Lynley switched to what he'd always referred to as his travel-and-survive French. He took a moment to telegraph a silent message of thanks to his fearsome aunt Augusta who'd often decreed—in the midst of a family visit—that ce soir, on parlera tous frangais a table et apres le diner. C'est la meilleure fagon de se préparer ` passer des vacances d’été en Dordogne, thus attempting to polish his rudimentary skills in a language in which he would otherwise only have been able to request a cup of coffee, a beer, or a room with a bath. He said in French, “Your expertise in the kitchen isn't in doubt, Monsieur Ferrer. What I'd like to know is how well you knew the girl. Her father tells me that all the family are cyclists. You're also a cyclist. Did you have occasion to ride with her?”
If Ferrer was surprised that a barbaric Englishman spoke his language—however imperfectly—he covered it well. He gave no quarter by slowing the pace of his reply though, forcing Lynley to ask him to repeat the answer, which gave the Frenchman the satisfaction he apparently needed. “Yes, of course, once or twice we rode together,” Ferrer told him in his native tongue. He had been riding from Grindleford to Maiden Hall on the road and, when she'd heard about this, the young lady had told him of a route through the forest that was rough going but more direct. She didn't wish him to become lost, so she rode it with him twice to make sure he took all the right paths.
“Grindleford is where you have lodgings?”
Yes. There were not enough rooms here at Maiden Hall to accommodate those who worked for the hotel and restaurant. It was, as the inspector had no doubt observed, a small establishment. So Christian-Louis Ferrer had a room with a widow called Madame Clooney and her spinster daughter who, if Ferrer's account was to be believed, had designs upon him that were—alas—impossible to gratify.
“I am, of course, married,” he told Lynley. “Although my beloved wife remains in Nerville le Forét until such a time as we can be together again.”
This, Lynley knew, was not an unusual arrangement. European couples often lived separately, one of them remaining with their children in their native country while the other emigrated to seek more gainful employment. However, an innate cynicism that he quickly assessed as having flourished within him through too much exposure to Barbara Havers over the past few years made him immediately suspicious of any man who used the adjective beloved in front of the noun wife. “You've been here the entire five years?” Lynley asked. “Do you get home much, for holidays and such?”
Alas, Ferrer confessed, a man of his profession was best served—as indeed were his beloved wife and dearest children—by spending his holiday time in the pursuit of cooking excellence. And while this pursuit could be done in France—and with far more felicitous results, considering with what licence the word cuisine was bandied about in this country—Christian-Louis Ferrer knew the wisdom of thrift. Should he travel back and forth between England and France at holiday time, there would be that much less money to save for the future of his children and the security of his old age.
“It must be difficult,” Lynley said, “such a long separation from one's wife. Lonely as well, I expect.”
Ferrer grunted. “A man does what he must do.”
“Still, there must be times when the loneliness makes one long for a connection with someone. We don't live on work alone, do we? And a man like you … It would be understandable.”
Ferrer crossed his arms in a movement that emphasised the prominence of his biceps and triceps. He was, in so many ways, the perfect image not only of virility but of virility's need to establish its presence. Lynley knew that he was engaging in the worst kind of stereotyping even to think so. But still he allowed himself to think it, and to see where the thinking would lead their conversation. He said with a meaningful, just-between-us-boys shrug, “Five years without one's wife … I couldn't do it.”
Ferrer's mouth—full-lipped, the mouth of a sensualist—curved and his eyes became hooded. He said in English, “Estelle and I understand each the other. It is why we are married for twenty years.”
“So there is the occasional dalliance here in England.”
“Nothing of significance. Estelle, I love. The other … ? Well, it was what it was.”
A useful slip, Lynley thought. “Was. It's over, then?”
And Ferrers face—so swiftly guarded—told Lynley the rest. “Were you and Nicola Maiden lovers?”
Silence in reply.
Lynley persevered. “If you and the Maiden girl were lovers, Monsieur Ferrer, it looks far less suspicious if you answer the question here and now rather than find yourself being confronted with the truth of it gathered from a witness who might have seen the two of you together.”
“It is nothing,” Ferrer said, again in English.
“That's not the assessment I'd make about coming under suspicion in a murder investigation.”
Ferrer switched back to French. “I don't mean suspicion. I mean with the girl.”
“Are you saying that nothing happened with the girl?”
“I'm saying that what happened was nothing. It meant nothing. To either of us.”
“Perhaps you'd tell me about it.”
Ferrer glanced at the Hall's front door. It stood open to the pleasant night air, and within, residents were moving towards the stairs, chatting amiably. Ferrer spoke to Lynley but kept his gaze on the residents. “A woman's beauty exists for a man to admire. A woman naturally wishes to augment her beauty to increase the admiration.”