenge. This is a competent example in the locked-room mystery genre, and a very entertaining one to boot.” – Onlinebookclub Reviews

THE MURDERS ON THREE BRIDGES
In need of a change of scenery, Detective Inspector Arriaga boards Stella Australis for a trip around Tierra del Fuego. Before the ship reaches Cape Horn, the lone officer on the bridge is shot dead. When others come rushing, they find all doors leading to it locked from the inside. With most passengers and crew ashore on an excursion to a glacier and the runaway ship headed for shipwreck on the rocky coast, the captain is overwhelmed by the challenges. The inspector narrows down the suspects to nine – but how did the murderer escape with the doors locked from the inside? Then he faces the explanations for murders that have taken place on not one but three different bridges, including one that concerns his two fathers – the one he has never met and the one he is litigating.

“This thriller is well-written and held my interest throughout, and there are a plethora of clues to figure out the perpetrator of the crime – fun for amateur detectives! The author has created a surprise ending ... I’ll be looking out for more stories by this author.” – Reedsy Reviews

“The writing itself is excellent; Ekemar’s prose is a pleasure to read. It’s a great locked-room murder mystery, rich in interesting characters, presenting a genuine puzzle for readers to solve. I thoroughly enjoyed it and highly recommend it to all fans of crime and mystery.” – OnlineBookclub Reviews

THE CRIMSON BLUEPRINTS
Paul Crimson fought in the war that USA waged against Viet Nam. He kept diaries of everything he experienced, which he later concentrated into a manuscript that became a bestseller. Convinced by his editor to start writing a follow-up, he moved to a wintery town in Maine. Crimson started writing it with no idea how it would end. By fusing keen observations of people in the tranquil town with notes from his editor and his soldiering past, he launched The Ship – a terrifying scenario of snowstorms, survival and soul searching. Then his unstableness provoked events to spin out of control, with his work in progress mirroring his perceptions of them.

“Richly textured, this novel evokes a smothering, claustrophobic atmosphere of evil and events spinning out of control in all its settings. Crimson’s three lives—his past in Viet Nam, his present in Maine, and his fictional world in the Arctic—create a revealing portrait of a tortured soul. This novel delivers a spooky and readable yarn.” – Kirkus Reviews
“The characters are brilliantly crafted. Many readers will enjoy this book, especially those who are interested in the psychological effects of war, those who’d like to see how a writer finds inspiration and those who enjoy a crime thrill

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim Ekemar
• Release date: Jul 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005570545

Kim Ekemar

I've been fortunate with opportunities to travel the world, counting Mexico, France, Sweden and Spain as my home at one time or other. In the past, a good part of my life was dedicated to business ventures: an art gallery, an advertising agency and commodity trading, among others. My travels have taken me to faraway places and amazing situations. I arrived in Mongolia just as the revolution for independence from the USSR started. I have been taken up the Sepik river by crocodile hunters in Papua Guinea. I've climbed Mount Kilimanjaro in Kenya, gone horseback riding to where the Río Magdalena in Colombia begins, crossed the Australian desert, hiked the Inka trail the wrong direction in Peru, and much more. However, the experience with the most impact that I've lived through was to be arbitrarily jailed in a centre for torture in Paraguay during the Stroessner dictatorship, under the absurd accusation of being a terrorist. (More about this in my illustrated non-fiction book in Spanish about the dictator, "El Reino del Terror".) During the past two decades, I've been focused on artistic expressions – painting, photography, design and architecture, but mainly on writing. The sources for the things I'm interested in writing about are the passions of people; places and customs that I've experienced around the world; and stories or situations from life that intrigue me.

Book preview

Chapter I

A spring day in 1935, at Clos Saint-Jacques near Bercy

To visit the old stone house that was the main building on Clos Saint-Jacques, a traveller needed to turn off the main road and take a dirt one leading up to it. Surrounded by large elm trees on both sides, the entranceway wound through the hilly meadows that made it impossible to see the edifice before arriving at the end of the avenue. The owner, Patrice Lafarge, was jealous about his privacy and had on repeated occasions praised this solution that his great-grandfather had come up with a century earlier.

The fifty-five-hectare property consisted of two hectares of vineyards, three hectares of pasture for the animals, less than one hectare for the buildings, and forty-nine hectares of forest. Year round, there were two brooks running through the woods. Besides the main house, where Patrice lived with his housekeeper, there were three other structures. In one of these he kept his livestock: eight cows, one bull, and two horses. A second one was where the wine was processed and stocked. The last one was a small, wooden, two-room cottage some distance away in a glen. In this house his eldest son, fifty-year-old Gaspard, lived alone.

By this time Patrice Lafarge was in his mid-seventies. He was a large, physical man who felt cramped when obliged to remain too long indoors. His greatest pleasure was roaming through his woods, watching the birds and the hares, and occasionally shooting some of the game that abounded in the region. Yet, for a man who rarely had left Bercy and was so whole-heartedly dedicated to outdoor sports, he had a seemingly contradictory interest: a passion for literature. Patrice Lafarge could get lost for hours reading books about faraway places and adventures in the jungles and dangerous safaris and treacherous people who wanted to bring down societies. In this he considered himself a fortunate man, because he felt he could travel the world through his books without the disadvantage of having to leave his beloved property in Bercy.

Patrice had inherited his property when his father died, and since that day he had constantly cursed the fact that his younger brother Roland had been the recipient of the other half of the estate. After a bitter feud over how to divide the property between them, they had eventually come to an agreement. The way Patrice saw it, before the ink had dried on the document they had signed at the notary's office, Roland had set out to convert his share of the inheritance into an industrialised vineyard. He had sold his share of the forest to a lumber company that, in a blink of an eye, had cut down the woods. Five years later, after investing the proceeds from the sale of the timber and with the help of some loans, Roland had harvested his first grapes to be processed for wine. That this made Roland successful from an economic perspective meant nothing to Patrice.

Now, four decades later, the brothers were still not on speaking terms, because their opinion of what was worthwhile in life was diametrically opposite. Roland, who lived in Bordeaux where it suited his interests to ship his and other spirits to buyers abroad, viewed the province as a place for boors. The provincials, as he referred to people like his brother, had no interest in the sophistications found in higher culture such as those he pursued himself with a stress on those that could be turned into profitable investments: theatre performances, trips abroad to Venice or London, occasional visits to the Paris opera house, modern art, architecture and haute cuisine. As a result, Roland owned a fair amount of paintings by renowned artists, had investments in real estate and was a shareholder in various prominent restaurants whose sommeliers was under instructions to make favourable comments about his the wine he produced.

Patrice shared nothing of his brother's interests in city life sophistication, cultural snobbery or money-hoarding. Year after year, with the shifting seasons, he found pleasure from his daily walks through the woods accompanied by his dogs while inhaling the clear country air on his half of the inherited estate. He acknowledged the birdsong he’d heard a thousand times before, delighted in the scurrying squirrels, and never stopped discovering new treasures among the giant trees and the delicate flowers he knew by heart since childhood.

The brothers had seldom got along as children. Patrice had always been the strong-willed boy bordering on the abusive when it came to getting his way, which a younger and smaller Roland simply had no way to counter unless he complained about it to their father. If he did, he was sure to later be punished by Patrice for having done so. Roland learnt that his best defence was to steer clear from his brother. When they had grown into adults, they maintained a cold distance on the rare occasions they met at some family affair.

Apart from their inflexible opinions concerning how life should best be enjoyed, their physical appearance was even more at odds. Whereas Roland was thin, wiry and angular with a proud bearing and a receding hairline, Patrice was large, walked like a bear and had thick, unkempt hair that looked impossible to tame with a comb.

However, it was their characters that marked their profoundest difference. Whereas Roland was cold and calculating, Patrice was spontaneous in his opinion. Roland had set his mind on making himself a commercial empire, and he had achieved his goal before turning forty. By his side was Claire, a woman as manipulative as her husband, who with bravura and patience had successfully orchestrated their entrance into the Bordeaux society. Patrice despised the entire social climbing that ruled Roland and Claire's lives.

In spite of all, if studied closely, there were a few traits that the brothers shared. Both were stubborn to the point of ignoring even the most carefully prepared and supported argument. They were indifferent to other people’s plights and couldn't care less about the misfortunes of persons below their own stations in life. And more than anything, if there was one thing the brothers shared, it was their obsession with an idea once it had entered their heads. Neither listened to reason nor were they willing to contemplate some alternative. The view each had formed was the final word on the matter, and then it had to be executed exactly as they wanted it done.

With the exception of his irrepressible lust for women, Patrice had wanted nothing more in life than to live his days quietly on Clos Saint-Jacques and roaming its delightful woods. He had never seen the point in turning a beautiful patch of land into vineyards to make more money, which in turn would enable him to live in some expensive city: this was contradictory to his nature and beliefs in every way. That Roland was now five times richer than himself didn't interest him in the least; Patrice wouldn't have changed his lot for all the wine in France. In his opinion, Roland had sold out to the devil at a bargain price for not understanding that a virgin forest with brooks and game were the riches worth working for.

Patrice had experienced both disappointment and a blow to his self-esteem when the children, borne by his late wife Adèle, had one by one drifted away to live in different cities. Patrice didn’t realise that it was his imposing ways that had made his three children look for a future elsewhere. They all perceived him as an overbearing, irrational man who wouldn’t even listen to a differing opinion before making a decision. Despite all the books he had read, Patrice was a man who had never received more than basic schooling, nor had he travelled enough to understand that life can be appreciated from the angles of a very large prism.

*

Patrice had lived in Bercy all his life, with few changes since he inherited his half of the estate – and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He possessed everything he needed. In addition to the sale of some of the milk, his little vineyard produced enough money for his needs and the upkeep of the property. Besides the winemaking, more than anything he enjoyed hunting small game in his woods: hares, pheasants, an occasional boar and other game. Most of the time he just walked through the virgin forest accompanied by his four dogs, enjoying the tranquil atmosphere, observing the animals and perceiving the gentle breeze rustle the leaves on the trees.

With some regularity he drove into Bercy, the closest village, for supplies. Occasionally he found himself obliged to travel to Bordeaux on business concerning his wine harvest, a journey he always undertook with much reluctance. Patrice simply couldn't abide city life. His existence revolved around the abundance his property offered. When it was his turn to meet his maker, he was determined that it should remain exactly as it had been through countless generations before him. With the mounting years this had become of great concern to him, because he was convinced – Gaspard being the exception – that none of his children had any interest in maintaining the property in its present state.

Patrice had three children from his only marriage: Michel, Henri and Constance. Twenty-eight years had gone by since his wife Adèle had died from tuberculosis. He had raised the children with the help of his then housekeeper, Marianne. Michel had left home for Bordeaux at the time Marianne had been overcome with a mental illness so severe that she had to be taken into a permanent care in a convent. A few years later, both Henri and Constance would follow Michel’s example. Patrice now found himself alone with his retarded son, Gaspard, and Justine, the daughter of the housekeeper who had gone mad for reasons unknown.

At the age of thirteen, Justine had taken over her mother’s duties in the household. She cooked and cleaned, preserved and washed, milked the cows, fed the geese for the liver, ran errands in Bercy and supervised the mentally handicapped Gaspard. Without her, the household wouldn’t have functioned, although this was something Patrice – if he ever noticed it – never mentioned.

Gaspard was the result of a temporary liaison that Patrice had had when he was twenty-five. The mother was one of the maids working for a family in Bercy. Her slow wits had in Patrice’s eyes been well compensated with her ample charms and pretty countenance. However, once Gaspard had been born, she had wit enough to make Patrice recognise he was the child’s father. Patrice’s own father, then still alive, had reluctantly allowed her to move into the little cottage in the glen with the newborn.

Gaspard had left school when he was twelve. No one disagreed when his teacher said that Gaspard’s intelligence was limited and that studies were not for him. Instead, Patrice put him to work by showing him the chores of pruning the vines and caring for the animals. When Gaspard was sixteen, his mother died. After the funeral Patrice told Gaspard that, as long as he kept working the vineyard and tending the animals, he could remain in the little house.

Now, nearing his seventy-fifth birthday, Patrice lived with Justine and Gaspard as his only help. Only when the grape harvest began in September, did he hire more hands. Patrice was perfectly happy with his life as it was. Nevertheless, he knew that, before he died, he had to do something to prevent his little corner of paradise from becoming gutted by the greed of future generations.

Chapter II

The death of Justine’s mother

The village priest turned his bicycle onto the dirt road that led to Patrice Lafarge’s house. The geese by the dam nearby made a scandal as he parked near the main entrance. The door opened and Justine came outside.

Oh, good day, Père Cavalier! she exclaimed as she recognised him. I heard the geese announcing the arrival of someone, but I couldn’t imagine that it was you. Shall I fetch Monsieur Patrice?

No, my child, the priest replied gravelly. I came here to see you.

To see me? What on earth for?

Perhaps you will allow me to sit down before I broach the subject?

Yes, of course! I completely forgot my manners. She turned and led the way inside to the kitchen. Would you like a little glass of wine?

I wouldn’t mind if I do, my child.

She fetched a bottle from last year’s harvest and poured the priest a glass before sitting down opposite him.

So tell me, why have you come?

The priest drank a good portion from the glass.

That was a good year, I can tell.

Only the best for our beloved priest.

My dear, I have come here with sad news, he said, his face taking on the appropriate sombre look. Yesterday, your mother passed away.

Justine put her hands over her mouth to prevent letting out a gasp. Tears glimmered in her eyes. The priest reached out across the coarse wooden table and gently patted her arm.

May her soul forever rest in peace, he offered before downing the remainder of the wine in the glass that Justine had served him.

*

The next day Justine, with a mournful expression and dressed from top to toe in black, travelled to the hospital where her mother had died aged forty-eight. Hospital was really a euphemism to cover up the true purpose of the institution: she had been treated in a home for the witless for the past twenty years.

The institution formed part of a large convent that was run by nuns with a charitable yet firm opinion regarding the rules by which life should be arranged. Their regimen certainly hadn’t helped Justine’s mother, but neither she nor her daughter had been aware of this circumstance.

Mother Superior Brigitte received the bereaved relative of the defunct and explained that the burial had already taken place according to the directives of the convent. She asked Justine to sign some papers. When Justine had complied, the mother superior handed over a parcel containing the remaining earthly belongings of the deceased.

Chapter III

Patrice Lafarge visits his attorney

It was Wednesday, the day Justine usually went into Bercy to visit the market for those articles Clos Saint-Jacques didn’t or couldn’t produce on its own. As she was preparing to leave to catch the omnibus that passed on the main road twice a day, she heard the horn of Monsieur Lafarge’s dilapidated van honk for her to hurry up.

When she climbed onboard she realised that Monsieur Lafarge was offering her a lift into town only because he was going there himself. It was unusual, to say the least. In all the years she had worked for him, he only went to Bercy or beyond when he found it absolutely necessary, and rare had been the occasion when he had offered to take her along.

Patrice Lafarge dropped off his housekeeper near the marketplace that came alive on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

Be here in two hours and I’ll give you a lift back, he shouted after her over the rattling noise of the engine.

Patrice continued another three streets before turning a corner. He parked his utility van outside a two-floor stone building that announced it as the residence of Hervé Bonnard, attorney, rang the bell and was immediately allowed inside.

Hervé, thanks for receiving me, Patrice said as he shook hands with the giant who he counted as one of his only three surviving friends. I expect you have the papers in order now.

Hervé indicated a chair for Patrice to be seated, and called out for his housekeeper to bring them coffee.

Yes, I have all the elements incorporated in the documents, ready for you to sign, Patrice, Hervé replied as he sat down behind his desk. Your fidei-commissum, which is the legal term for the trust fund you want to set up, can be established at the bank as soon as the documents are signed. However, because this is not an ordinary testament, you do have to go to the notary’s office in Annecy to get it officially registered. I’ve made you two copies, one that you may sign now, if you wish, with my housekeeper Anne and myself as witnesses, which would be your copy to keep.

Let’s go through the details first.

For the next hour and a half Patrice went through every clause in the document with Hervé patiently explaining the full meaning behind each sentence.

Are you sure you want to go through with this? Hervé said when they reached the end. Your children won’t like it, I’m sure.

I’ve never been more certain of anything in my whole life! Patrice boomed pounding the desk with his fist.

He was late by fifty minutes when he finally arrived to pick up Justine. In that time she could easily have reached Clos Saint-Jacques by foot. However, since her employer possessed a choleric temper that he flashed whenever he was confronted by something that was disagreeable to him, she preferred to keep her tongue. She climbed into the passenger seat, and Patrice Lafarge put the truck in forward gear. He seems unusually happy all of a sudden, she thought as she listened to him humming a popular song.

Next to her on the seat was a yellow manila envelope that she hadn’t noticed on their way to the village. It had Bercy’s sole attorney’s name and profession printed on the top left corner.

You went to see Monsieur Bonnard? she ventured to ask him as the old vehicle zigzagged around the many potholes on the dirt road.

Yes, Justine, he replied in a good mood. I’ve finally figured out what will happen to Clos Saint-Jacques when I’m no longer around to watch out for it. I’ll explain it to you, because there’s something I want you to do for me.

Justine was accustomed to hear Monsieur Lafarge addressing her in a rough manner. Now that he was speaking to her in a kind voice, she paid him more attention than usual.

Lately I’ve had a lot on my mind, he began. My birthday is approaching, which for years nobody has bothered to celebrate. But this year – yes, this year I want to celebrate it with my family again. Who knows how much time I have left? Now, I want you to call my children for a family reunion, long overdue, and you shall tell them it’s because of my upcoming birthday. Between you and me, the real reason is that I’ve finally come up with the solution to how my inheritance will be managed after I’m dead and buried.

When do you want them to come, monsieur? Justine asked.

This year my birthday is on the first Saturday in May. My desire is that they will all spend the weekend here with us! It would be the first time we would all be together since they left for city life … what – fifteen, twenty years ago.

I’ll call them and tell them to be here, monsieur, Justine confirmed. I’m convinced they’ll come. It will, after all, be a special occasion.

"But do make sure they understand that I want only my three children here! Mind you – no wives, so-called close friends or snotty grandchildren.

Upon returning to Clos Saint-Jacques, Justine was surprised to see her employer hurry into the kitchen, where their telephone hung on the wall. As someone who resented the advancement of technology, Monsieur Lafarge didn’t care for making his own phone calls – he usually charged Justine with these whenever they became necessary. Curious, she followed him into the kitchen where she put down her bags with groceries.

Not until Monday the sixth, you say? she overheard him say as she threw down the bags on the kitchen table. Then kindly reserve a meeting between the notary and myself on that or the following day. It’s a matter of urgency, you see.

As he left the kitchen, Justine wondered if the sudden urgency had anything to do with the manila envelope with Hervé Bonnard’s name printed on it.

Patrice sat down by the desk in one corner of his bedroom. He stared at the envelope with the only existing signed copy of his will inside. Perhaps I should have signed one or two additional witnessed copies, he thought, now that I can’t get to see the notary until after the weekend. Damn! All my children gathered here for the first time in twenty years, and I can’t get it notarised beforehand! When I tell them about the changes in my will, they won’t like it a bit … what if one of them goes through my desk while I’m out hunting or walking? Just to spite me because they won’t be able to convert Clos Saint-Jacques into money they’re desperate for, they may steal the will or burn it or destroy it some other way. I’d have to do the damn thing all over again, which in turn would delay my trip to Annecy to see the notary. No, I’d better keep my bedroom locked, just in case.

No matter how far-fetched the notion, once Patrice had decided that something needed to be done, he was stubbornly determined that it had to be carried out. The problem was that, years ago, he had lost the key-ring, which among other keys held those to his bedroom and his desk. With no one else but Justine and Gaspard living on the estate, he had never bothered to make the replacements. Besides, the only thing of value he possessed was Clos Saint-Jacques itself, so what was there to steal?

*

While tidying up after their luncheon, through the kitchen window Justine could see how Monsieur Patrice set off towards the cottage where Gaspard lived. As usual, he was surrounded by his four dogs. She watched him until he disappeared among the trees.

As Patrice reached the cottage in which Gaspard lived as part of his remuneration for working on Clos Saint-Jacques, Patrice heard his hammer resound against the anvil. The boy was always anxious to be a smith, Patrice thought as he strode across the littered yard. Suits me fine. Less mischief that way.

A nice day for some extra work, Gaspard, he greeted. There’s something I need you to do for me before the coming weekend.

Gaspard took off his cap and scratched his neck. Drops of sweat gleamed like dew on his forehead.

What is it that you need?

For a considerable time, I haven’t been able to find the key that fits the lock of my bedroom door. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but somehow it always slips my mind. So, I want you to remove the lock from my door and make a new key for it, do you understand? One single key, mind you. Can you do this?

I’ve never made a key before in my life, but I guess it shouldn’t be too difficult.

It’s important that I have the key working in the lock by Thursday evening next week, so you’d better get started.

Patrice abruptly turned around and left without another word.

I’ll do my best, Gaspard called out after him. Next Thursday it is.

As always Gaspard felt impotent anger well up inside because of the condescending way his father treated him.

Just having finished washing the dishes, Justine could see Monsieur Patrice returning towards the main building, before taking the path to the woods. She wondered what his business had been with Gaspard, who he always treated with such contempt. She felt convinced Monsieur Patrice did so because he had been obliged to accept his fatherhood when faced with overwhelming proof, although at first he had denied ever being within a stone’s throw of the mother. That Gaspard was at a disadvantage mentally hadn’t help to improve Patrice’s attitude.

Half an hour later she heard noises from the hallway. She found Gaspard kneeling by Monsieur Patrice's bedroom door while dismantling its lock with a large screwdriver.

What are you doing, Gaspard?

Father wants me to make a key for this lock, because he says the one that used to be here went missing.

A key? I didn’t know you can make keys?

So far I haven’t, but for everything there’s a first time.

*

That evening, Patrice Lafarge withdrew to his bedroom earlier than usual. After dinner in the large kitchen, it was his custom to spend a couple of hours in front of the fireplace reading a book. Tonight was different, and Justine suspected it had to do with his visit to the attorney.

Justine sat at the kitchen table reading by candlelight. It was a book that she had found in Monsieur Patrice’s extensive library. With a sigh she slammed it shut after finishing the last chapter.

She remained seated, staring into the flame of the candle she had placed directly on the ancient wooden table. Repeatedly, she extinguished and lit the candlelight, dropping the used matches back into the matchbox. Justine thought of her mother, who had died at such a young age. Not once had Monsieur Patrice bothered to visit her, despite her many years in his service.

Justine wondered what she should do with her life, now that Monsieur Patrice had pronounced that he suspected his own was coming to an end. What would become of her the day he was gone? Gaspard, she knew, could count on his share of the inheritance, but, despite the wealth he would receive, she doubted that he would make do without the supervision of someone like Monsieur Patrice. It was more likely that he would be tricked into losing his inheritance to someone more astute.

As for herself, where could she go once Monsieur Patrice was dead? She could look for work at some other farm or winery in the vicinity, of course, but after all the years of running Clos Saint-Jacques, she perceived these prospects dismal.

The grandfather clock in the drawing room struck nine. Justine felt more depressed than ever as the evening proceeded. When the time was up for Monsieur Patrice, she was convinced that he would leave her unprotected. She depended on him for her livelihood, and her only hope was that he wouldn’t die any time soon.

Chapter IV

The preparations for Patrice Lafarge’s seventy-fifth birthday

Justine began her task of calling Patrice Lafarge’s children as instructed by their father. They lived scattered in different corners of France, far from the village where they had been born. The first one she talked to was Henri, a bachelor who lived in Lyon. Although she wasn’t familiar with the details of his financial situation, he had always given her the impression of being near constant ruin. Henri called his father regularly, and by overhearing the conversation through no fault of her own, Justine knew that Henri was always in want of money for some reason or other. Grudgingly his father eventually accepted Henri’s long-winded explanations and rode into town the following day to wire him the requested money.

Monsieur Henri, your father has asked me to tell you he wishes your presence on the first weekend in May.

Yes, Justine, but I’m not sure I’ll be available … what's the purpose of the invitation?

It’s his seventy-fifth birthday, have you forgotten? Justine replied quietly.

Well, to be honest … yes, I had.

And he has something important to tell you and your brother and sister about his testament.

Why didn’t you say so from the beginning, Justine? Henri replied. Of course I’ll come. When do you want me to be there?

Please come on Friday May the third, as early as possible. There is one more thing …

Yes, Justine?

Aware as I am of your father's needs, maybe you’d allow me to suggest what he’d appreciate from his son … as a birthday present, I mean?

A present? For his birthday … yes, of course! By all means. What do you think he’d like to get from the fair city of Lyon?

"I know that you and Monsieur Patrice share the same interest in literature, and we have books stacked all over the house just waiting to be sorted and accommodated like a proper library. So I was thinking, since you – from what I understand – are a merchant in these things, maybe you could make Monsieur Patrice a nice-looking bookcase as his gift.

Oh, that is really a good idea, my dear Justine, Henri replied delighted. I know just the thing! Thank you for telling me.

After finishing her call to Henri, she dialled the number to his elder brother Michel’s office. Michel Lafarge was a successful wine merchant in Bordeaux who, besides arranging the sales of his father and father-in-law’s wine production, also handled exports of French spirits, such as Armagnac and assorted liqueurs. A secretary took her call. Justine had to wait a good five minutes before Michel came on the line.

This is Michel Lafarge speaking. His voice came across as cool and arrogant.

Monsieur Michel, this is Justine, your father’s housekeeper. He has instructed me to ask you to come to Clos Saint-Jacques for the weekend starting May the third. It’s his birthday on the fourth, as you may recall.

Yes, of course I remember. I will talk to my wife and children –

I was told by Monsieur Patrice that he wanted only you and your brothers and sister present, Justine interrupted him. As I understand it, there’s some important information about his will that he wants to talk to you about.

His will? Oh, I see! Michel’s voice suddenly sounded enthusiastic. Very good. I’ll be delighted to go.

Perhaps you don’t mind if I suggest that you bring a couple of bottles of your best Armagnac as a gift? He always speaks so highly of it, and I’m sure he would appreciate your gesture.

Armagnac? Of course, a splendid idea! Michel replied. Thank you for suggesting it.

After her conversation with Michel, Justine repeatedly tried to call Constance, who had left for Paris to work as a music hall artist. When the children had been young, Constance had been Patrice’s favourite. She had been able to make her father promise him anything she fancied. Then, at twenty-one, she had left for the glamour in the capital and had rarely been in contact with her father, except when she was low on money. Although she had disappointed Patrice on many occasions, he still had a weak spot for her.

At one thirty in the afternoon, Constance finally picked up the phone.

Yes, hello? Her sleepy voice made Justine suspect that she had just got out of bed.

Mademoiselle Constance, this is Justine who takes care of your father’s household.

Has anything happened to him, Justine? Her voice was matter-of-fact and not at all alarmed.

On the contrary, Justine assured her. Your father has asked me to call you and your brothers to come for his birthday on the weekend starting on May the third.

Is it his birthday again … how time flies. It’s going to be difficult for me to go to Bercy, though, since I have this engagement at Moulin Rouge … Justine heard her finishing the sentence with a yawn.

Seventy-five years this time. Your father’s not getting any younger, he claims, and he told me that he wants to announce some important things about his will.

His will? Well … maybe I can ask one of my girlfriends to stand in for me for a couple of nights. I would have to go back no later than Sunday afternoon, however.

Monsieur Patrice will be delighted. May I propose something, should you wish to bring him a gift for his birthday?

Please do. Constance yawned again. What did you have in mind?

Lately he has on occasion mentioned that he would like one of those fashionable, fluffy morning gowns that seem to be so popular in the capital –

I know exactly what you mean, Justine – I’m wearing one of them at this very moment, Constance purred. Thank you for suggesting it to me. Rest assured I’ll take it into consideration.

*

After making the phone calls, she entered her own bedroom, which could only be accessed from the kitchen. She removed the key from the lock and studied it. Surely it’s a key like this one that Monsieur Patrice asked Gaspard to make, she pondered. Gaspard wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to make one that fitted into the lock. She decided to show her key to him.

Monsieur Patrice had gone for a walk in the woods with his dogs despite the chilly weather and the cloudy sky that promised rain. Justine put on her coat and, equipped with an umbrella just in case, set out on the path leading to Gaspard’s cottage. She found him sitting on a decrepit chair next to the little shed that served as his smithy. With his elbows on his knees, he was turning a block of iron over with his hands.

I've brought you something that may be of some help, Justine told him after they had greeted each other. Perhaps this key, which I presume is similar to the one Monsieur Patrice asked you to manufacture, may help you shape it.

She held out the key to her own bedroom door. Gaspard gave it a quick glance before returning his gaze to the object he was studying.

I’ve given it a try, Justine, but to no avail, he finally declared and looked up at her. I don’t understand locks, so I plan to take it to Monsieur Ricard at the hardware shop and ask him to make the key. Please, don’t tell father, though. He asked me ‘cause he thinks I’m good with my hands.

I see, she replied while she eyed the bits of scrap metal that lay scattered in the yard. Well, keep this key and show it to Monsieur Ricard. If it’s no help to you, at least it might give him an idea what the lost one looks like. Return it to me later, please.

I’ll walk into town tomorrow and talk with Monsieur Ricard about it.

Justine took a few steps forward and bent down to pick up a small metal object on the ground.

I know you work to keep things running at Clos Saint-Jacques, Gaspard, but is it really necessary to keep the place littered with things no longer of use to you?

I don’t mind. And sometimes I can reuse the things I’ve thrown out.

Have it your way, Gaspard, but don’t forget that Monsieur Patrice wants the key by Thursday.

I won’t forget, Gaspard replied, without looking up as Justine made her way back to the main building.

Chapter V

Henri Lafarge

Henri had remained in Bercy until he was twenty-three. His father often accused him of being the laziest of his offspring. Patrice had repeatedly told Henri that he never did anything productive that benefited Clos Saint-Jacques. Rarely did Henri bother to cushion his father’s disappointment in him by taking a walk together through his cherished woods.

There was one thing they shared, however, and that was their love of books. This forgiving trait in his son had made Patrice push him to study letters and literature at a university in Lyon. For its duration, he promised Henri to pay for his upkeep as well as his rent as a lodger with an elderly lady of standing who was a distant acquaintance of Patrice’s.

Three years later Patrice discovered that Henri had earlier abandoned his lodgings while continuing to receive the rent money from his father. After ten months in Lyon, Henri had moved in with a man fifteen years his senior, behaving as discreetly as possible so as not to scandalise the neighbours.

Patrice blew a fuse when he discovered that Henri lived with another man. To this must be added that he was even more upset over having been fooled for more than two years that he had paid a non-existent rent. He was convinced that the couple had wasted his money on things that could only meet with his total disapproval if they came to light. Patrice didn't tell Henri that he was aware of his relationship. In fact, he didn't speak to him at all for the next five years.

By 1935, Henri had been living with Rolf for ten years. Rolf was a German who, besides being diet and health fixated, was a ferocious nationalist despite having lived in France since the end of the Great War. Besides sharing their home, they happened to have the same birth date. Despite his burly and somewhat frightening appearance, Rolf had taken on the female role of their household. Rolf revelled in putting things in order, which was exactly what Henri – a distracted dreamer, with much to be desired when it came to carrying out practical things – needed.

Henri had got to know Rolf one foggy winter afternoon when he had stumbled inside Rolf’s establishment, Le Moulin de Molière, on a narrow street in the old quarters of Lyon. It was a combination of café, bookshop and market of old items that he somewhat boldly referred to as antiques. Henri immediately fell in love with the place, and Rolf with him.

Henri´s most persistent childhood memory was the constant shadow of his father. Patrice had urged him to participate in physical activities, which he had always disliked. Before becoming a teenager, he was obliged to accompany him to kill furry animals in the woods, an activity he still abhorred. Henri had been beaten when he didn’t produce the expected marks at the end of the school terms. Before finally fleeing Clos Saint-Jacques, he only remembered a home with impositions and fear.

When his father suggested that Henri should pursue literature at the university in Lyon, Henri felt great relief. The distance improved their relationship considerably, with Henri sending his father interesting essays about the authors he was studying. This ended when Patrice discovered that he had been fooled about the rent money.

Things came to a head between father and son. Their relationship remained strained for another five years, after which they returned to speaking terms. Once again, their love for literature healed the rift. Henri started sending his father a book now and then; one he perceived would be to Patrice’s liking.

Henri enjoyed browsing the homes of the deceased as he worked with Rolf to obtain more business for Le Moulin de Molière. Disinterested relatives saw the old books and worn furniture as something they wanted to get rid of, to quickly be able to dispose of the living space. Rolf showed Henri what he should be looking for and, after a couple of years Henri had become quite proficient at appreciating what was commercial. The indolence of his youth never left him, however. On the contrary, it became more pronounced with time. If it was up to Henri, he preferred to be curled up on his favourite sofa in the company of a good book and Rolf’s German shepherd by his feet. Sniffing out lucrative deals that presented themselves with the inevitable passing of Lyon’s citizens was never a priority for Henri.

Though Rolf constantly chided him for not taking more interest in their business to improve their precarious economy, it was to no avail. Both were equally inefficient in planning or saving their occasional windfall for a rainy day. Instead, when they succeeded in making an important sale, they immediately decided it called for a celebration with their friends. They promptly invited them to a party, on which they generously spent their recently earned money.

Nevertheless, despite being cash-strapped most of the time, both Henri and Rolf were reasonably happy. That is, until Claude entered their lives. Claude was an intelligent young man, merely twenty-three years old, for whom Henri felt a desperate passion five minutes after he crossed the threshold to Le Moulin de Molière for the first time. He had black curly hair accentuated by the clearest blue eyes Henri had ever locked his gaze into. Besides being perceptive, Claude was well read and witty. As they got to know one another, he made both Henri and Rolf laugh a lot. It didn’t take too long, however, before Rolf allowed his jealousy to show. Henri was daydreaming about leaving Lyon to live with Claude in the south of France. For this to happen, he knew he needed to come into money of his own and no longer depend economically on Rolf, sole owner of Le Moulin de Molière.

Thus was the situation when Henri got the call from Justine that his father insisted he should come to celebrate his birthday, and that something important about his will would be revealed.

Chapter VI

Michel Lafarge

Up to this point in his life, when he had reached thirty-seven, Michel was reasonably content with the ways things had worked in his favour.

At eighteen he had left Bercy for good, since he then still possessed the weaker of two strong temperaments – the other being his father’s. Fed up with his Patrice’s scorn and bullying, on a rainy Thursday in April Michel used part of his savings to take the train to Lyon. There he had changed for the next one going in the direction of the Atlantic coast, because he longed to see the ocean for the first time.

That is how he ended up in Bordeaux, a large port that from the first day to the present never had ceased to enthral him. The bustling harbour, the sailors on temporary leave, the seedy bars, the rich merchants, the nicely dressed women with their umbrellas and their handkerchieves captivated Michel. But, more than anything else, it was the wine trade that fascinated him.

He was lucky, because on his second day in the city he found a sign that indicated a need for manual help in a warehouse. He applied and instantly got the job. It consisted of offloading and loading cases of wine bottles destined for export. The business belonged to a merchant by the name of Serge Dupois.

At first he was much impressed with his employer. However, with the passing years he realised that Monsieur Dupois was a rather mediocre businessman – particularly when compared to Michel’s uncle, Roland Lafarge, who distributed spirits in the same city on a much larger scale.

Michel was ambitious, so – despite his insight that Monsieur Dupois wasn’t the most successful among the merchants in Bordeaux – he began courting his daughter and only child, Sophie. It could hardly be called a difficult task, because Sophie hadn’t been blessed with the traits that attracted suitors. She was rather mousy, not very intelligent and – to the despair of her father – a carbon copy of her mother. When Michel began to show an interest in the girl, three years his senior, Serge Dupois embraced the prospect of being able to marry her off before she became a hopeless case of spinsterhood. With his calculating personality, Michel envisioned himself promoted to a better position, with a generous raise of his salary and unexpected time off to allow him to pursue romantic involvement with the now desperately enamoured Sophie.

Michel boldly bared his soul to Monsieur Dupois. He insisted that he didn’t deserve his boss’s only daughter since he was a mere clerk with nothing to offer her regarding financial security and future prospects. After some skilful negotiation on Michel’s part, his future father-in-law gave his relieved blessing to the match. Michel was furthermore assured that, once he was married to Sophie, the couple would settle down in a pretty house in the suburbs as their wedding gift. More important to Michel, however, was the opportunity to become a manager of his future father-in-law’s business – now reporting directly to Monsieur Dupois.

The first seven years of their marriage worked out to the content of all those involved. The couple produced three children to the pleasure of their maternal grandparents. Sophie delighted in dull domestic and menial activities, and Michel successfully pursued the advantages his managerial position allowed him.

After celebrating his thirtieth birthday, Michel found himself increasingly bored with the life he had pursued. He perceived his wife as a sack of potatoes once he noticed how rapidly she had physically become to resemble one. It was impossible to have an intelligent conversation with her. Sophie only dwelled on topics that involved small talk of no interest, and worse, she kept repeating the issues until he thought he would go mad.

No wonder, then, that Michel began painting the town in search of more captivating company. He had two temporary liaisons before he met the beautiful and vivacious Juliette Sinclair, a young woman with dimples and an air of importance with whom he rapidly became love-struck.

Juliette considered herself as an aristocrat, although the truth was that some distant ancestors of hers had been gentry. She nevertheless possessed the gift of keeping the besotted lover at bay while occasionally hinting at the rewards he would reap if he could make a successful conquest.

At the cost of his family life, his previously untroubled sleep and his sound finances, Juliette Sinclair turned his life upside down. Such was his infatuation with her that he no longer cared about the things that previously had driven him, and which he regarded as sacred: the money, his children, the opinion of others. His dwindling resources as a result of the secret life with Juliette and her eccentric demands of costly proofs that he really loved her had him deeply worried. For each day that passed, it looked as if the last straw he would be clinging to for economic survival was his father's death. He was fully aware that it would benefit him greatly if this would occur sooner rather than later. When it eventually happened, Michel knew that he would financially be in the clear again.

Then, in late April 1935, he received a phone call from Justine. His father wanted to meet with his children to celebrate his seventy-fifth birthday but also to announce some important detail in his testament. It was only the latter part of Justine’s communication that caught Michel’s attention. He had no interest whatsoever in celebrating anything concerning his father, a man he had detested all his life.

This will be a great opportunity to take Juliette with me, he thought as he hung up. I’ll have a perfect explanation for my father-in-law, and surely I’ll be able to extend the weekend under some pretext. Besides, Serge will no doubt be enchanted about the prospect that the day of my inheritance is approaching.

Chapter VII

Constance Lafarge

Initially, life in Paris had been good to Constance, but when her main attraction – that is, her youth – began to fade, her existence became increasingly more challenging.

She possessed a passable voice and could follow a choreographer’s direction without major mistakes. This had given her bit parts in musical productions during her first time in the capital. Through acquaintances in show business, Constance landed roles as a supporting actress in two popular comedies. After this, her ambition had been to move higher up the ladders of fame and fortune, but she found it difficult to compete for the jobs available.

Those first years in Paris she had spent exploring its nightlife frolicking with likeminded colleagues. It never passed through her head that she should save some of her income for more difficult times. During the days she slept, more often than not in the arms of a co-worker. As the work became scarcer, she had to resort to finding extra work elsewhere. Since she had an affinity for the nightlife atmosphere, she worked as an usher and a hatcheck girl until finally ending up selling cigarettes from a tray dressed in a uniform that showed her legs at an advantage. Despite her shapely legs, the passing years had made it harder to get men interested in her. That is, until she met Alphonse.

Alphonse was six years younger than Constance. Although she never suspected it, he was more interested in a place to sleep than sharing her bed. She soon discovered that Alphonse was insatiable in every respect. Not only between the sheets but also in his demands for gifts, cash loans immediately forgotten, long meals in expensive restaurants and rounding the nights off in bars where liquor flowed freely. Since Alphonse never had a franc to his name, he expected Constance to pamper him without complaints. She did so, desperately clinging to their fragile relationship because she was afraid to once again be abandoned and end up alone.

Occasionally she went back to Bercy to see her father and – as she’d done so often as a little girl – to twist him around her little finger with words he liked to hear. She indulged him by doing things he enjoyed, such as walking through his beloved woods and patting