Page 44 of The French Wife

‘Of course!’ she said. ‘How about Friday evening? If you are able to stay? I’ll christen the cooker with a boeuf bourguignon or something, if you’d like to stay for supper that is?’

‘I’d love that!’ he said. ‘It’s a deal.’

She smiled at him, the awkwardness over.

‘Oh, I should have told you,’ he said. ‘Paul Brodin texted me this morning just before you got back. He said the guns have been checked over by their firearms experts.’

‘Does that mean I can have them back?’

‘I’m not sure. He didn’t say. It was a short text, just for information, he said.’

‘Thank you. I’ll go into the police station one day this week and talk to him about it.’

The next day, Emma decided to assemble all the evidence she had of Amélie and Bruno Garnier and the time they’d lived at Le Châtaignier. She took out the copies of the plans and documents she’d got from the mairie, the photographs she’d found in the drawer and the old maps they’d discovered in the cellar. There was also the suitcase radio, of course, which was in her bedroom, but which she intended to display in the living room once it was decorated. She thought about Madame Brodin and the judgemental way she’d talked about Amélie. There was something in the way she’d spoken that reminded Emma of the way the other mothers had treated her when she would drop in at the nursery on a flying visit; that look of pity mingled with disapproval. It was yet another thing that gave her a connection to Amélie. She understood how it felt to be judged.

If only Madame Brodin had told her more about what had prompted the townsfolk to take that attitude towards Amélie. From her expression and the look in her eyes in the photograph, Amélie appeared to be a kind, open, loving person. Whereas Bruno… he looked completely different. Emma picked up the grainy photograph of him directing his farmworkers in the vineyards and peered at it. She could tell so much about the man just from that one photo. The arrogant way he held himself, the imperious look on his face. Out of the two of them, surely it would have been Bruno the people of St Marie would have taken a dislike to?

She decided to drive into St Marie and buy some picture frames. She could combine the trip with dropping in to the police station. She could frame these old photographs and display them somewhere in the house. Perhaps in the kitchen. They would look good on the wall above the old range, where surely Amélie would have spent many hours cooking over the years she’d lived in the house.

Emma remembered the card in her handbag from the gallery that had displayed the watercolours at the marketplace. She would see if they sold ready-made frames and she’d be able to ask about the watercolours she’d found in the forester’s hut at the same time.

She drove into the town and parked in her usual spot. The gallery, Enigma Arts, was in one of the cobbled streets off the marketplace. The owner, a middle-aged blonde woman wearing a fashionable clinging red dress, greeted her warmly.

‘I remember you from the other day,’ the woman said. ‘You took one of my business cards at the market, didn’t you?’

Emma nodded. ‘What a brilliant memory,’ she said.

‘I’m Annette Bertrand,’ the woman said, holding out her hand.

‘Emma, Emma Hudson.’

They shook hands, then Emma took out the photographs to show Madame Bertrand, who studied them carefully.

‘These are wonderful,’ she said. ‘So atmospheric. I definitely have some frames that would suit them. Are they of local people?’

‘Yes. It’s the couple who once owned Le Châtaignier. That’s the farm I’ve recently bought. I’m trying to find out the history of the place, and as far as I can work out, they were the last owners. They were living there during the war, but I have no idea when they died or why they might have left.’

Madame Bertrand smiled. ‘People round here don’t like to talk about the war,’ she said. ‘The occupation was a very difficult time for the town. My grandmother is one of the few who is prepared to speak about it.’

‘Your grandmother?’

‘Yes. Suzette Vernay,’ she said. ‘Although her name was Lalouche before she married. She used to run the bakery on the Boulevard des Promenades and she still owns it, actually. Her parents bought it before the war, I believe. She has an incredible story to tell and I’m sure she would be happy to talk to you.’

‘That would be fantastic,’ Emma said, amazed her visit to the gallery had proved so fruitful. She glanced around admiringly at some of the art on display. Most looked to be by local artists, some were of the medieval fortress at Carcassonne, others of the Cathar castles in the Pyrenees towards Perpignan, and yet others of St Marie and the local area. But none were as striking as the paintings she’d seen on display at the market and those she’d found hanging in the tumbledown cabin.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ Annette Bertrand asked.

‘Yes, I was wondering about the paintings you had on display on your market stall the other day. They were watercolours of the area, but they looked to be very old.’

‘Ah yes, they’re on display upstairs,’ she replied. ‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they? Very skilfully done. Come on, I’ll show you. There are a few of them.’

Emma followed the other woman to the first floor, where there was another bright, white-painted gallery with a beamed ceiling. It was filled with those beautiful watercolours, just like the small ones she’d found in the cabin that now hung in her bedroom. They were all of recognisable places in and around St Marie; the abbaye, the medieval bridge, the market square, the cobbled streets and the surrounding mountains. Emma wandered around admiring them; the skill of the brushstrokes, the feel the artist clearly had for the local landscape, the startling accuracy of everything depicted. It was all so fresh-looking, it felt as though you could step into each living scene.

‘They’re simply beautiful,’ she said. ‘Do you know who the artist was? They’re unsigned.’

Annette Bertrand folded her arms and a defensive look crept into her eyes. ‘He never signed his pictures, I’m afraid, but we have an idea who he was. We don’t like to broadcast it, though, which is why I haven’t put a card naming him beside the paintings.’

‘Oh, really?’ Emma asked, surprised.