Death in High Provence by George Bellairs

Author:George Bellairs [Bellairs, George]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Agora Books
Published: 2016-05-02T04:00:00+00:00

The Confidences of Uncle Sylvestre

The Littlejohns left Cap Ferrat after tea and drove fast along the Corniche D’Or from Cannes to Saint Raphael and thence inland to Aix-en-Provence. It was quite dark when they reached that delightful little university city, but lights blazed everywhere; among the great trees which march four abreast down the Cours Mirabeau, on the many splashing fountains, and from the cafés where a colourful crowd of students were vigorously enjoying their evening meals and drinks on the terraces.

They found a good hotel, a former aristocratic town house in the Cours Mirabeau, and, after they had dined and Littlejohn had made enquiries about the Hospital of the Good Samaritan, they turned-in, ready for an early start next day.

The following morning they were off before nine. The hospital was just outside the little village of St. Luc, twelve kilometres from Aix on the main road to Grenoble. They reached it in half an hour.

A dirty, shabby little village with a dilapidated church, a few tumbledown houses, and a couple of impoverished farms. There was an inn of sorts and, when he saw it, any hope of taking morning coffee there died out of Littlejohn’s mind. The place was flyblown and ill-kept and, on a ramshackle terrace outside, a number of surly natives were drinking. The landlord, in shirt, trousers and rope-soled sandals, eyed the Chief Inspector suspiciously as he pulled up. He was obviously very unwelcome.

A very old priest, wearing a soutane splashed from neck to knees with food stains, with long, matted dirty-white hair and his ears stopped up with plugs of cotton wool, was among the company and he, at least, rose and said good-day.

He drooled as he spoke and bubbles of saliva formed at the corners of his mouth.

“Can you direct me to the Hospital of the Good Samaritan, father?”

The abbé uncorked one ear and turned to Littlejohn.

“Eh?”

Littlejohn repeated his question.

“Le Bon Samaritain, eh?”

It was obvious he knew the answer, but he paused, wondering whether or not to ask the Chief Inspector what he was wanting there. Finally, he gave the directions.

“Turn right through the village... At the end of a blind alley... an impasse. ...”

The men listened but scowled and made no reply. The hospice wasn’t there at all, but they didn’t correct their priest, whose aged wits had long ago gone woolgathering. Eventually Littlejohn found it by turning left through St. Luc and following the sound of a cracked bell, which suddenly started to toll and whose melancholy note filled the valley.

The retreat was quite different from the village of St. Luc. A tall surrounding hedge of clipped cypress broken by wrought-iron gates under a stone arch, with gold lettering across it. Hospice du Bon Samaritain. Beyond, spacious grounds, mainly consisting of shrivelled lawns and thick coppices of myrtle and almond. There was a main single-storeyed white building, surrounded by innumerable small pavilions, probably built as annexes to the main block as time passed. Patients were wandering about the grounds, some being pushed by others in bath-chairs.

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