A Grave Waiting. Jill Downie
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maybe tomorrow we ’ave company. Then Mr. Masterson say you all go ashore. Enjoy, ’e say. And for me to be first in the morning for ’is breakfast. Mr. Masterson is — was — Canadian. ’E ate a big breakfast in the morning.”
“Did he speak French?”
“Yes, but not like me. Sometimes I ’ave the problem to understand. Adèle also, they speak French often together.”
“Adèle?”
“Adèle Letourneau, the ’ousekeeper. Nice lady, never interferes with my kitchen.”
“So, you came back this morning at —?”
“Nine, as ’e ask. I ’ave a key to the salon door, but that was strange. It was not locked.”
“So everything would normally be locked up?”
“Yes. Mr. Masterson was so particular about that.”
“Do you know who had keys?”
“Me, Adèle, and I think maybe that petit salaud, Smith.”
“That would be who?”
“Valet to Mr. Masterson.”
“You didn’t get on, I gather.”
“No one get on with that one. ’E once call me the friggin’ fly in the fuckin’ hointment.”
A low burbling sound emanated from DS Falla, quickly suppressed as she bent over her notebook.
“I see. Now, what happened after you went into the salon. Describe what you saw.”
“Dirty glasses I saw.”
“You didn’t move them?”
“I am chef, not valet. So I go through to the kitchen and there is no note. Always ’e leave a note for what ’e wants for breakfast. Often eggs and bacon, sometimes crêpes — ’e eat them with the sausage and the syrup.” Rossignol gave a little shudder and continued. “At first I think maybe it is a trick by the petit salaud, but no, ’e is on shore, so I go to Mr. Masterson’s cabin.”
“Slowly now. Was the door unlocked?”
“A little open, that is also strange. It is always locked when ’e is in there, and for that cabin I don’t ’ave keys. Then I see the legs. ‘Mr. Masterson,’ I say, and again I say it. Then I open the door and see — ah, oh, oh!”
Moretti pushed the mug toward the chef, who drank the last of its contents. Down the corridor outside the kitchen came the sound of a woman’s voice, followed by that of PC Mauger.
“Jean-Louis! Jean-Louis!”
“Just a minute, ma’am. You can’t go in there.”
“Adèle!” The chef broke into a fresh burst of sobbing.
Moretti went out into the corridor. “It’s okay, Constable. She can come in.”
Adèle Letourneau looked nothing like any housekeeper Moretti had ever seen. Her lightly tanned features were expertly made up, framed by one of those deceptively simple hairstyles of heavy bangs and swinging, thick swags of bronze-highlighted hair that did not come courtesy of the little hairdresser around the corner. She wore jeans and a heavy navy sweater with a cowl neck. In one hand she carried a small overnight bag, and in the other she held a key.
“I didn’t need this,” she said, waving the key in front of her. “There’s a policeman at the end of the gangway, ambulance, police cars — what the hell is going on?”
The housekeeper’s voice was smoky with nicotine, her English accented. Close up, Moretti saw she was probably well into her forties and not her thirties, as he had first supposed. Before he could say anything, Jean-Louis Rossignol wailed, “Oh Adèle, Mr. Masterson is dead! Shot!”
“Dear God.”
There was a thud as the overnight bag hit the ground, followed by the key, and then, almost, by the housekeeper. She swayed, and Liz Falla caught her.
“Here, sit down. We’ll get you a glass of water.”
The chef filled a glass with mineral water out of the fridge, and handed it to the housekeeper, who needed help from Liz Falla getting it to her lips.
“Sorry. This is a shock.”
“Of course.” Moretti gave her a moment, then turned to Jean-Louis Rossignol, who was whimpering softly on the other side of the table. “PC Mauger will see you to your cabin, sir, and I must ask you to stay there while forensics checks over the yacht. We will have an officer on duty at the foot of the gangway round the clock.”
As the two men disappeared in the direction of the dining area, Moretti turned back toward Adèle Letourneau. The housekeeper was the colour of parchment, and her hand was still shaking as she took another sip of water.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Mr. Rossignol came in this morning, found no instructions for breakfast, went through to the master suite, and found your employer on the bed, shot through the head. Have you any idea why this might have happened, or who might be involved?”
“No, not as to who might be involved. But Bernard is — was — a wealthy man. I suppose theft was the motive. Was anything taken?”
“Nothing that we can see, but you will be the better judge of that. Did he have a safe?”
“Yes. In the bed-head.”
“We’ll get you to check, but there’s no obvious sign of it being opened. Most thieves take what they want, and don’t stay around to tidy up after themselves. And speaking of tidying up — there’s a champagne glass with lipstick on it in the main salon. Is it yours?”
“No.” Adèle Letourneau’s hand on the glass stopped shaking. She had gone very still. Her guard was up, her shock controlled. “Bernard liked his babes, Detective Inspector.”
“You think one of his babes killed him, Ms. Letourneau? Did you have any other visitors on the yacht I should know about?”
“No. But perhaps he arranged something in town, I don’t know.”
Moretti decided to change direction. “You called Mr. Masterson by his first name — had you worked with him a long time?”
“Yes.” The housekeeper finished off the water in the glass, and reached over to take the bottle of cognac left by the chef on the stovetop. “If you don’t mind, I’d like some of this, and a cigarette?”
“Go ahead.”
Moretti watched as Adèle Letourneau poured herself a generous shot, and then pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the bag on the floor. The booze at this hour of the morning he could do without, but the thought of a cigarette and a cup of coffee filled him with longing. Surreptitiously he fingered the lighter he still carried in his pocket, and saw Liz Falla’s half smile as he did so.
“To answer your question —” Adèle Letourneau lit her cigarette, inhaled deeply, and closed her eyes, “— we were once, what you might call, an item. When that was over, friendship remained, and trust. In his position, Bernard needed that, someone to trust.”
“And what was Mr. Masterson’s business.”
“Bernard was a financier. He started off in Montreal, which is where I met him, but soon his business was as much in Europe as in North America. This summer his business was so scattered he decided to operate from the yacht. Besides, he enjoyed it.”
“Financier, Ms. Letourneau. Can you be more precise?”
The housekeeper had surprisingly light eyes for a woman with her colouring, and they were fixed on Moretti like cold, pale marbles. “Bernard started out in Quebec buying businesses for rock-bottom prices when they were failing, turning them around, and selling at a profit. He