The Devil's Cave: A Bruno Courrèges Investigation (Bruno Chief of Police 5)

Citroën DS was the car that had been fast enough, rugged enough and had the endurance to save Charles de Gaulle’s life twice from successive assassination attempts, as the Baron never tired of saying. But his car was now fifty years old and its legendary suspension groaned as the Baron hurled it down the lane from Bruno’s home. They hit the road into town with the speedometer touching eighty and still accelerating as they went past the Gendarmerie. The Baron had to slow for the roundabout but accelerated hard onto the old stone bridge across the river, the imperious klaxon blaring as other cars scattered and scurried to the side of the road.
    As they entered the long lane that led to Pamela’s house. Bruno scanned the horizon for a sign of smoke but saw none so far. And when they crested the rise, still accelerating so they briefly left the ground, he saw no sign of horse nor rider in the grounds around the old farmhouse. Above all, there was no flare of flame in the stables.
    He looked up towards the ridge and there was nothing. But then from the long forest ride he saw the flash of white as the mare came down through the trees at a gallop, the rider tall in the saddle, one arm held out and holding something that glinted in the sun.
    ‘That’s her,’ Bruno said.
    ‘
Putain
, it’s going to be close,’ the Baron said, ignoring the steam that was coming from the long bonnet of his car and the flaring red lights on his dashboard. ‘When I tell you, hit the handbrake as hard as you can.’
    Urged on by its rider, the white mare found a new burst of pace as it reached the level field that led to Pamela’s courtyard and the stables beyond. But the Baron held his speed as the DS hit the bump where the gravel drive began. He threw the car into the bend, ignoring the loud scrape that came from the wing brushing the gatepost. Understanding what his friend intended to do, Bruno released both seat belts. He tucked Balzac firmly into his shirt, buttoning him in.
    The white mare was in the courtyard, suddenly slowing as the rider released the reins. She held a lighter to the petrol-soaked rag in the mouth of the bottle and was reaching back her arm to throw.
    ‘Now,’ shouted the Baron, stabbing at his brakes.
    He threw the car into a four-wheel drift as Bruno hauled on the handbrake and the Baron hit the throttle a final time. The white mare was rearing on its hind legs. The bottle caught the light and Bruno could see the flame. With the shriek of an avenging fury Eugénie hurled it onto the car that was sliding into her path, blocking her way to her chosen target of Hector’s stable.
    Bruno grabbed the Baron’s arm and opened his door. Bracing a foot against the steering-wheel column he hauled his friend bodily out of the car. They fell and rolled together onto the sharp gravel of the courtyard as the car explodedbehind them and they heard the piercing scream of an animal in mortal pain. Horse or woman, they could not tell which.
    It might have been both, from the great surge of fire that roared up from the stricken car to embrace and devour the mare and rider together. Erupting anew, the flames caught the white mane of the horse and the flaring darkness of Eugénie’s hair as both crumpled into the burning wreckage of the car.

Epilogue
    Ironic, thought Bruno as the tiny bell tolled, that Athénaïs should be buried beside the Red Château’s family chapel where she’d gone through the Black Mass that had been the prelude to her death. Even more ironic that she would rest at arm’s length from her cousin, the Count, whose own grave had been dug alongside. At least Athénaïs had a respectable gathering of mourners. They were led by her grandmother in her wheelchair and by her teenage daughter from America, Marie-Françoise. The Red Countess looked desperately frail, but her eyes were dry and her grip on Marie-Françoise’s hand was firm. She kept her gaze fixed on Father Sentout as he spoke the Latin phrases she had requested for the funeral service.
    Her sister Héloïse sat hunched and muttering to one side, casting the occasional venomous glance at Bruno and J-J, each now formally absolved of fault by the
Procureur
’s inquiry into the shooting. It had established that Bruno’s shot had hit the Count in the knee and J-J’s had been the fatal bullet in the chest. Marie-Françoise had testified that the Count had fired first, after Bruno’s shout of ‘Police – drop your weapons.’ It had helped