Inspector Bassé and the Winter Wolf

When I arrived at the end of the street, I caught the overwhelming aroma of sardines being grilled. The scent, laid on a bed of frosty air, started my stomach off on a cry for sustenance. I quietly scolded it for blasphemy. Supper could wait.

I rapped on Mortain’s door once, twice, three times. My shoulders dropped. There was nobody home, but as I turned away, I heard an old woman call out.

‘What do you want? You make enough noise to raise the dead.’

‘If only I could,’ I thought to myself. I looked up. The woman was wearing an old-fashioned bonnet. It was the kind I remember my mother swearing she would never wear. The crone leaned out over the cill of a second storey window, the casement was webby and cracked with age.

‘I’ll not come downstairs for you,’ she said, ‘tell me your business. Why are you breaking down my door?’

‘My apologies madame,’ I raised my hat to her. ‘I come looking for an old friend, the monsieur Jean Mortain. We were in school together.’

‘He was at Baartram the undertaker last night,’ she said, ’but you will have to be quick as they’re taking him to the cemetery at first light tomorrow morning.’

‘Thank you madame,’ I touched my hat once more and made off back down the street. A hasty funeral then, no doubt due to the poor condition of my friend.

I arrived at the undertaker’s establishment as the cold winter light was starting to fade. I hoped there would be few other customers. I walked around to the side of the building to the yard where they readied the horses and found a boy who would fetch me his master. After a short wait, a man appeared in a suit that looked older than Napoleon. It was as black as iron while his face was as white as that of a dead man.

‘Yes sir?’ he said, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Inspector Bassé,’ I said, ‘Bayeux Gendarmerie. I need to see Jean Mortain.’

The old gentleman’s face appeared to leach even more colour.

‘Come in sir,’ he said, ‘I am afraid monsieur Mortain is in a closed coffin and not really fit to be seen.’

‘I understand.’

‘He is in the chapel with his wife and family at the moment. If you wish I will ask if they would mind you paying your respects.’

‘That will not be necessary. Will they be here long?’

‘Who sir?’

‘The family?’

‘Ah, I see,’ the old undertaker scratched at the papery skin under his chin, ‘this is business and not personal. No sir, I do not believe they will be long as we have concluded our business as far as we can for the moment.’

‘Good, then please ask them all to leave as you have other urgent business to attend to,’ I said, ‘official state business, administration, reports, you know what I mean, and please, do not mention that I am here. I do not wish to make their suffering the worse.’

‘I think I understand you sir, but if you will permit me to ask, what state business would that be sir?’ he continued to rub at his chin.

‘I need you to open the coffin,’ I said.

‘But sir?’

‘Yes, I am aware that it will not be pretty, but believe me I would rather not waste another minute.’ I said, holding his watery gaze.

‘Have you a letter of authorization from the magistrate?’

‘I confess I do not, however, if you would rather wait until after tomorrow’s funeral to open the coffin then so be it, but we will have wasted time and rather stepped off on the wrong foot sir.’

The old gentleman weighed my words for a moment, ‘Very well sir,’ he said, ‘we should be closing for the day soon anyway.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘And if we wait much longer then the work will be that much more difficult.’

‘Time waits for no man Baartram.’

‘I am very well aware of that Inspector.’

‘Of course,’ I hid my smile as I followed monsieur Baartram into the dark interior of his establishment and was made to wait behind a purpose made carved rood screen that reflected themes and figures inscribed on similar pieces in the cathedral. I watched the undertaker make discreet noises to his clients about his business. He had a peculiar warmth mixed with a solemnity that seems to be a hallmark of all good men of his profession. Likewise, I have seldom met a miserable butcher.

I studied Jean’s widow, Marie. Her fine and beautiful face was a portrait of true and intense grief. I had not seen her for many years and yet, even under these terrible circumstances, she had not lost the beauty that I had treasured in my memory. Marie held two small children close about her. Besides this little trio were a couple I recognized as her parents, although they had aged far more than seemed possible. Jean’s own parents were likely either dead or too elderly to make anything other than essential journeys. I imagined Jean had taken over the family shop. What would become of it , I wondered? Would Marie be its keeper now?

Marie Daufresne had once been the target of my own affections. But in those days, many years ago, I had lacked the confidence that Jean had with women. As time passed however, Jean became more wedded to the bottle than to Marie.

My father’s own ambition also counted against any idea that Marie might be for me. He had a singular plan that I should be raised as a gentleman and despite Mme Daufresne’s beauty she remained a lowly paysan’s daughter. I was destined for greater things.

To my father’s dismay, as soon as I finished my schooling, I started with the Bayeux Gendarmerie, having applied in secret, and been accepted. I signed the contract and moved into the barracks on the same day. A fait accompli. Permission would never have been forthcoming from my father, and as the old saying goes, sometimes it is better to ask for forgiveness.

By then Jean and Marie had been promised to each other, but it was too late for either of them. The promise could not be kept. Marie and I had broken it on the many occasions that Jean had been in his cups, maintaining his other promise to the goddess of the wine bottle.

I watched her leave the undertaker’s chapel with her children and her parents. I felt a little of my heart break, and then scolded myself. A bleak anger rose up inside me. What did I expect? That everything would be the same? That I would slip back into my old life like no time had passed at all? I would be back at the card table with Jean, waiting for him to pass out so that I could rekindle the passion I shared with Marie. Pretending I was in control, beating a man at cards then making a mistress of his wife. Love without consequences, friendship without commitment.

It was one of the things that had made me run to Paris in the first place, this strange, displaced passion, but it had not been far enough. There were express trains these days that could bring a body back across the country at an unholy eighty kilometers an hour. Towns and villages flashed past and suddenly you were back where you started.

No. It was better to leave for somewhere so remote the modern world could never reach it in so short a time. It was what was required. South America took me and changed me. Time passed, and now here I was in an undertaker’s offices. The world and my friend had changed too.