Chief Inspector Maigret Visits London Read online

  ‘Oh, Diane,’ was all Megan could say before her tears started again.

  ‘What’s wrong, Meg? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Georges Martin, he’s been run down by a car and he’s in St Mary’s in a very bad way.’

  ‘What can we do? Should David come to the hospital?’

  ‘Is he home?’

  ‘Yes, I saw him go into the church by the side door about fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘Ask him to light every candle in the church, and then to pray as hard as he can. And you pray too.’

  ‘We will. I promise you, we both will.’

  For the next four days Georges Martin hovered between life and death. His spleen had to be removed, he had substantial internal injuries, and he was in a coma. Sometimes Death seemed to gain the upper hand and they all despaired, then the pendulum swung again and Life clawed back a little ground. Philippe and Megan stayed at the hospital while one long day followed another, and still Georges did not regain consciousness. From the first night Philippe had insisted on sleeping in a small fold-up bed in Georges’ room, while Megan slept fitfully alone in her apartment.

  The children, Celia, Max and Timmy, brought armfuls of fresh flowers and hand-drawn cards to him. Timmy even brought his beloved new cricket bat that he usually took to bed with him, and left it reverently next to Georges’ bed as though it was some holy relic with miraculous powers to heal. Then they all kissed his pallid cheek, shed more tears for him, and stole silently away when it was time to leave. Even Nathaniel, Megan’s third grandson, who lived in Norfolk, and hadn’t met any of the French policemen, sent letters and poems and cards with elaborate drawings about how the body could function quite well without a spleen.

  But worse was to come.

  Chapter Eleven

  During the long, dark days that followed the attempt on Georges Martin’s life, Max’s health began to deteriorate. At first he couldn’t sleep, because of the terrifying nightmares that tormented him. Next were the bad headaches, together with a sore throat that made swallowing difficult and painful.

  Then his throat closed up and refused to accept any food at all, even his favourite kind which his mother made for him. Finally, his stomach grew very hard and knotted itself into a tight ball. And he couldn’t tell anyone what was wrong. How could he, when he didn’t know himself? In those four days when Georges Martin’s life hung in the balance, Max, who had scarcely known more than a few days illness in his life, grew so pale and listless that he had to be kept home from school. He spent his days lying on a sofa in the living room, with Inky beside him for comfort. In the end, despite all the medical advice, and the urgent discussions concerning the need for psychological intervention, it was Timmy who provided the first clue as to what was wrong with Max.

  Timmy heard him muttering, over and over, every night as he lingered in some undefined space between sleep and awake.

  ‘Shut up, Max!’ he finally shouted. ‘You’re talking tosh all the time. I can’t understand a thing you’re saying! Shut up, and go back to sleep!’

  However, on the third night Timmy heard very clearly what Max was saying. Over and over he was repeating the cryptic words ‘crème caramel’!

  ‘But what does it mean?’ he asked his mother the next morning.’

  ‘What, Timmy?’ She said absent-mindedly, while she pressed a damp cloth to Max’s forehead. He’s very hot, she thought. Should I take him to the hospital again? Or maybe the doctor will do an emergency home visit?

  ‘What I just said!’

  ‘I’m sorry – what did you say?’

  ‘I said, what does ‘crème caramel’ mean?’

  ‘What? It’s a kind of dessert, Timmy, you know that. It’s one of your favourites.’

  Timmy sighed in exasperation. ‘I know it’s a dessert, but what does it mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just the name of a pudding.’

  When his father came downstairs five minutes later Timmy tried again. ‘What does ‘crème caramel’ mean, Dad?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a dessert. It doesn’t have to mean anything.’

  ‘Oh, forget it!’ Timmy said, stomping off huffily towards the study. ‘I’ll ask Granny. At least I know she will listen to me, even if she doesn’t know the answer!’

  But Granny did know because, as Timmy’s dad had said many times, Granny had an elephantine memory, and you know how elephants are supposed to have phenomenal memories. And indeed she did have quite a good memory, although she often wished it worked better with French verbs than it did with useless bits of trivia.

  Timmy caught Granny just as she was about to leave for St Mary’s again. When he asked her the question she didn’t say that it was a kind of pudding, instead she asked, ‘Why do you need to know, sweetie?’

  ‘Because that’s what Max has been yelling all night, and I’m fed up with it!’

  The cogs in Granny’s brain began turning: spinning, sifting, sorting, scrutinising, selecting, through the masses of data stored there. Then, finally, the file she was looking for popped into her consciousness. Gotcha, she thought triumphantly. ‘I see. Could you take the phone to Max now please, Timmy? I need to speak to him. I’ll tell you later what I think it might be about.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Hello,’ it was Max’s voice faint and fretful.

  ‘Max, it’s Granny.’

  ‘I know. I’m sick, Granny. I’ve never felt like this before. Not in my whole life.’

  ‘I know, darling. Where does it hurt?’

  ‘Everywhere. Everywhere hurts – even my eyes, and my teeth – everywhere, but mostly my head. And the inside of my stomach too. I’m not pretending, Granny, I really am sick.’

  ‘I know you are, darling, and it’s because of Georges, isn’t it?’

  There was a long pause: a very long pause while she waited for Max to answer, but he said nothing. ‘Max, do you remember all of us being in France together a long time ago? You were only a little sprog and Timmy was just a baby, remember?’

  ‘I think I remember. Granddad was there too, wasn’t he? And did we stay in a big house with a swimming pool, and Celia and I slept in a room together, next to Mum and Dad’s room?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it! And Nathaniel and Julie were there too. Nat was even younger than you, and he used to do a wobbly walk around the edge of the pool: Granddad always worried that he might fall in. Remember?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good. Then can you remember that one day it rained all day long, and everyone was miserable because we couldn’t swim, or even go outside? All we could do was read and look at the rain.’

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  ‘I think you do, Max. Or at least part of your brain remembers.’

  ‘I’m very tired, Granny. I can’t think about this any more. It makes my headache worse.’

  ‘Please, darling, just a few minutes more while I tell you a little story: it’s a true story. Would that be okay?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘That night, the night when it had rained all day, I gave you and Celia a bath, then you both climbed into bed and I read you a story.’

  ‘What story?’ And Max, the avid reader, was suddenly a little more interested than he’d been before.

  ‘I can’t remember, but that’s not the important part of what I’m telling you, sweetie.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘When I’d finished reading the story, I said that we should each say a little prayer to God.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe in God.’

  ‘That’s alright, Max. I’m sure He believes in you!’

  ‘That Professor says that God is deluded… ’

  ‘No, Richard Dawkins says a belief in God is a delusion. At least that’s what I think he says, because I haven’t read his book. If you ask me, he’s the one who is deluded. He’s made Science his god just like Aaron did with the golden calf. Only now they don’t have to melt their jewellery to do it becau
se they have research grants instead. Then everyone bows down and says “clever science, clever scientists, they have all the answers”, when they actually know very little, and can prove even less.’

  ‘What?’ ‘Oh, I was thinking about the story of the golden calf. It’s in the Old Testament. I’ll tell you another day.’

  ‘A calf made out of gold? That’s impossible,’ Max was incredulous. But he was also interested.

  ‘Well, of course it wasn’t a real calf, but it was made from real gold.’

  ‘Oh. How?’

  ‘All the people gave Aaron, the priest, their gold jewellery, and he melted it down to make the golden calf. And I can tell you that nothing good came from that little episode – nothing good at all! But the whole story’s for another time; it’s not important now.’

  ‘Is that it? Is that what you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘No, of course not silly, I haven’t finished yet, because I got side-tracked when you mentioned wretched Professor Dawkins! But to return to my original story; we all said an evening prayer to God. I can’t remember who went first, nor can I remember what Celia said, or what I said. But I can remember very clearly what you said, Max. Shall I tell you?’

  ‘I suppose.’ ‘You said, ‘Dear God, please remember our needs and give us a fine day tomorrow: crème caramel’.’

  ‘What? But that doesn’t make sense! Why would I say that, instead of Amen? That’s what we do in Assembly after we’ve said the Lord’s Prayer.’

  ‘No one knows why you said it, you just did. And you were very fond of crème caramel at the time!’

  ‘I still am,’ he said weakly.

  ‘I know you are. But I think that how we end our prayers doesn’t matter much to God. It must be what’s in our hearts that’s important. Guess what happened the next day?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was the best, the sunniest, the most wonderfully perfect day of the whole two weeks that we were in France. Now what do you think about that?’

  ‘I don’t know. My head hurts too much to think.’

  ‘And after that perfect day, when I told the rest of the family what you’d said the night before, we all laughed and said “so that’s how to make sure our prayers are answered: forget the Amen and always end by saying crème caramel”!’

  Then suddenly Granny was serious again. ‘Timmy says that you’ve been saying crème caramel at night. You’ve even been shouting it sometimes. Why would you do that, do you think?’

  There was silence for a long time, so Granny decided to fill the void. ‘Darling, is there any chance you might be blaming yourself for what has happened to Inspector Martin?’

  More silence.

  ‘Do you think that the bad thing happened to Georges because you said he was a rubbish bowler?’

  There was a different sound now on the other end of the line: it could have been soft tears falling. But then big boys of almost eleven don’t cry, do they?

  ‘Max, listen to me. What happened to Georges happened because someone deliberately tried to kill him. It was a criminal act, not the result of you telling him he couldn’t bowl! How could words cause what happened? Haven’t you called me a rubbish bowler sometimes? And have I ever been run down by a car after you did? No, of course I haven’t!’

  There was a loud sob mixed with a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line.

  ‘You don’t think I put a… a… kind of… curse on him, Granny?’

  ‘No I do not! For a start only truly evil people put curses on other people. And when they do, they come to nothing because the Lord God Almighty over-rides them!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He presses the cosmic delete button to make the curse disappear!’

  ‘Are you sure? How do you know that’s an actual verifiable truth?’

  ‘I just do. The same way that I know the sun will come up tomorrow morning. Now will you do something for me, sweetie?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Will you have a nice long shower then get dressed, and I’ll ask Mum to take a taxi to the hospital, so that you and I can see Georges together. And then we could say a crème caramel prayer. Would you like that, Max?’

  ‘Yes. But first can I have something to eat? I’m totally starving! I’d like some scrambled eggs and bacon, and lots of toast with honey!’

  Max’s mother said later that he ate as if all the food was about to vanish from the planet.

  ‘I thought he’d throw up with the amount he ate, after so long without food,’ she laughed, ‘but he didn’t, and I don’t think he’s stopped eating since!’

  Later that morning, Alison brought Max to the hospital. Then Megan asked both Philippe and her to leave the room. ‘You do it, Max. I think it would work better coming from you,’ she said. ‘You sit on the other side of Georges, and take hold of his hand, while I do the same on this side.’

  ‘Okay.’ He cleared his throat dramatically, and then said, ‘Dear God, please make Georges well again. He’s not really a rubbish bowler – he just hasn’t had the practice. If he had a few sessions in the nets I’m sure he’d show a huge improvement. And you must admit he’s a good batsman, even if he is French.’ Then he paused and said, in a clear, strong voice, ‘crème caramel.’

  ‘Crème caramel,’ repeated his Granny, with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Crème caramel,’ said Philippe, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Crème caramel,’ Max said again.

  Whether it was the crème caramel prayer, or Father Wainwright’s many prayers and candles, or the skill of the surgeons, or the mystery of how the human body knows how to repair itself – given a little strategic help – or a combination of all those positive forces, no one knew for sure, but later that day Georges began to emerge from his coma. And within the week he would be well enough to be flown back to Paris by air ambulance. However, Granny knew what she believed, and she was not alone: there were others with similar thoughts. ‘It must have been a miracle,’ an immensely impressed Timmy whispered to Max after their mother had turned off their light that night.

  ‘Yep,’ replied Max from the upper bunk, ‘there’s no doubt about it. It was a genuine, one hundred percent crème caramel miracle!’

  ‘Do you think God likes crème caramel too, Max?’

  ‘Of course – what’s not to like?’

  Then they both fell asleep and slept soundly for the next nine hours.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nicole Vachon was discharged from St Mary’s after one night there. She had not been badly hurt, but had a mild concussion, so had been told to rest for a few days. The day after her return home, Chief Inspector Scott from the Met Police, accompanied by Sergeant Andy Gillespie – the erstwhile “phoney vicar” – came to call. She had been expecting them.

  ‘What do you remember about the accident, Mrs Vachon?’ Chief Inspector Scott asked, as they sipped their coffee.

  ‘Nothing, really – it all happened so suddenly. Is Inspector Martin alright? He saved my life, that’s one thing I do know.’

  ‘It’s too early to tell, but we’re hoping he’ll be okay. Can you remember anything about immediately after the accident?’

  ‘No, only that my head hurt, but that was when I woke up in the ambulance. Why wasn’t Inspector Martin with me? How did he get to St Mary’s?’

  ‘I understand that a member of the public flagged down an ambulance travelling along Elgin Avenue soon after the accident, because it was obvious he had been badly injured.’

  ‘That’s right, boss,’ confirmed Andy Gillespie, ‘apparently it was already on its way to St Mary’s, but there was a patient in that ambulance already, so that’s why another one had to be sent for Mrs Vachon. I believe that one of the paramedics stayed with her until the second ambulance arrived.’ ‘I see. Thank you,’ said Nicole Vachon. ‘I’m so grateful to everyone who helped, especially Inspector Martin. It was a very brave thing he did, pushing me out of the way like that. He must have known the car would h
it him. You know, he could have jumped clear if he’d done that instead of saving me, but he didn’t.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Chief Inspector Scott, ‘Georges Martin is a very courageous man and a fine police officer. I can assure you that Scotland Yard will see that his bravery is suitably recognised.’

  ‘Good. Now do you have any further questions, Chief Inspector? I’m very tired, I think I might have to lie down for a while.’

  ‘Just a few more, then I promise we’ll be on our way. These men who’ve been visiting Serge off and on over the past few weeks – what can you tell us about them?’ ‘Nothing, because I was never allowed to meet any of them: in fact I never even laid eyes on them.’

  ‘Why not?’ Inspector Gillespie asked.

  ‘Serge always knew when they were coming, so he told me to go out somewhere, like the cinema, or maybe shopping, otherwise I’d have to stay in our bedroom.’

  ‘So you didn’t even hear their voices?’

  ‘I did once, when I stayed home because I wasn’t well.’

  ‘And how many were there, do you know? And what accents did they have?’

  ‘I only heard one speak, but there might have been three that time. The one I heard spoke English – ordinary English, I mean.’

  ‘Ordinary English?’

  ‘Yes, you know; not posh.’

  ‘I see. Did he speak like us; Sergeant Gillespie, and me, perhaps?’

  ‘No – even more ordinary than you.’

  Hmm, have we just been complimented or insulted, Andy Gillespie wondered. And ‘ordinary English’ hardly narrows down our field of suspects: most of the people we cross paths with would be in that category. But not all: we have our share of posh upmarket rascals too. ‘But some of the men who came were not English, were they?’ Chief Inspector Scott persisted.

  ‘How would I know? I told you I never heard any of the others speak because I was usually out.’

  ‘And you still haven’t heard anything from Serge?’

  ‘Not a word. Have you heard anything? Has his car been found yet?’