Beekeeper by J. Robert Janes Page A

enough, thought St-Cyr. First soaked in salt water and then dried, it brought back boyhood memories of homemade fireworks and other forbidden explosive devices. The pewter candleholder would have entranced a boy of ten and filled his head with dreams of brigands and seaside inns.
    Madame de Bonnevies was tensely watching him. ‘Do you light one of these every day?’ he asked and saw a faint, sad smile briefly touch her lips.
    â€˜When I can, yes. It perfumes the air. Étienne loved the smell of it. He …’
    â€˜Madame, your son can’t have occupied this room in several years. Not, I think, since beyond the age of …’
    How could he do this to her? ‘Sixteen,’ she gasped.
    â€˜And did your husband know you were using his foundation sheets for such a purpose?’
    â€˜No! There, are you satisfied?’
    â€˜And this practice?’ He indicated the candle. ‘Has been going on for how long?’
    The police were always brutal, the Sûreté only more despicable. ‘Since the Defeat, since my son was taken. A mother has to do something, hasn’t she? Well?’
    She wouldn’t cry, she told herself. She would face his scrutiny bravely. But he turned away and, setting the candleholder down on Étienne’s desk next to the windows, found Sûreté matches and lit it.
    â€˜One name,’ he said, and she, like him, watched the flame splutter to life. ‘There are well over forty in this book of your husband’s, madame. My partner and I have little time. I think you know the one we need.’
    â€˜I don’t. I haven’t seen that book in …’
    â€˜Then why, please, did you take it?’
    â€˜Did I look through it – is that what you’re implying?’
    â€˜You know it is.’
    â€˜Then I must tell you I saw nothing untoward.’ There, she had him now.’ Defeated, he picked up one of the tiny Plasticine sculptures of ducks, pigs, geese and horses, too, in the farmyard Étienne had made at the age of four and which she had saved all these years.
    â€˜Beautifully done,’ he said.
    â€˜Please don’t touch them. You’ve no right.’
    â€˜Is it that you want me to obtain a magistrate’s order? It will take much time, but if you have nothing to hide, why imply that you have?’
    Salaud ! she cried inwardly and swiftly turned away.
    â€˜Sixteen, madame. Why did your son feel he’ had to leave this house at such a tender age?’
    Tender … ‘It has nothing to do with my husband’s murder! Nothing, do you understand? He … he simply couldn’t stand seeing what was happening to me.’
    There were photographs of the boy with his mother in happier times, some of the sister, too. In one snapshot, the two youngsters, at the ages of perhaps twelve and eight, were shyly holding hands at the water’s edge; in another the boy was moulding river clay into a pregnant female form. In yet another, he and his mother were fondly embracing.
    â€˜One always looks for answers, madame. You must forgive the detective in me.’
    Had he seen something? she wondered and looking up, knew at once that he was now watching her closely in the mirrored door of the armoire and had positioned himself so as to do so.
    â€˜Is there anything else you want?’ she asked harshly.
    â€˜The watercolours, madame. Your son is also an accomplished painter. Very sensitive, very accurate. Lupins, achillea, dogwood in flower, roses, but …’
    â€˜But, what ?’ she spat.
    He shrugged and parted the black-out drapes to peer down into the garden and then to pull them aside. ‘But in your husband’s study, madame, there are those of Pierre-Joseph Redouté and others. Un bouquet de pensées, Rosa x odorata, lilium superbum …’
    â€˜And?’she shrilled defiantly.
    â€˜But none of your son’s work. It’s a puzzle, isn’t