This Night's Foul Work

This Night's Foul Work by Fred Vargas

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Authors: Fred Vargas
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inevitably spotted, weighed up and rejected or accepted. In Normandy, like everywhere else, and possibly a bit more so than anywhere else.
    â€˜What makes you so sure I’m a Parisian?’ Adamsberg asked calmly.
    The old man jerked his chin at the book on the commissaire’s table, next to his glass of beer.
    â€˜The metro ticket,’ he said. ‘You’ve marked your page with a Paris metro ticket. Easy to spot.’
    â€˜But I’m not a Parisian.’
    â€˜Not from Haroncourt, though, are you?’
    â€˜No, I’m from the Pyrenees, from the mountains.’
    Robert raised one hand and let it fall heavily on the table.
    â€˜A Gascon!’ he concluded as if a sheet of lead had fallen on the table.
    â€˜I’m from the Béarn,’ Adamsberg said pointedly.
    The weighing-up process began.
    â€˜People from the mountains, they’ve been trouble,’ said Hilaire, a balding but slightly less old elder statesman, at the other end of the table.
    â€˜When was that?’ asked the not-so-fair one.
    â€˜Don’t you bother asking, Oswald, it was way back.’
    â€˜Well, what about the Bretons? Man from the Pyrenees, at least he’s not going to try and take the Mont Saint Michel away from us.’
    â€˜That’s true enough,’ said Anglebert, nodding.
    â€˜Well,’ hazarded Robert, looking at the newcomer, ‘you don’t look to me like you’re descended from the Vikings. So where do people in the Béarn come from, then?’
    â€˜Straight out of the mountain,’ Adamsberg replied. ‘Stream of lava came down the mountainside and when it hardened, it turned into us.’
    â€˜Stands to reason,’ said the one who punctuated every stage in the conversation.
    The men sat waiting, silently asking to be told what had brought this stranger to Haroncourt.
    â€˜I’m looking for the chateau.’
    â€˜That’s easy. There’s a concert on there tonight.’
    â€˜I’m with one of the musicians.’
    Oswald brought out the local paper from his inside pocket and unfolded it carefully. ‘Here’s a picture of the orchestra,’ he said.
    That constituted an invitation to approach their table. Adamsberg crossed the room, holding his beer in his hand, and observed the page that Oswald held out to him.
    â€˜Here,’ he said, pointing. ‘That one, the viola player.’
    â€˜The pretty girl?’
    â€˜That’s her.’
    Robert served another round of drinks, as much to mark the significance of the pause as to absorb more alcohol. An archaic problem now tormented the gathering. What was this woman to the intruder? Mistress? Wife? Sister? Girlfriend? Cousin?
    â€˜And you’re with her?’ Hilaire asked.
    Adamsberg nodded. He had been told that Normans never ask a direct question, a myth, as he had thought, but in front of him he had a clear example of their proud silence. If you ask too many questions you reveal yourself, and if you reveal yourself you’re less of a man. Ill at ease, the group turned to the elder statesman. Angelbert tilted his unshaven chin, scratching it with his fingers.
    â€˜Because she’s your wife,’ he asserted.
    â€˜Was,’ said Adamsberg.
    â€˜But you’re still coming along with her.’
    â€˜A question of consideration.’
    â€˜Stands to reason,’ said the punctuator.
    â€˜Women,’ Anglebert said in a low voice. ‘Here one day, gone the next.’
    â€˜You don’t want ‘em when you got ‘em,’ commented Robert. ‘Then when they’ve gone, you do.’
    â€˜You lose them,’ Adamsberg agreed.
    â€˜Dunno how it is,’ said Oswald.
    â€˜Lack of consideration,’ Adamsberg explained. ‘Or at least it was that in my case.’
    Here was someone who didn’t make a secret of things, and who’d had woman trouble, which chalked up two good points in this male

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