Death and Papa Noël: a Christmas treat from the author of Death and Croissants (A Follet Valley Mystery) by Ian Moore

Author:Ian Moore [Moore, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781788424240
Publisher: Duckworth Books
Published: 2021-12-08T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

There was a lone fisherman huddled under a large umbrella as Richard approached the bank of the river Follet. He knew immediately that it was Valérie, partly because even in the gloom he could see that all the equipment was brand new, partly because her perfume wafted delicately in the air, which was unlike any other angler he’d ever met, partly because her outfit didn’t suit the set-up and partly because Passepartout, shivering in his basket, had suddenly woken up, sensing her presence nearby.

‘Caught anything?’ he asked casually as he approached.

‘This really is a very dull activity, Richard. Why do people do it? Even if you catch something, you must throw it back.’

‘I think people like the loneliness,’ he replied. He’d been fishing once and didn’t see the point either. ‘That was a very clever set of clues you laid out there. Maigret with no eyes. You nearly had me with that one.’

She looked up at him with a puzzled look. ‘Richard,’ she said in a tone he had already learned meant that she was losing patience. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The twenty-fourth book. Maigret, with the letter “i” scratched out. Magret. Canard.’ He pointed at the ducks.

‘The twenty-fourth book, yes. But it was a book about fishing.’ She picked up a grateful Passepartout and gave him a cuddle.

He let out a deep sigh. ‘Ah, well. I’m here now anyway.’ He’d been very pleased with himself for working out what he thought was a devilishly clever clue, and in the end all he’d done was miscount the books and got lucky. ‘Is it dinner-time yet?’ he asked, trying to change the subject.

‘Not yet, there is one more round to go.’ They both heard a commotion approaching along the bank and Valérie urged Richard to swap places with her and pretend to fish. He pulled his scarf back over his face and did as he was told. The others were arriving en masse, their torch lights zipping about in front of them like a laser show; they looked like a set of pitchfork-wielding villagers hellbent on revenge for something.

‘Madame,’ said a red-faced duchess, ‘I hope this is either the end of the game or the next clue is indoors! I am freezing.’

‘We all are, Madame la Duchesse,’ Comrade Rouge interrupted, showing a deference for a title that a genuine comrade wouldn’t show.

‘We have one more round before dinner,’ Valérie said, trying to hide the fact that her own teeth were chattering. The gathered crowd grumbled in response.

Richard sat crouched under the umbrella listening to all of this; the evening gloom and, he liked to think, his disguise, meant that no one had recognised him. Either they were too obsessed with the game, or themselves, or a local paysan really didn’t matter to them. He was thoroughly enjoying the anonymity of his presence when he felt a tugging on his fishing line. He tried to flick the rod a little, hoping that whatever was on the hook would be shaken free,

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