scrabbled wildly in the icy slush until its forelegs plunged through a breach, imprisoning its body.
“What a buffoon,” Jacques said to Alexandre. “He hit him in the abdomen. That’s not going to do anyone any good.”
The piqueux fired a third shot, another clear miss. Jacques snorted, loud enough to turn some heads.
The men with the boat made good progress, scuttling along on their knees, one hand on the gunwale of the boat, the other on the ice. The ice crackled under their weight but held.
At the fourth shot the deer collapsed and fell over at a forty-five-degree angle, supported by his legs trapped in the hole. Capucine fervently hoped he was dead and not just stunned. At the same moment the ice around the boat gave way and the two men jumped in, soaking wet. A pair of oars appeared and one man began rowing. The ice was so thin that it broke easily at each stroke of the oars. The second paysan sat primly in the stern, his weight raising the bow out of the water, creating a perfect icebreaker.
As the dinghy approached the deer, the surrounding ice fractured and the animal began to sink. The men just managed to secure a loop of rope around its antlers, hauled the deer fast against the stern of the dinghy, and began to row back. The emotions on the bridge were ambivalent, the relief of success tainted by the pathos of the scene.
On the town side of the lake the crowd had grown considerably and seemed to have split around two distinct focal points. Even though they were a good five hundred yards away, it was clear that while most of the spectators seemed riveted on the boat towing the dead deer, a smaller group seemed interested in something on the ground. Capucine saw two gendarmes approach at a run.
She nudged Jacques, who understood immediately. The two cousins jumped on their bicycles and pedaled off at speed. Alexandre, who had missed the exchange, hesitated and then followed at his sedate pace, his bicycle squeaking loudly.
Capucine’s worst fears were confirmed. The crowd was huddled around the supine body of a man. Three gendarmes had given up the effort to keep them at a distance. This time they recognized Capucine as she pushed through, and they straightened up, saluting smartly.
A man was lying on the gravel at the edge of the lake, his sweater soaked in blood, an all-too-familiar black hole gaping in the middle of his chest.
CHAPTER 14
A dank gloom weighed heavily over the dinner table that night. The dining room seemed damper; the Réveillon wallpaper seemed to peel more severely; the root vegetable soup seemed more bland. Even Jacques was despondent.
It turned out that the man who had been shot had worked at the élevage. Oncle Aymerie had learned from Vienneau that he was a native of the village who had been a hand at the élevage for close to fifteen years. Even though the latest death supported Oncle Aymerie’s suspicions, he seemed more depressed than vindicated. Capucine suspected he felt he was letting “his” village down since he was unable to stay the malignant tide.
The minute they rose from the table, Oncle Aymerie shuffled off to his room and Alexandre, Capucine, and Jacques made for the library to seek what solace the château’s cave could provide.
Capucine moodily prodded the logs in the fireplace back into flame. “Three deaths in a month does seem a bit much, even at what Alexandre persists in calling the marchland of French civilization.”
Jacques had his head deep in a cabinet under the bookshelves, noisily shuffling the stock of liqueurs. “Urrrmfllll!” he said, his voice muffled by the enclosure and drowned out by the loud tintinnabulation of the clinking bottles.
“Got it! This will cheer us up. Alexandre, it’s going to be your saint’s day.” Jacques proudly held up a bleach bottle with a faded antique label.
“What I was saying, my shapely little cousin, is that I wouldn’t be too hasty assuming these are murders. Don’t forget that our beloved
“What a buffoon,” Jacques said to Alexandre. “He hit him in the abdomen. That’s not going to do anyone any good.”
The piqueux fired a third shot, another clear miss. Jacques snorted, loud enough to turn some heads.
The men with the boat made good progress, scuttling along on their knees, one hand on the gunwale of the boat, the other on the ice. The ice crackled under their weight but held.
At the fourth shot the deer collapsed and fell over at a forty-five-degree angle, supported by his legs trapped in the hole. Capucine fervently hoped he was dead and not just stunned. At the same moment the ice around the boat gave way and the two men jumped in, soaking wet. A pair of oars appeared and one man began rowing. The ice was so thin that it broke easily at each stroke of the oars. The second paysan sat primly in the stern, his weight raising the bow out of the water, creating a perfect icebreaker.
As the dinghy approached the deer, the surrounding ice fractured and the animal began to sink. The men just managed to secure a loop of rope around its antlers, hauled the deer fast against the stern of the dinghy, and began to row back. The emotions on the bridge were ambivalent, the relief of success tainted by the pathos of the scene.
On the town side of the lake the crowd had grown considerably and seemed to have split around two distinct focal points. Even though they were a good five hundred yards away, it was clear that while most of the spectators seemed riveted on the boat towing the dead deer, a smaller group seemed interested in something on the ground. Capucine saw two gendarmes approach at a run.
She nudged Jacques, who understood immediately. The two cousins jumped on their bicycles and pedaled off at speed. Alexandre, who had missed the exchange, hesitated and then followed at his sedate pace, his bicycle squeaking loudly.
Capucine’s worst fears were confirmed. The crowd was huddled around the supine body of a man. Three gendarmes had given up the effort to keep them at a distance. This time they recognized Capucine as she pushed through, and they straightened up, saluting smartly.
A man was lying on the gravel at the edge of the lake, his sweater soaked in blood, an all-too-familiar black hole gaping in the middle of his chest.
CHAPTER 14
A dank gloom weighed heavily over the dinner table that night. The dining room seemed damper; the Réveillon wallpaper seemed to peel more severely; the root vegetable soup seemed more bland. Even Jacques was despondent.
It turned out that the man who had been shot had worked at the élevage. Oncle Aymerie had learned from Vienneau that he was a native of the village who had been a hand at the élevage for close to fifteen years. Even though the latest death supported Oncle Aymerie’s suspicions, he seemed more depressed than vindicated. Capucine suspected he felt he was letting “his” village down since he was unable to stay the malignant tide.
The minute they rose from the table, Oncle Aymerie shuffled off to his room and Alexandre, Capucine, and Jacques made for the library to seek what solace the château’s cave could provide.
Capucine moodily prodded the logs in the fireplace back into flame. “Three deaths in a month does seem a bit much, even at what Alexandre persists in calling the marchland of French civilization.”
Jacques had his head deep in a cabinet under the bookshelves, noisily shuffling the stock of liqueurs. “Urrrmfllll!” he said, his voice muffled by the enclosure and drowned out by the loud tintinnabulation of the clinking bottles.
“Got it! This will cheer us up. Alexandre, it’s going to be your saint’s day.” Jacques proudly held up a bleach bottle with a faded antique label.
“What I was saying, my shapely little cousin, is that I wouldn’t be too hasty assuming these are murders. Don’t forget that our beloved
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