The Crowded Grave

gendarmerie, Fat Jeanne from the market and Nathalie from the wine cave. The various husbands came next and some friends from the hunting and tennis and rugby clubs and Julien from the vineyard and Alphonse in his hippie garb clustered around to shake his hand, kiss him and pound him on the back.
    A camera flashed, and Bruno turned to see the inevitable figure of Philippe Delaron, which meant that a photo of this event would find its way into the pages of
Sud Ouest
. ThenIvan appeared, wearing his white chef’s blouse and toque. He must have dashed here from his restaurant to attend. One particularly enthusiastic blow came from the meaty fist of J-J. This affectionate ordeal complete, the baron gave him a glass of champagne, and then they all stood back, expectant grins on their faces, and Bruno realized with embarrassment that he was now expected to make a speech.
    He raised his glass to them all. “I’m ambushed, stunned and overwhelmed. And I’m deeply grateful to you all for your friendship, and particularly to Pamela, our charming and beautiful hostess this evening. I suppose the great merit of birthdays is that with each succeeding one, we have more opportunities to make good friends like you all. So thank you for making this the most memorable birthday of my life.”
    Bruno lifted his glass in salute, first to Pamela whose eyes were glowing, and then taking in the entire company. Speeches did not come easily to him, but emotion did, and he felt a stinging in his eyes that suggested tears were not far away. He blinked to hold them back, and then shook his head, surprised at how moved he felt.
    “These are just the friends I had room for,” Pamela said. “But many more wanted to come, and they have all signed this.”
    She led him to the far end of the room that stretched the full width of her ancient farmhouse, where a large card, three feet square, was covered in signatures. Some were accompanied by tiny smiling faces or small sketches of Bruno done by childish hands, and he recognized the names of the boys and girls he taught to play rugby and tennis. The town’s rugby teams had signed, and the staff of the
mairie
, and he recognized the names of stallholders from the market.
    “We kept it hidden in the closet in my office,” said themayor. “We had a warning system every time you were in your office. I’m amazed we kept the secret.”
    “And we took it to the rugby game with Lalinde when you were away on that course,” said Joe.
    “Unbelievable,” said Bruno, blinking hard again as the baron refilled his glass.
    “I took it up to Périgueux so you’ve got most of the cops and the prefect,” said J-J. “I wanted to get it up to Paris, but there wasn’t time, so we’ve stuck this piece of paper on the corner.”
    Bruno bent down to see, and there were the signatures of the brigadier and Isabelle. He understood why she wasn’t here, but felt a pang at the thought that she was alone in a hotel just down the road.
    “And now it’s time for your present,” Pamela announced. “Baron, the blindfold, if you please.”
    Bruno closed his eyes as a black cloth was tied around his head and laughed nervously. He felt someone remove his champagne glass and then a firm grip was taken of each of his arms and he was steered out of the house and into the cool evening air, the crunch of gravel under his feet. From the sound, everybody else was coming too.
    He summoned up his mental map of Pamela’s property. They were turning left, away from the swimming pool and the tennis court and toward the separate
gîte
where Fabiola lived. But no, that was more to the other side of the courtyard, so they were heading to the old barn where Pamela kept her lawn mower, and beyond that were the stables and the kitchen garden at the rear of the farmhouse. It must be something hidden in the barn; some special wine, he thought, remembering that Hubert and Nathalie were there from the cave and Julien from the vineyard.
    Then he picked up the scent of roasting meat on the faintbreeze. Had the hunters caught a wild boar and were roasting it in the open air? But it didn’t smell like boar, or like venison, and there was no smell of woodsmoke that would have signaled an open fire. He felt the ground change under his feet from gravel to what felt and sounded like concrete and then he smelled the stables and suddenly he knew. They have bought me a saddle of my own, he told himself, something that would have been beyond his