thirty seconds later
Émile Caussignac, the baker,
hesitated for a moment as he took in the scene. Madame Longchamp seemed to be
transfixed as she stared at the river, her basket discarded on the bridge, its
meagre contents strewn across the cobbles.
“Gabriel,”
Émile roared at his immediate neighbour, the partially deaf owner of the bar
and café next door. “I’m taking this for Madame Longchamp,” he said, grabbing a
chair from the nearest pavement table. At a run, he crossed the bridge and,
taking her elbow gently, slotted the seat behind his customer.
“Madame,
please sit.” As he looked up, he saw his old school friend Mathieu, the maître
d’ and owner of the restaurant just down the road, arrive to open up.
“Mathieu, an Armagnac for
Madame, quickly please.” He righted the basket and returned the keys and purse
to their resting place.
Finally
turning his attention to the cause of Madame’s distress, Émile took a couple of
steps towards the side of the bridge. The body of a man was lying face-up in
the water, unmoving. The actual cause of death was not easily visible from
above, but the trail of blood gradually filtering through the water was a
constantly refreshed marker.
“What’s
happen—”
“Police,”
barked Émile, taking the proffered small glass of alcohol from Mathieu. “Call
the police immediately.” The baker turned to Madame and handed her the brandy.
“Here, drink this,” he said, carefully cupping one of her hands, and then the
other, around the bowl of the glass. Rose-Marie stared at him, her eyes
seemingly vacant of any recognition. “It’s me, Madame. Émile the baker.”
Rose-Marie
took a sip of the strong drink. “Thank you,” she stammered. She gazed at the
people around her. Mathieu was on his phone, making a call. Gabriel was
standing at the foot of the bridge, looking on. Madame Caussignac appeared in
the doorway of the shop, and several other residents, a couple still in their
night clothes, had wandered out onto the street.
“I think I’d
like to go home,” said Rose-Marie after taking another sip of the alcohol.
“Of course.”
Émile offered her his right arm. Still pale and shocked, Madame Longchamp
attempted to stand. As she got to her feet, Émile felt her grip on his forearm
tighten.
“Alright,
Madame?” She nodded and handed him her glass.
“The police
are on their way,” said Mathieu taking the glass from his friend. “I think they
will want to talk to you, Madame.”
Rose-Marie
nodded. “Yes, I suppose they will.” She moved forward a step. The baker, with
Madame’s basket clasped in his left hand, escorted her to the far side of the
bridge and shepherded her up the uneven stone steps to her front door.
“Don’t worry
about your bread order, Madame. I will get everything together for you once I’m
back in the shop, and then I will deliver it myself.” Taking Madame’s keys from
the bottom of her basket, he opened the front door and led her inside.
Rose-Marie
stood in the hallway and watched as Émile placed the basket on the chair that
sat beneath the hall mirror. No, that’s not the right place, she
thought.
“Coffee,” she
said, still staring at the offending item as though it could somehow tidy
itself into its proper resting place. “I’ll make some coffee.” Her voice had
regained a little of its usual timbre and strength.
“No, Madame. You will sit down,” Émile said as he guided his customer into the living room. “I will make you some coffee.” Knowing the layout of the house that he’d visited often as a child to play with Madame’s youngest son, the baker made his way to the kitchen at the back to begin his task.
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