The Coldest Case by Martin Walker (mobi reader android txt) 📕

wine. When the écrevisses à la nage had gone, Bruno brought out the chilled Monbazillac to go with the Roquefort salad. Finally, Rosalie pushed back her plate, wiped a last chunk of bread around the bottom of her salad bowl, popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes.

‘That was bliss,’ she said. ‘I’d never have thought of a dessert wine with the salad, but the Roquefort made it just right. Brilliant, Bruno, altogether a lovely meal.’

‘There’s a small dessert to come,’ Bruno said, smiling as Rosalie gave a mock groan of pleasure. ‘I’m delighted that you enjoyed it.’

He lit the candles as they enjoyed their peaches, topped with Stéphane’s cream. Alain and Rosalie declined coffee and they sat with the Monbazillac until the last glow had faded from the distant ridge. Bruno blew out the candles in the lanterns and the stars all seemed to explode into view overhead, so they watched them, trying to trace the more familiar galaxies until the moon rose and it was time for bed.

13

Before seven the next morning, Bruno stepped out of his front door in his running gear and was surprised to see Alain and Rosalie, similarly dressed, limbering up in the garden.

‘I told Rosalie you were a jogger,’ said Alain, embracing Bruno. ‘So are we, along with most of the airbase.’ Rosalie embraced him in turn, saying that after the dinner of the previous evening she felt she really needed to run. Airbases were flat places, thought Bruno. Perhaps he should spare them the path up the hill through the woods. He led the way at a moderate pace down the driveway and into the lane that led up a gentle slope, starting to lengthen his stride on the long ridge that stretched for three – usually windswept – kilometres until the land dropped to the Vézère valley below.

The earth was so dry that Bruno saw small puffs of dust rising with each step. They ran side by side, Rosalie between him and Alain, each of them moving easily and running well within their limits but still outpacing Balzac. It was, thought Bruno, even more companionable than the dinner they had shared the previous evening. The only animals up here were sheep with their lambs. Balzac had been taught not to bother them and the sheep in turn ignored the visitors but edged away from the ridge itself, seeking some shade on the western side of the hill while the sun was still low in the sky.

Bruno increased the pace on the way back and the two others stayed with him. Balzac, who was by now way behind, stopped in his tracks as they approached and gave a happy bark of greeting until they raced past him and he had to start chasing them all over again. Bruno glanced at the others when he trotted the last fifty metres up his driveway to the terrace. Like him, they were sweating only slightly, their chests not heaving. They obviously ran as much as he did.

‘I’ll put some coffee on, then take a shower before we head down for the best croissants in the district,’ he said, as Balzac finally trotted up the driveway to rejoin them. ‘By the way, do either of you like riding horses?’

‘I do,’ said Rosalie. ‘But then I grew up on a farm near Lisieux, which is why I recognized those cattle last night. We didn’t have horses but some of my friends did. Alain told me you have a horse of your own. Where do you keep him?’

‘He’s called Hector and he stays at a nearby stables, a riding school run by friends of mine,’ Bruno said. ‘ I only started riding quite recently and I love it.’

Alain was making friends with Balzac, who was lying on his back, the flesh of his lower jaw hanging down from his teeth in what looked like an extremely happy grin. Alain was running both hands over his chest and flanks. He looked up. ‘Didn’t you tell me you were breeding him?’

Bruno nodded. ‘The first litter of his pups was born just a few days ago. I went to see them and they’re enchanting.’

Alain looked at Rosalie, who was smiling broadly. ‘We’ve been thinking about getting a dog when we’re married,’ he said.

‘That solves the problem of your wedding present,’ said Bruno. ‘Tell me the date and I’ll not only be there, I’ll time Balzac’s future matings so you get a puppy once you’re hitched.’

‘That’s far too generous,’ said Rosalie. ‘I know how much a basset like this one can fetch.’

‘Alain is the only real family I’ve got. And I think the two of you would count as a very suitable home for one of Balzac’s pups.’

Twenty minutes later, fresh from their showers and coffee mugs in hand, Bruno was introducing them to his chickens and his cockerel, Blanco, named after a legendary French rugby star. They were suitably impressed by the two geese, Napoleon and Joséphine and their latest brood of half-grown goslings. He explained the three kinds of truffle trees and the different varieties of mushroom he found in the woods that rose up the slope behind the cottage.

‘I see you have apple trees, pears, plums and cherries,’ Rosalie said, looking at his small orchard behind the chicken run. ‘Where did you get the peaches we had last night?’

‘Come see.’ He led them to the back of the house where he had a peach and an apricot tree espaliered against the rear wall with a fig tree at each end. Rosalie nodded approvingly and then looked into the barn where he kept his tools, a big freezer and shelves filled with glass jars of his various preserves of jams and pâtés, confits of duck and enchauds of pork.

‘The only thing you’re missing is beehives and goats,’ she said thoughtfully but in her good-natured way. ‘Then you could be entirely self-sufficient.’

‘I’m not sure I’d want that,’ Bruno replied. ‘Not having them means I can swap my