Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

Georges had the same urge he’d had when he was eight years old and Jacques Dubois kicked down the matchstick train that Georges had spent all winter building. He wanted to punch him on the nose.

“This is the best room in the house,” he said instead.

Madame Morreau used to stay here with her husband before he died, he’d read that in her diary, too. The reason why she scrimped and saved to come back again each year. To relive the happy memories they’d shared.

“Two weeks of R and R in the best room in the house, all paid for in advance? Not bad, eh?” Weasel threw himself down on the bed. “Not quite the Cote d’Azur I’d had in mind, of course. But since the old girl coughed without a penny, it’s better than bloody nothing, I suppose.”

No money, poor health, and a nephew who couldn’t give a damn.

“Y’know, Slowpoke, I’m betting the beds in this place could tell a tale or two.” He chuckled as he bounced up and down on the mattress.

Georges swore his heart stood still. “That one could.”

The bouncing stopped. “Oh?” Jean-Paul’s eyes narrowed as he advanced across the room. “And just what might you mean by that?”

Never tell a lie if you can help it, son. Marcel’s voice echoed in his head. It’ll only come back to trip you up.

“Honeymooners,” he said. “The last guests were honeymooners.”

Weasel’s shoulders went slack again, but for a second Georges saw the same expression cross his face as when the doctor signed the death certificate. At last, he could put a name to it. Relief.

“Will there be anything else?” he asked in the same neutral tone he’d heard the chambermaids use.

“Just that beer — and Slowpoke?” Jean-Paul dipped his hand in his pocket. “A tip for carrying my cases.”

His generosity took Georges by surprise. “Thank you,” he said warmly.

“Look both ways before you cross the road.”

Weasel seemed to think this was the funniest joke he’d ever heard, while Georges was so ashamed that he’d actually held his hand out to this man that he forgot to switch the lift back on, and once again Marcel had to abandon his canard à l’orange and dash the Brandons to the station, while Irene couldn’t understand what a cold beer should be doing on her desk, but was so glad to see it that she downed it in one go.

“He killed her,” Georges told Parmesan, feeding him the carrots that Marcel had earmarked for his julienne vegetables in garlic. “Jean-Paul murdered Madame Morreau, and it isn’t right.”

It wasn’t right that she should die, simply so he could get his hands on her money. It wasn’t right that he should run around in her beloved Peugeot, letting it go rusty and not even washing it, or that he should profit from a holiday she’d had to make huge sacrifices for.

“Then to come back to the hotel where he killed her, throwing his weight around, bouncing on the bed where she died, and making tasteless jokes. It’s not right, Parmesan. It’s not right at all.”

And so another night passed in which Georges didn’t get a wink of sleep, but this time it was different. Lying on his back, with his hands folded behind his head, he watched the Milky Way swirling across a cloudless sky with only one thought in his head.

She knows what wrens’ eggs look like...

The following week Georges took Sandrine to watch the otters from the seclusion of his hide, showed her all the secret places where rare warblers could be found, pointed out the heronry and the favourite perches of the kingfishers, and introduced her to Parmesan at her request.

“I used to slip him aniseed balls.”

Sandrine dug around in her handbag and eventually came out with half a roll of extra-strong mints. “Do you think he’d like these?”

Like was a moot point. With the aniseed, he used to kick and swish his tail. The effect of the extra-strong mints made him snicker, buck, and, considering his age and size, practically gallop round the field, his nostrils snorting out peppermint strong enough to fell an oak. But since he kept coming back for more, they made a point of packing them with the carrots, oats, and apples every time they paid a visit.

“I think he’s addicted,” she giggled.

“Guess that makes us pushers,” Georges quipped back, because her laugh was as magical as rainbows, hoarfrost, and snow-melt waterfalls, and he was as hooked on its sound as this old plough horse on mints. Sometimes he feared he would drown in those freckles.

And in return for otters, squirrel drays, and badger setts, Sandrine introduced Georges to the Bee Gees, Star Wars, and the thrills of racing powerboats, courtesy of her father’s hire business.

“Night fever, night fever,” they’d sing together, Sandrine clicking her fingers, while Georges sped the sleek blue-and-white “Hire Me for 30F an Hour” advertisement past the new resorts that were springing up around the lake.

He’d never known anything like it.

It’s just your jive talkin’, you’re telling me lies...