The Crowded Grave

parts of the flock.
    He looked into the storage cupboards where Maurice kept his gardening tools and his additives for the feed. He examined all the labels, dictating them into his tape recorder. He checked the flow of the taps, probed the dunghill where Maurice raked the droppings and then waded into the wide pond to scoop upthe mud from the bottom, which he sniffed before tossing it back into the water.
    Bruno stole a quick glance at his watch. The longer the inspector took the more time for his plan to take effect. For the first time that morning, he began to feel a surge of hope.
    With a courteous “
Pardon
, madame,” the inspector squeezed his way past the silent Sophie into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and checked the contents. He opened the cupboard beneath the sink to look at the garbage pail. He went out to the barn, ignoring the neat ranks of preserves that Sophie had canned and bottled and went straight to the big freezer, pulling out each item and checking the handwritten labels. Finally he went to the old oil barrel with holes punched into its sides that Maurice used as an incinerator and sifted through the ashes.
    And then the inspector turned to the one item Bruno had willed himself not to look at: the wide stump of some long-felled tree. He photographed it from every angle, and then took close-ups of the flat top, scarred with decades of ax blows. He took a small spatula from a pocket on the side of his overalls and scraped gently at the surface. He carried the scrapings to his black bag, pulled out two small glass jars, one empty and one filled with a colorless liquid. He put the scrapings into the empty jar, added some drops from the liquid, sealed it and shook. The clear liquid turned a very pale brown.
    He turned to Maurice. “Monsieur, where is your ax, please?”
    Maurice pointed back to the barn. The inspector led the way back inside and there the ax hung on the wall above the workbench, with all the other tools. The inspector took it down and studied it. He turned to Maurice. “You cleaned it.”
    “I clean all my tools after I use them,” Maurice said, pride overcoming his nervousness.
    “And you scrubbed the stump with
eau de Javel
,” the inspector said, a touch of pride in his own expertise. He gave Mauricea look that Bruno interpreted as grudging respect. Bruno felt a growing confidence.
    “Thank you for summoning me here,” the inspector said to Duroc. “It’s been a long time since I had the pleasure to see such a well-kept duck farm. The ducks are healthy, their quarters clean and their diet and additives are entirely as they should be, perhaps better. Even their pond has been recently dredged. The place is a model.” He turned to Maurice. “I congratulate you, monsieur, and I shall use my photographs in training sessions to show my students how a duck farm should be run.”
    Still on the doorstep of her home, Sophie’s legs gave way and she sat down in surprise. Annette let out a short laugh before looking down at her feet. Duroc let go of Maurice’s arm, and his Adam’s apple began to bob over the edge of his collar.
    “However,” the inspector went on, “it’s clear that some animals have been killed on this stump within the last few days. I’m told that you don’t have a license to slaughter your own ducks. Perhaps you can tell me what it was you killed.”
    Duroc seized Maurice’s arm again and Annette looked up at Bruno. Pouillon stepped forward, and said, “Leave this to me, Maurice,” he said. He turned to the inspector. “My client has no statement to make at this time. He will naturally want to consult his records to see if he can be of assistance, and he is of course grateful that his exemplary stewardship of his farm has met with such extraordinary official approval.”
    “He killed ducks on that stump, so he broke the law,” Duroc said stubbornly.
    “I didn’t say ducks had been killed, and I found no evidence of recent duck carcasses,” the inspector said quietly. “ ‘Animals’ was the word I used. It could have been rabbits, or he could have been chopping up a deer. Blood is blood. I gather the gentleman has a hunting license. I cannot confirm that ducks have been illegally slaughtered here.”
    Annette walked across to the stump and looked down at the scarred wood.
    “These feathers in the stump, they look recent, surely?” she said.
    The inspector shrugged. “It’s a duck farm, mademoiselle. Feathers are to be