The mysterious death of Peter Fuller

Tuesday 30th June






My neighbour, Bernard told me yesterday that an Englishmen who lives in a village only a few miles from Les Mayets had been found dead at his house. He had apparently been murdered by another British national who had been staying with the deceased and there had been a heated argument about a golf match.

However, another of our neighbours told me today that the mysterious Englishman who had been staying with Fuller had been doing some building work for him and hadn’t been paid. Whether he hit Fuller over the head with a golf club is speculation.

Sure enough, the local regional newspaper, Sud Ouest carried a story in the Monday edition about the incident on its front page. According their report Peter Fuller, aged 67, had died on Saturday night or early Sunday morning and his body had been discovered by his ex-wife on Sunday at midday. He had suffered head wounds which were thought to be caused by a blunt instrument.

Fuller lived alone in a large house near Plaisance but for the last three weeks he had a younger Englishman lodging with him who is said to be in his 30s. When the Gendarmes arrived at the scene the man had disappeared. The Sud Ouest reported that the man, who has not been named but who is the prime suspect in the murder case, boarded a plane at Bordeaux airport bound for London where he was detained by the British police.

Two of Fuller’s cars were missing. One, which had broken down or been involved in an accident, had been found abandoned near Fuller’s house. The other had apparently been used by the assailant to get to Bordeaux.

Formerly employed in the oil industry Fuller had been building an 18 hole golf course but was short of money and, to make ends meet, had started a restaurant selling English roasts and fish and chips.

Saturday 6th June

Neil Morrissey


The Ryanair flight to Bergerac from Stansted was packed. I was one of the last to board but luckily on the front row there was a spare seat – the middle of three by the front exit which have extra leg room. By the window sat a distinguished looking English gent wearing a linen suit and brown loafers reading the Daily Telegraph. In the right seat by the aisle wearing jeans, tea shirt and a scruffy pair of blue trainers was the actor Neil Morrissey.

I am a bit of a fan of Neil Morrissey and liked him in the TV sitcom Men Behaving Badly. That was until I sighted him a year ago in a supermarket in Fumel, in the Lot et Garonne. On that occasion when he saw that I may have recognised him he stared back at me fiercely I later spied him downing several pressions in the bar of the same supermarket.

This time he seemed friendly enough and apologised for leaving his brief case on the middle seat. I was careful not to show any recognition and instead read the racing pages of The Times. It was Derby day and I had backed Sea the Stars in a reverse forecast with Fame and Glory.

The stewardess asked if we wanted any drinks. Morrissey ordered a whisky which came in two sealed plastic sachets. This, he thought, was amusing. I ordered a gin and tonic and along came the gin, also in two plastic sachets – a double like his whisky I presumed.

This broke the ice -excuse the pun - and we started chatting. He had bought a house four years ago near Monflanquin, Lot et Garonne about 50 kilometres south of Bergerac four years ago. He said he loved it there and spent as much time as possible between shows “chilling out” at his house. He said that sadly he would only be in France for a couple of weeks as he was due back in London to rehearse for the lead role in a play called Rain Man –the same role that Dustin Hoffman played in the film of the same name about an autistic savant.

Morrissey explained that researching the role had been amazing and that he hadn’t realised quite how brilliant people afflicted with this disability were. I mentioned that I had come across someone I thought fitted this bill - a charming, soft spoken assistant at a garden centre near Alexander Palace. He knew the Latin and common name of every plant in the place, all their characteristics and when and how to plant them.

“Did you notice that they don’t look at you when they’re speaking?” Morrissey asked me.

I agreed that this was definitely the case with the young gardener at Alexandra Palace who appeared to be mentally and spiritually on a higher plain. While being extremely helpful and courteous he avoided any physical or eye contact.

Friday February 13th

My birthday.

Is Friday 13th my lucky day that’s the question!? Many believe this to be an unlucky day. The conundrum was put to the test later the same day.

The best laid plans for attending the opera in Bordeaux were abandoned because of the two hour drive back home. Far better to have a few sharpeners prior to a slap up dinner at L’Imparfait in Bergerac. Lyndia could join me in a glass of champagne to celebrate the great day and drive me home after dinner. She said she was quite happy to abstain from wine at the restaurant,

So far so good.

We found a convivial cocktail bar in Bergerac old town in sight of a statue of the fabled Cyrano. The bar was designer decorated with influences from Bali - clever lighting, black stone walls, large gold Buddhas and a waterfall in the old stone entrance hall. The patron was debonair and spoke good English. Seated at a table were a couple of suited businessmen in the company of lady, also suited, complete with brief case and with mobile phone pressed to her ear. She appeared to be of “Cote Ivoire” origin. We drank house champagne at 10 euros a shot and left feeling quite jolly.

Feeling pleased the drink intake had been kept to a minimum at dinner I elected to drive. I’d chosen to forget a number of Pelforth pressions consumed in my earlier bar crawl round the main town looking for a Tabac. We would get home before chucking out time I insisted.

On the other side of the Pont Neuf, which traverses the Dordogne, we saw the tell tale swivelling blue lights of the Gendarmes. They were pulling everyone in at the roundabout at Madeleine . There was no escape. I blew into the bag. I didn’t dare to see if had changed colour. I was politely told it had and that I was over the limit. This would surely prove my worst fears about this superstitiously unlucky date.

We were in a French registered car but when the gendarme who had officiated in the breath test asked me to produce my car papers I replied in English that they were not in the car but at home. His attitude changed. He called his boss over.

“You’re English?” his commanding officer enquired.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Give me your car keys,” he demanded.

Whereupon he walked round to the passenger window and handed them to Lyndia.

“Tell your wife to drive you home,” he said.

It was, after all, my lucky day!

I will shortly be posting samples of my diary, Letter from the Dordogne. This is essentially about moving to a newly acquired house in "Dordogneshire". It will give a little bit of insight into this little bit of England. I would like to think it will be a better read than A Year in Provence.

I moved to this lovely house, Maison Mayets in St Perdoux on February 1st 2009. The first item that will be posted shortly is the account of a lucky escape on my birthday, Friday February 13th.

Watch this space.

The majority of the 200000 British passport holders living in France have settled in the Dordogne. Read my diary Letter from the Dordogne. Coming soon. Watch this pace!

News from the Dordogne

You will soon be able to read my diary with regular updates, about living in the Dordogne.