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Everyone turned. Marc’s godfather walked in, coolly poured himself a drink and greeted Madame Siméonidis. Sophia, on seeing him nearer to, decided that he wasn’t exactly Alexander the Great. He was very thin and held himself erect, so he looked taller than he really was. But then there was his face. A weathered kind of beauty that could still make an impression. There was no hardness in it, but chiselled outlines, an arched nose, irregular lips, hooded eyes and a direct gaze, everything required to seduce someone at first sight. Sophia looked at it with a connoisseur’s eye, mentally judging that face: intelligent, brilliant, gentle, perhaps treacherous. The older man ran his hand through his hair which was not grey, but black sprinkled with white and which he wore rather long so that it curled on his neck. He sat down. He had spoken. They would dig the hole. No-one thought to challenge him.

‘I’ve been listening at doors,’ he remarked. ‘Madame has been watching from windows. In my case it’s a reflex, and an old habit. It doesn’t bother me at all.’

‘Charming,’ said Lucien.

‘Madame is right on every point,’ Marc’s godfather went on. ‘You will have to dig.’

Marc stood up, embarrassed.

‘This is my uncle,’ he said, as if that could excuse the indiscretion. ‘My godfather. Armand Vandoosler. He lives here.’

‘And he likes to put his oar in everywhere,’ muttered Lucien.

‘Drop it, Lucien,’ said Marc. ‘It was in the contract: no comment.’

Vandoosler senior waved this away with a smile.

‘No need to get upset,’ he said. ‘Lucien isn’t wrong. I do like to put my oar in, as he puts it. Especially when I’m right. He does the same thing himself, even when he’s wrong.’

Marc, still standing, indicated with a look to his godfather that it might be a good idea if he absented himself, and that this conversation was none of his business.

‘No,’ said Vandoosler, looking at his nephew. ‘I have my reasons for staying.’

He looked from Lucien to Mathias, to Sophia and back to Marc.

‘It would be better if you told them the truth, Marc,’ he said, smiling.

‘This isn’t the moment. You really are winding me up,’ said Marc in a low voice.

‘It never will be the moment for you,’ said his uncle.

‘Alright, tell them yourself, if you’re so keen. It’s your dirty linen, not mine.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Lucien, waving his wooden spoon again. ‘Marc’s uncle is an ex-policeman, that’s all. That’s not going to keep us awake at night.’

‘And how do you know that?’ said Marc, wheeling round to face Lucien.

‘Oh, just a few little things I noticed when I was fixing the attics.’

‘Well, I see that everybody here goes prying into everyone else’s affairs,’ said Vandoosler.

‘You aren’t a proper historian if you don’t pry into people’s affairs,’ said Lucien with a shrug.

Marc was beside himself with irritation. Sophia was listening attentively and calmly, as was Mathias. They waited.

‘Contemporary history is so dignified,’ said Marc in acid tones. ‘And what else did you manage to find out?’

‘This and that. Your godfather has been in the drugs squad, the gambling squad…’

‘… and seventeen years a commissaire in criminal justice,’ the old man calmly finished the sentence. ‘A position from which I was dismissed with dishonour. Chucked out without my service medal after twenty-eight years. With a reprimand, disgrace and public ignominy.’

‘A fair summary,’ said Lucien, nodding.

‘Terrific,’ said Marc through clenched teeth, glaring at Lucien. ‘If you knew, why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Because to me it’s wholly unimportant,’ said Lucien.

‘Great,’ said Marc. ‘Uncle, nobody asked you to do anything, not to come downstairs, or to listen at doors, and as for you, Lucien, nobody asked you to go peeping into papers and then open your big mouth. That could have waited, couldn’t it?’

‘No, as a matter of fact it couldn’t,’ said the older Vandoosler. ‘Madame Siméonidis needs your help in a delicate matter, so it’s best she should know that there’s an ex-policeman in the attic next door. Better that she has the means to decide whether to withdraw her request or not. It’s more honest this way.’

Marc looked defiantly at Mathias and Lucien.

‘OK, if that’s the way you want it,’ he said, even more vehemently. ‘Armand Vandoosler is an ex-flic, true enough. And he has been disgraced. But he’s still a flic and he’s still bent, believe me. And he still takes liberties with the law, and with life in general. And those liberties may or may not come back to haunt him.’

‘As a rule they do,’ Vandoosler confirmed.

‘And that’s not all,’ Marc went on. ‘You can please yourselves what you do about it. But I’m warning you, he’s my godfather and my uncle. My mother’s brother. So, it’s not negotiable. That’s how it is, full stop. Now, if that means you don’t want to stay any more in this patched-up house…’

‘“The disgrace”’,’ said Sophia. ‘That’s what the neighbours call it.’

‘OK, “the disgrace”. Well, if you want to leave because my godfather was a policeman in his own special way, it’s up to you. We’ll manage somehow, me and him.’

‘Why on earth is he getting so worked up?’ said Mathias, looking mildly around with his clear blue eyes.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Lucien. ‘He’s highly strung. They were like that in the Middle Ages, you know. My great-aunt used to work in the slaughterhouse, but I don’t go round boasting about it.’

Marc looked down, and folded his arms, suddenly calm again. He glanced at the opera singer from the Western Front. What would she say, now she knew about the disgraced policeman living next door, in the house that the neighbours called ‘the disgrace’?

Sophia guessed what he was thinking. ‘It doesn’t bother me at all that he’s here,’ she said.

‘For reliability,’ said Vandoosler, ‘a disgraced policeman is actually a good bet. He’ll listen and try to find out answers, but he’s obliged to keep his mouth shut. The ideal confidant in fact.’

‘He may have had his faults,’ said Marc in a quieter voice, ‘but my godfather was a pretty good investigator. He might be able to help.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Vandoosler, looking at Sophia. ‘Madame Siméonidis will make up her own mind. If there is a problem, that is. As for these three,’ he said, pointing to the young men, ‘they’re not entirely half-witted. They may be able to help too.’

‘Who said they were half-witted?’ said Sophia.

‘Well, it’s sometimes best to make things clear,’ said Vandoosler. ‘My nephew Marc now… I know a thing or two about him. I looked after him in Paris when he was twelve, that is, almost grown up. He was already vague, pig-headed, on a high, off-balance, but too clever to sit still. I never was able to do much with him, except to impress on him a few sound principles about the disturbances one must constantly bring to bear on the world. And he picked that up. As for the others, I’ve only known them a week, and they look OK so far. They’re a strange combination, each one with his great work he’s writing. Funny lot. Anyway, I have never heard of a case like yours before. It’s high time to do something about the tree.’

‘But what could I do?’ Sophia asked. ‘The police would have laughed at me.’

‘Very true,’ said Vandoosler.

‘And I didn’t want to alarm my husband.’

‘Quite right.’

‘So I was waiting until… I knew these young people better.’

‘But how can we help, without arousing your husband’s suspicions?’ asked Marc.

‘What I was thinking,’ said Sophia, ‘was that you might pretend to be workmen. Checking on buried electricity cables or something. Anything that would explain digging a trench, one that runs under the tree, of course. I’d pay you extra for some overalls, and to hire a van and tools.’

‘I’m on,’ said Marc.

‘Sounds do-able,’ said Mathias.

‘Well, if it’s about digging trenches,’ said Lucien, ‘I’m all for it. I’ll send a sick note to the school. It’ll take a couple of days.’

‘Can you face watching your husband’s reaction when they turn up proposing to dig their trench?’ asked Vandoosler.

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Sophia.

‘Won’t he recognise them?’

‘No, I’m sure he won’t. He’s taken absolutely no interest in them’.

‘Perfect,’ said Marc. ‘It’s Thursday today. We need a bit of time to organise the details. We’ll be knocking at your door on Monday morning, first thing.’

‘Thank you,’ said Sophia. ‘It’s funny. Now we’ve arranged all this, I’m sure there’s nothing under the tree.’

She opened her handbag. ‘Here’s the money,’ she said. ‘It’s all there.’

‘What, already?’ said Marc.

Vandoosler senior smiled. Sophia Siméonidis was an unusual woman. She was timid and hesitant in manner, but she had brought the money with her. Was she so sure of persuading them? He found that interesting.

VIII

ONCE SOPHIA HAD LEFT, NO-ONE KNEW QUITE WHAT TO DO, AS THEY all paced around the big room. Vandoosler senior preferred to take his meals upstairs. Before leaving the room, he looked at them. The three younger men were standing, oddly enough, each one in front of one of the tall windows, gazing into the dark garden. Standing like that, each framed in an archway, they looked like three statues with their backs to him. St Luke on the left, St Matthew in the middle, St Mark on the right. Each of them turned to stone in his niche. Strange figures and they made strange saints. Marc had crossed his hands behind his back and was standing stiffly, legs apart. Vandoosler had done a lot of stupid things in his life; but he loved his godson. Not that there had ever been a christening.

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