The Crowded Grave

stopped briefly at the florist’s, where Kajte had used her debit card to buy two imposing bouquets. The moment he saw Sophie clucking and fussing like a mother hen over the limping Dutch girl, Bruno felt confident that his plan might just work. Her youth and good looks were half the battle with the men, and Teddy helped when he said that he hoped this incident would not mean he would be unwelcome on the rugby field. Responding instantly to Sophie’s genuine good nature, Kajte managed to display the combination of humility, apology and grace that was required to win over the less gullible Sandrine. Pouillon and the baron quickly announced their satisfaction at this solution, and the flowers and the compensation money helped seal the deal. The baron went out to his car and returned with a bottle of his homemade
vin de noix
to toast the agreement.
    Bruno checked his watch and declined. He and Carlos had a number of families of Spanish origin to visit, a chore that Bruno felt would pay few dividends, but he wanted to be able to report it done at that evening’s security meeting. He’d see J-J at the meeting and tell him the attacks on the farms had been resolved. Annette, Bruno hoped, could be left to Pouillon. Theimportant thing would be to keep Maurice and the students away from Duroc and his insistence on formal arrests. Maurice and Sophie agreed to stay at the Villatte place rather than go home, and the baron suggested that Kajte and Teddy come back to his small château.
    “Is this how you usually work?” Carlos asked, after leaving his rented car at the hotel in Campagne and squeezing his long legs into the modest space of Bruno’s police car.
    “Depends what you call work,” Bruno said. “My job is to take care of local matters that don’t need the Police Nationale or the gendarmes. It’s better when we can settle things among ourselves. That’s the way Joe taught me to operate, and it seems to work. We’ll start with him because he knows everybody.”
    Joe’s farmhouse was in a small hamlet just beyond the outskirts of St. Denis. Over the years, he had converted some of the barns and outbuildings into houses for his children and his nieces and nephews, the children of his elder brother who had died in the Algerian War. Now well into his seventies, Joe still tended the largest vegetable garden in the district and a small vineyard, while his wife ran a modest clothing store in St. Denis.
    Bruno led the way into the familiar courtyard with the long table where Joe held court at the obligatory Sunday lunch for his extended family and whichever friends he happened to meet and invite at the Saturday market. Joe’s elderly hunting dog, Coco, stirred from dreams of rabbits to sniff Bruno’s trousers and give his hand an amiable lick. Bruno tapped the small iron bell that hung from the side of the kitchen door and let himself in, smelling the woodsmoke from the fire that Joe kept burning until the first of May. White haired but spry, Joe put down his pipe and looked up from his examination of a seed catalog to greet his successor and to shake hands with Carlos.
    “There was one Basque family, but they moved off to Argentina or somewhere just after the war. I can think of onlytwo families that still speak of being Spanish in anything but the most sentimental way,” said Joe, once Bruno had explained the reason for the visit. “And the youngest one left in the Garza family is almost as old as me.”
    “ ‘Garza’ is a Gallego name,” said Carlos. “They come from Galicia in the far northwest. Even without the age factor, they’re not likely to be involved with Basque affairs. How about the other family?”
    “The Longorias,” said Joe, pouring out three glasses of his
vin de noix
without asking if anyone wanted a drink. He reached into a sideboard behind him and pulled out a bowl of olives and another of nuts. “I don’t know where they came from, but they’re proud of what their family did in the civil war. Anarchists, if I remember right. When I was a kid they told stories of how they used to be miners and used sticks of dynamite instead of hand grenades.”
    “Dinamiteros, they were called, from Asturias,” said Carlos. “They were the shock troops of the Republic. But again, they’re not Basques.”
    “When they settled here they started as farm laborers and fruit pickers. Now they’re plumbers with a nice little business in central heating,” Joe said. “They call it Lebrun,