Bruno and the Carol Singers: A Christmas Mystery of the French Countryside

  Martin Walker has created a delightful, internationally acclaimed series of mysteries featuring Bruno, chief of police of the small French village of St. Denis.

  “A gentle reminder to slow down and smell the grapes” says The New York Times Book Review.

  In this exclusive eBook, St. Denis is experiencing its coldest winter in years—bringing the promise of snow and shared chocolats chauds in the village’s cafés—and Bruno, chief of police, is occupied with his Christmastime duties. From organizing carolers to playing Father Christmas for the local schoolchildren, Bruno has his hands full … at least until some funds raised for charity go missing. Then it’s up to Bruno to save the day (and perhaps manage a Christmas miracle) in this charming holiday installment of Martin Walker’s internationally best-selling mystery series.

  THIS IS A BORZOI EBOOK ORIGINAL

  PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright © 2012 by Walker and Watson PLC

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eISBN: 978-0-385-35031-0

  Jacket design by Jason Booher

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Bruno and the Carol Singers

  A Note About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  The last market day before Christmas in the small French town of St. Denis was unusually cold. In the main square and all along the rue de Paris, stallholders stamped their feet and blew on their chilled hands as the customers thronged for their festive ducks and geese and turkeys. Young men made jokes about global warming, and the older ones sniffed and said this was nothing; they recalled years when families had slept with the cows and livestock for their body heat. From a steel-blue sky the pale sun of December tried valiantly to give some memory of warmth. Ducks waddled over the thickening ice along the banks of the river Vézère, and a man dressed as Santa Claus emerged from the mairie to post on the town’s official notice board an announcement of free firewood for the elderly.

  In his usual spot by the stone steps to the upper square, grand-père Pagnol in a Russian-style fur cap was doing a roaring trade in roasted chestnuts. Shoppers clustered around his brazier for a little heat, while Pagnol cheerfully warned them all that weather such as this meant that snow was coming and they could look forward to a white Christmas.

  Bruno Courrèges, the town’s chief of police, usually felt slightly embarrassed when he dressed as Father Christmas. Today, however, he was grateful for the false beard that protected much of his face against the chill. He greeted the crowd around Pagnol’s brazier before climbing the steps to shake hands and kiss the cheeks of the small band of choristers who were about to launch another of Bruno’s experiments.

  A woman he recognized only by her eyes avoided the beard and kissed him fondly on the lips. Her striking red-bronze hair was hidden under a beret of white angora wool. This was Pamela, known affectionately by the town as the Mad Englishwoman, although she was really a Scot and hardly mad. She had told him, on one of those agreeable if infrequent nights when he was privileged to share her bed, that there were three things she missed about Christmas in her homeland. The first was snow, which she now seemed likely to see. The second was a proper Christmas pudding with brandy butter and a sixpenny piece hidden inside, whose annual discovery had always been one of the treats of her childhood. The third was singing Christmas carols in the open air, and this Bruno had been able, with a little diplomacy, to arrange.

  Calling on the church choir for volunteers and fleshing out the numbers with some of the English families who lived in the district, he had persuaded Fabrice to provide the music. The young man, who played accordion at the rugby club dances, had provided himself with gloves that left his fingers free. But he complained that his hands were still too cold to play. Bruno nodded with understanding and shepherded the entire choral group down to stand on the steps. He positioned Fabrice in pride of place beside Pagnol’s glowing brazier and signaled Father Sentout, looking even more rotund than usual with the extra clothing he was wearing under his soutane, to begin.

  “Vive le Vent” was the first, suitably jaunty number. To Bruno’s ears it was all the more interesting because the English contingent had insisted on singing the “Jingle Bells” lyrics they knew. During rehearsals, Bruno had been delighted to learn that most of the French carols had their English equivalents and each nationality seemed happier singing its own version. So “Silent Night” also became “Douce Nuit” and “Viens, Peuple Fidèle” was twinned with “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.” With the unexpected inclusion in the choir of Horst, a German professor of archaeology who kept a house in St. Denis, “Mon Beau Sapin” became both “O Christmas Tree” and “O Tannenbaum.” This, thought Bruno, was how Europe ought to be, with everyone happily singing the same tune in their own tongue.

  As the choir launched energetically into “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” to which the French sang “Le P’tit Renne au Nez Rouge,” Bruno waved the Red Cross collection can at all the passersby and cheered loudly at the end of each carol. Pretty soon he was using the coins in the tin as maracas to beat time. People had to stop him to put money in. More and more of them crowded around to do so, which meant that Bruno’s experiment was a success. And grand-père Pagnol had never done such business.

  There was little in his work that gave Bruno greater pleasure than to organize and cajole his townsfolk into doing things together, particularly events that brought the various nationalities into a common venture. And now another country was represented. Standing between Pamela and Florence in the front row was a new face. Even the woolen cap and scarf could not conceal the sultry Mediterranean looks of Miriam. A Lebanese Christian and a devout churchgoer, Miriam had recently arrived in town to take a job as a dental hygienist. She had a young son who had enrolled in Bruno’s rugby class and already showed promise. Delighted at her regular attendance at mass, Father Sentout had swiftly recruited her for the choir and given her the starring role in his choice for the finale, the ancient Latin hymn “Gaudete.”

  Relieved at ceasing to play his accordion, Fabrice thrust his chilled hands close to the brazier. The choir launched into the chorus of the a cappella song and then Miriam’s pure soprano soared alone into the wintry air:

  “Mundus renovatus est, a Christo regnante.”

  Petite and slightly plump, with flashing dark eyes and a great mass of shiny dark hair imperfectly prisoned in rolls and buns, Miriam was a woman with a burden. Bruno did not know its origin, but few could miss her air of sadness. Father Sentout had warmed to her, and Florence and Pamela in the choir had taken her under their respective wings. Fabiola, the doctor who rented one of Pamela’s gîtes, had struck up a friendship with her. But if any of them knew what ailed the young woman, they had chosen not to share it with Bruno.

  Now it seemed that her melancholy had lifted in the pleasure and fellowship of the singing. The rest of the carol singers surrounded her in congratulation. Old Pagnol, with a courtly bow, handed her the last of his chestn
uts. Richard, her son, glowed with pride as he darted from the sheltering skirts of Father Sentout’s housekeeper to hug his mother. The collection tin in Bruno’s hand grew heavy as the crowd showed its appreciation in euro coins and notes. The choir went off together to Fauquet’s café for hot chocolate and coffee rich with the scent of the dark Antilles rum that Fauquet favored. Bruno stayed on in the market until his can was too full to rattle.

  Bruno was heading to join them in the café when his phone vibrated. The incoming message was terse and official, from the Préfecture de Police in Paris, asking him to confirm receipt of a fax. He went directly to his office, hung up his Father Christmas suit and replaced it with his uniform jacket and trousers. The black robe hanging on the rail reminded him that he had to ask his friend the baron if he might play the role of Père Fouettard at the church service on Christmas Day.

  Like many other towns in the Périgord, St. Denis had hosted large numbers of refugees during World War II. Most had come from Alsace after 1940, when the conquering German armies had deported all inhabitants of French stock. Some had married locally and stayed; others had taken new wives or husbands home to Alsace after the war. These family connections ensured that the two regions remained close. Towns were twinned, schools exchanged visits and some traditions remained. Along with a fondness for the wines of Alsace and choucroute, St. Denis had adopted Père Fouettard. He was the black-clad companion to Father Christmas who carried a cane to punish children who had been naughty. These days, Father Christmas handed out the sweets, and Père Fouettard did the same with salted crackers, lemon drops and the Alsace delicacy called salmiak, a slightly bitter black licorice.

  The fax informed Bruno that a prisoner on parole named Jean-Pierre Bonneval, age thirty, had left his job and the special hostel where he was supposed to live until his sentence was complete. Bruno noted that the man had only four months left of a three-year term. The second paragraph made it clear why he was being informed. Bonneval’s divorced wife, Miriam, had moved with their son, Richard, to St. Denis. Bruno should report at once if the prisoner were to turn up. The final paragraph explained that Bonneval had been convicted of drug trafficking and smuggling.

  Christmas, Bruno thought to himself, was a time when a father might take risks to see his son, even if it meant a return to prison and more time added to his sentence.

  A second sheet was a poor but recognizable photograph of a fit-looking young man, full face and profile. He had neatly cut hair, clear eyes and likable features that seemed almost ready to break into a grin. That was odd, thought Bruno. Usually anybody in a police photo looks like a villain. Studying the image, Bruno reckoned Bonneval had the look of a rugby player and a face that seemed almost trustworthy. He could understand Miriam falling for the young man and even imagine himself enjoying a beer with him. He shook his head; a professional con man would probably have a similarly reassuring look.

  Bruno confirmed receipt of the fax and called the CIP, the Conseiller d’Insertion et de Probation, whose name, office and number in Paris were listed in the notes. A young woman’s voice answered the phone, giving her name. Bruno explained that as yet there had been no sign of the man, but he would visit Bonneval’s wife’s home and report back. Was there anything the probation officer could tell him that might be helpful?

  “He was at work when he found some way to break his electronic bracelet, and then he dropped off the radar screen,” she explained. “He had some sort of argument with his employer and disappeared.”

  It was routine to request checks on all family and connections when a prisoner disappeared, but the CIP added that this was an unusual case. Bonneval had been a model prisoner who had qualified for a special program of conditional release into civilian life. He was allowed to live in supervised accommodations and to work for an approved employer.

  “I see he had less than four months to go,” Bruno said. “Why would he go on the run at this point?”

  The CIP agreed that it was strange, adding that Bonneval had left her a phone message on the evening of his disappearance. He’d said he was sorry to let her down, but he was being cheated of his pay by his boss. He’d complained of this before, and he was not the first to do so.

  “The problem is to get any employers to agree to take prisoners on probation. Those who do so aren’t always ideal, and this one less than most,” she said. “But I thought I’d persuaded Jean-Pierre to stick it out.”

  By the end of the conversation, Bruno was on first-name terms with the CIP, Hélène, and established that she came from Brive-la-Gaillarde, less than an hour’s drive from St. Denis. She knew the Périgord region well. They exchanged cell phone numbers and she also gave him the number of her mother’s home in Brive, where she would be for Christmas. Her voice was eager with expectation when she said this.

  “You don’t sound like a gendarme,” she said, a hint of flirtation in her voice.

  “That’s because I’m not,” he replied, explaining that he was a municipal policeman, employed by the mayor of the town.

  By the time he reached Fauquet’s café, Miriam and her son and most of the choristers had left for lunch. Pamela sat at one of the small round tables, nursing her drink as Florence donned her coat, hat and gloves and prepared to leave.

  “That was a wonderful event,” he said, putting the collection box on the table and unscrewing the lid. “Now we have to count the donations before handing them over.”

  “I have to get back to the children,” said Florence, who had already become the treasurer of the local Red Cross, the secretary of the local branch of the Green Party and chorister as well as science teacher at the local collège. She was the kind of woman who’d probably be the first female mayor of St. Denis once her twins were grown up, Bruno thought.

  “If you’re home this afternoon, I can drop the money off or deposit it into your account, whichever you prefer,” Pamela said as Florence turned to leave.

  “Could you take it? I’m kind of pressed for time,” said Florence. Pamela nodded.

  With Bruno counting the coins and Pamela the notes, the total came to 217 euros and 63 cents. Then Bruno counted the notes and Pamela the coins. They beamed at each other as they confirmed the same figures. He put the money back into the can and sealed the lid.

  “That’s very good,” said Bruno. He knew from experience that a collection for charity usually took a great deal more effort to collect considerably less money. “Do you want me to take it to the bank for you?”

  “No, thanks,” Pamela replied. “You have that ‘on duty’ look as if you ought to be somewhere else, and it won’t take me a minute. Has something come up?”

  He nodded, without explaining. Pamela was discreet, but these things had a way of becoming known. It wouldn’t be fair to Miriam or her son if one of the first details the town learned of the new arrivals was that the boy’s father had been in prison. He kissed Pamela good-bye and made for his van.

  He’d already looked up Miriam’s address. It was a short drive to the hamlet a couple of kilometers out of town where she rented two rooms on the upper floor of a small house belonging to la veuve Madourin. Widowed for many years and with no children in the region, Madame Madourin probably welcomed the company as much as the rent. Upon arrival, Bruno noted the cheap new bicycle with its child seat fixed behind the saddle. Two helmets hung from the handlebars so he knew Miriam was at home. His knock on the door sent half a dozen chickens clucking and scuttling from the yard into a small outbuilding.

  As the door opened and Madame Madourin greeted him, Bruno’s phone rang. It was Pamela, sounding rushed and strained.

  “Bruno, I’ve been robbed, just outside the bank. The thief ran away up the backstreets toward the church.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, just a bit shocked.”

  “Stay where you are and I’ll be right with you,” he said.

  He quickly apologized to Madame Madourin, put two quick questions to her and raced back to his van, sca
ttering chickens all over again. With a final shout over his shoulder that he’d be back, Bruno leaped inside his van, biting his lip in impatience for the ten seconds it took for the diesel engine to start. He turned on his flashing blue light and hurried toward St. Denis, cursing himself for not insisting on escorting Pamela to the bank. At least he’d learned from the widow that there had been no visitors for Miriam and no strangers had been seen in the hamlet. He’d have to return later.

  This sort of casual street robbery just didn’t happen in St. Denis. Nearly everyone in the commune under the age of twenty-five had been in Bruno’s rugby or tennis classes. Not only did Bruno know them and their parents and uncles and aunts and siblings, but all the youngsters knew him. He’d driven them to sports events, shared their triumphs and failures and given them barbecues at his home at the end of each season. They’d grown up with him, and Bruno fervently believed that this was the finest crime prevention system he could devise. Many of them engaged in the usual youthful mischief, but theft, vandalism and criminal violence were unheard of in St. Denis. So the thief was a stranger, which meant there was one obvious suspect.

  As Bruno turned his van into the square, Pamela came out of the bank, where she’d been sheltering from the cold. She looked calm and unhurt.

  “I was going through the parking lot and somebody simply erupted at me from behind a car. He was quite tall and slim and moved like a young man. He must have been crouching in wait,” she began. “He grabbed the collection box, pushed me back so I fell against the side of a car and darted off. By the time I looked, he’d disappeared. All I remember is that he was wearing jeans and one of those black hooded jackets with a scarf over his face. I didn’t even see his eyes. It took me completely by surprise, and there was nobody else around. The people in the bank saw nothing.”

  Two hours later, after taking her statement, briefing Sergeant Jules at the gendarmerie and seeing Pamela home, Bruno was going from shop to shop along the rue de Paris. He showed the faxed photo of Jean-Pierre Bonneval, asking if anyone had seen the young man that morning, dressed in a black hooded jacket.