“Yes,” continued Rene Baron solemnly. “Idris Jones went to the gallows still protesting his innocence, and in a loud voice he pleaded with God not to allow a blade of grass ever to grow over his grave, to prove it. Shortly after he was laid to rest — at some distance from the village because some people opposed a criminal being buried there — the grass first turned yellow and then disappeared. And it has never grown there since.”
The innkeeper paused for a moment and then asked: “So, what do you think, Doctor?”
The detective stroked his moustache meditatively. “The ways of the Lord are mysterious indeed, but it’s as well to be cautious about this kind of story. I never cease to be amazed by the human capacity for mischief, and the astonishing ruses that have been perpetrated.”
“Hmm,” responded the innkeeper. “You’re sceptical, Doctor. It’s understandable. We all were at one time or another. I’ll let our friend Mike, who also happens to be the village mayor, take the floor.”
Turning toward the photo of the young pilots, Felder began: “I see you’ve noticed which armed force we were in when we were defending our country, Doctor. Time has gone by and we are still alive, whereas a number of our colleagues weren’t so lucky.”
“They are still with us in our thoughts, sir,” said Twist, solemnly.
“Yes, of course. In fact nobody came out of the war unscathed. We’ve all had to count our dead and wounded. But at the same time, for those of us who did manage to survive, strong bonds of friendship were formed. It’s how we were able to get through it all. For me, it was slightly easier, having been accustomed to... shall we say... a certain austerity in life: I was an orphan. Rene, however, lost his whole family in Marseilles, which is why, after his tour of duty in the R.A.F. was over, he didn’t go back.”
“Poor me!” smiled the innkeeper. “And it wasn’t always easy. There isn’t much in the way of Mediterranean sunshine around here. But I came to understand that, when the sun doesn’t shine in the sky, it hides in men’s hearts. And I’m so contented here I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, believe me.”
“As for our friend Charles here, he also suffered a great loss after the war, and he wouldn’t leave the village for all the tea in China, isn’t that right, Charles?”
Charles grunted his agreement. With his stooped posture, blotchy skin, and shifty eyes behind horn-rimmed spectacles, Bilenski did not impress. Twist suspected a fondness for the bottle, and the number of beers he had consumed since Twist’s arrival did nothing to discourage that impression.
“Don’t be fooled, Doctor,” continued Felder. “Our friend was one of the great heroes of the last war. Rene and I weren’t exactly amateurs at the controls of a Spitfire, but Charles was a true virtuoso. He was showered with medals and his name sent shudders of fear through the old Luftwaffe. All this is to make the point that when my two friends decided to come here to settle down, they didn’t believe a word of the story either, when I told them about it. They even laughed at me. I have to admit that one didn’t see then the beautiful lawn around the grave that one sees today. It was actually more of a wasteland covered in stones. There was grass, though... everywhere but where the grave lies. People in the past had tried to make it grow, but without success. Eventually we decided to plant a few yew trees around the grave to hide the infamous patch and forget about it. The kids were always playing there and some of us thought the ground remained bare because of them running around there. Didn’t we, Rene?”
“Well, that was my theory,” agreed the man from Marseilles. “Although I didn’t care much one way or the other; my job was, and still is, to quench thirsty throats, and Lord knows there are enough around here! But I have to say not everyone saw things the same way, notably that developer from Bristol. Do you remember him?”
“As if it were yesterday,” said Felder, who had turned crimson. “A chap called Evans, resourceful enough, but too full of himself, and tricky besides. He’d managed to buy the land by using his contacts, despite objections by the then mayor and myself — though I was only assistant mayor at the time. He was going to create a golf course right bang in the middle of that land, and follow it with a luxury hotel. And he had the nerve to walk into our office to announce it.”
“I had just bought this place,” said Rene Baron, “and I don’t mind telling you he gave me a fright. I remember someone telling him about the area where the grass wouldn’t grow, which would pose a problem for the golf. He laughed until he cried, claiming he’d overcome many challenges a lot more difficult than that. That evening, in front of all the customers at the bar, he vowed to break the ancient curse or abandon the project.”
“As far as he was concerned,” continued Felder, “the matter was already settled. A few days later, he had removed the earth between the yews to a considerable depth and had replaced it with a rich loam which he had then seeded. The grass had scarcely started to grow before it turned yellow. Naturally he did not give up after the first setback. He dug up all the surrounding area, replaced the earth on the grave itself, and brought in the best gardeners in the region, but to no avail. That’s when he began to suspect that one of us was sabotaging his efforts.”
“By spraying the grave with weed-killer?” asked Twist, with a smile.
“Yes, because he had already taken precautions. Precautions which became more and more stringent until, some would say, they bordered on paranoia. The fellow wasn’t used to failure. The grass that failed to grow had become an obsession with him: a blow to his self-respect which needed to be redeemed. So he set about doing everything possible to neutralise the ‘enemy.’ Without regard to the cost of materials or labour, he had a wall built around the affected area, at a distance of about twenty yards from the grave. When it was finished, it was in the form of a square, six feet high all around. In the middle of one side there was a metal grille serving as a gate. When it was all built, he placed trained dogs to guard the perimeter. Despite all that, plus a new round of soil and fertilizer, the grass still refused to grow.”
Dr. Twist lit his pipe, paused for a moment, then asked: “How were the yews arranged and how high were they?”
“They were planted close together in the shape of a rectangle two or three times the size of the grave itself. They formed a thick hedge about six feet high, with a narrow opening so that the access path from the gate could reach the grave.” A mocking gleam came into Felder’s eye. “If I’m following your train of thought correctly, you’re wondering if someone could have used a hose pipe or water pump?”
“Yes, or something of that nature. But under the circumstances, that’s not possible. The poisonous liquid from the jet would have sprayed almost everything except the grave, not to mention the distance involved. To produce a jet reaching twenty yards would have required a fire engine!”
“Quite. And that’s what Evans thought as well. Several months went by and he came close to a nervous breakdown because of the repeated failure of his efforts. That was when he decided to put a couple of guards inside the walls and even one on the outside. Professionals, young and alert every one, with a second team to take over so that the grave was guarded day and night.
“Nevertheless, they never found anything suspicious. The dogs howled a couple of times; that’s about it. Just false alarms. And still the grass wouldn’t grow. Evans was literally mad with anger and frustration. When someone suggested that the shadow from the yews was at fault, or maybe their roots were rendering the ground sterile, he didn’t hesitate to have them cut down. When that was done, there remained a magnificently flat lawn inside the tightly monitored wall. But nothing changed. The earth around the grave remained stubbornly barren. As soon as seeding restarted, tender shoots of grass would appear, turn yellow, and die. It was as if the ground there really was cursed.”