The Devil's Cave by Martin Walker: A review

St. Denis is a small town set smack in the middle of the Perigord region of France, an area known for its gourmet foods and fine wines and for its caves. The region is dotted with them. Many served as shelter as far back as the Neanderthals and some have the magnificent paintings on their walls that bespeak the artistry and culture of long-dead peoples.

Those caves also played an important role in the Resistance to Nazi occupation during World War II. The caves were hiding places for people, supplies, and arms. That particular bit of history still looms large in St. Denis where there are people alive who still remember it.

One of the caves that played such a role is the so-called Devil's Cave of this book's title. It is also integral to the mystery which Bruno Courrèges, Chief of Police of St. Denis, must try to solve.

The case begins on a fine spring day as the local church choir is practicing for its Easter concert. Bruno is observing and enjoying the practice when he receives a call that tells him that a body has been found.

In fact, the body is that of a naked woman that has been laid out on a punt floating down the river. The body has a pentagram painted on her abdomen, black candles around her, and a decapitated black cockerel beside her. The scene gives all the appearances of the trappings of a Black Mass.

There is no identification on the body or in the boat and no one recognizes her, but Bruno is finally able to identify her as the daughter of a famous woman who was part of the Resistance and who, it turns out, is still alive and living in St. Denis but has supposedly been lost to Alzheimer's Disease.

The death of the woman at first appears to be suicide, but when the autopsy is performed, it becomes apparent that it is really a case of murder. As Bruno investigates, he finds that the death may somehow be related to a scheme to build a resort village in St. Denis, something that is touted as bringing jobs, money, and prosperity to this quiet region. Digging deeper, he begins to suspect that those involved in the planning and construction are actually perpetrating a fraud on his beloved St. Denis, something they have already done in another nearby town.

In the midst of this complicated investigation, another death occurs. This time it is a local drunk and wife beater whom Bruno had recently interacted with and the death looks like a traffic accident. But once again, the autopsy gives the lie to that supposition. Bruno, in fact, has two murders on his hands, but are they related?

I'm beginning to warm up to Bruno. In previous books, I've sometimes found him smug to the point of obnoxiousness, but he came across as quite a likable human being in this book, one who really enjoys cooking for his friends and sharing his wine with them. I find reading about his food preparation as one of the more endearing aspects of these stories.

One of the "gourmet" dishes he cooked in this book was "beer can chicken" which he learned about from a Texan with whom he was stationed in Sarajevo. That's one of the few dishes he's cooked that I'm actually familiar with!

His love of animals is also endearing. His beloved basset hound was killed in the previous book, but now here comes his friend/lover from Paris, Isabelle, with a replacement, a basset hound puppy named Balzac. I feel sure we will get to know Balzac much better in coming books.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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