Crime Fraiche by Alexander Campion Page B

Go on.”
    “Obviously, once they rose, I started shooting for all I was worth. But Maxime—remember he was opposite me at the bottom of the hill—couldn’t shoot because his gun jammed. He still uses his father’s old Callens et Modé, and he hasn’t had it gone over by a gunsmith in twenty years, so the ejectors are very prone to freeze up, which is exactly what they did. He was dancing quite a merry little jig when the birds flew in, believe me.”
    Capucine nodded her understanding and surreptitiously slipped Phébus some more of her veal.
    “So you see, the only person who could possibly have shot Gerlier accidentally was me, since the people next to him were shooting high in the air at birds well over their heads. And I am absolutely positive it wasn’t me. I saw him jerk when he was hit. A military man knows all too well what that looks like. And at that moment my gun was broken open and I was reloading.”
    “Voilà!” Oncle Aymerie said, banging his fist on the table. “What more proof do you want?”
    “Mon oncle, that’s certainly a very convincing argument, but, unfortunately, courts only consider tangible facts as proof. Let me ask you a question, Colonel. What size shot were you shooting that day? Do you remember?”
    “Do I remember? What kind of question is that? I was shooting number eights, of course. What else would I be shooting?”
    “And there’s no chance that you had the odd number six cartridge in your bag?”
    “There are certain things a gentleman does when he returns home from the field,” Blignières said rigidly. “He cleans and lightly oils his gun, he brushes the mud off his shoes and puts trees in them, and he takes whatever cartridges are left in his bag and puts them back in their boxes. And only then, and not one second before, does he allow himself a whiskey.”
    “And, of course, you use steel shot, not lead.”
    “Madame, I have devoted my life to serving my country and its laws. Lead shot has been prohibited for fifteen years. I would no more use it than powder my garden with DDT, even though I deeply regret the loss of both.”
    “I wouldn’t have thought any less of you, Colonel. It will interest you to learn that the shot in Monsieur Gerlier’s wound was number six lead shot.”
    “Voilà! What a relief. I knew I hadn’t fired that shot, but I still lost a good deal of sleep over it. Ah, that calls for a celebration. Euphémie! Bring us some Calva! No, no, no, not that! The good stuff in the crystal decanter.”
    As they left, Phébus wagged his little stub of a tail vigorously at Capucine. If nothing else, she had made a new friend. Walking home to the château, Oncle Aymerie gave tongue to the two pertinent questions she had been juggling silently. “Well, if it wasn’t Hubert, it had to be intentional. But who? And why?”

CHAPTER 13
    “Y ou want me to pedal a bicycle all day long? In this freezing weather? Quelle idée! Have you completely taken leave of your senses?” Alexandre asked, outraged. “Capucine, this country living has definitely addled your brain.” It was the first time in their relationship Capucine had seen Alexandre genuinely flabbergasted.
    “You have to come,” Capucine said with almost schoolgirlish enthusiasm. “Jacques and I used to do it all the time when we were kids.” She took a deep breath, realizing this was precisely the wrong thing to have said. “It’ll be great fun. We follow the chasse à courre on bicycles and have one of Odile’s marvelous picnic lunches. We’ll get lots of exercise and fresh air. Just what you need after all your excesses of the past few days.” She poked him playfully in the stomach. Alexandre’s eyes darkened.
    Alexandre had been out of sorts since he had arrived the day before. He had driven down with Jacques, who, it appeared, had regaled him for the hour-and-a-half ride with stories of his and Capucine’s youth at the château. Capucine could easily imagine Jacques lacing the