The Ghost Riders of Ordebec (Commissaire Adamsberg) by Fred Vargas Page B

for Lina. Like I said, she’s cunning. Her brothers are too, though they’re all damaged in some way.’
    They had arrived at the highest point in Ordebec, from where one could see the little town and its fields. The capitaine pointed to the east.
    ‘The Vendermot house,’ he said. ‘The shutters are open, they must be up and doing. Léo’s statement can wait, I’m going over to talk to them. When Lina isn’t there, it’s easier to get the brothers to talk. Especially the one made of clay.’
    ‘Made of clay?’
    ‘You heard. Crumbly clay. Believe me, just get on the train and forget them. If there’s one thing that’s true about the Chemin de Bonneval, it’s that it can drive people nuts.’

IX
    On the hill overlooking Ordebec, Adamsberg found a wall in the sun, and sat down on it cross-legged. He took his shoes and socks off, and gazed at the pale green rolling hills, the cows standing like statues in the fields as if they were landmarks. It was perfectly possible that Émeri was right, quite on the cards that Herbier had shot himself in the head, having been terrified by the arrival of the dark horsemen. True, aiming a shotgun at yourself from several centimetres away didn’t make a lot of sense. It would be more sure and more natural to put the barrel in your mouth. Unless, that is, as Émeri had suggested, Herbier wanted to make some kind of expiatory gesture. Killing himself like he did the animals, shooting himself full in the face. But was that man capable of remorse, of a guilty conscience? Above all, was he someone who could be scared by the Riders to the point of suicide? Well, yes. The black cavalcade with its mutilated and stinking corpses had been roaming the region of Ordebec for centuries. It had dug deep pits into which anyone, even the most sensible, might suddenly tumble and remain captive.
    A message from Zerk told him that Hellebaud was now drinking water without help. Adamsberg took a few seconds to recall that that was the name of the pigeon. There were also several messages from the squad: analysis had confirmed the presence of breadcrumbs in the throat of the victim, Tuilot, Lucette, but none in her stomach. It was a clear-cut case of murder. The little girl with the gerbil was recovering in the hospital in Versailles, and the so-called great-uncle had regained consciousness andwas now under guard. Retancourt had sent a more alarming text message, in capital letters: MOMO QUESTIONED, CHARGES IMMINENT, WE HAVE ID OLD MAN IN CAR, BIG SCANDAL, CALL BACK SOONEST.
    Adamsberg felt a prickling at the back of his neck, a feeling of irritation, perhaps one of the little bubbles of electricity Émeri had talked about. He rubbed his neck as he called Danglard’s number. It was 11 a.m. and the commandant ought to be at his desk. A bit early for him to be operational, but he ought to be there.
    ‘What are you still doing out in the sticks?’ Danglard asked in his usual grumpy morning voice.
    ‘They found the hunter’s body yesterday.’
    ‘Yes, I saw about that. And it’s none of our business. Get out of that goddam grimweld before it swallows you up. There’s trouble here. Émeri can manage perfectly well without us.’
    ‘He’d certainly like to. He’s OK, not uncooperative, but he wants me back on the next train. He thinks it’s suicide.’
    ‘That would be good news for him. Best outcome really.’
    ‘Yes. But this old woman Léo, whose house I stayed in, was convinced it was murder. She is to the town of Ordebec what a sponge is to water. She’s been absorbing everything for eighty-eight years.’
    ‘And when you squeeze her, she tells you?’
    ‘Squeeze her?’
    ‘Like a sponge.’
    ‘No, she’s careful, not a gossip, Danglard. She takes seriously the butterfly wing that moves in New York and causes an explosion in Bangkok.’
    ‘Did she say that?’
    ‘No, that was Émeri.’
    ‘Well, he’s wrong. It’s in Brazil that the butterfly moves its wing, and it causes a