Madame Beck had not come with any intention of retracting her revelation of Agnès’ past. The discovery of Madame Picot’s treachery had awakened in her a desire to get back in with the Abbé Paul. She had come on the pretext of discussing Mother Véronique’s letter and to ask the Abbé, with no intention of taking his advice, what she should ‘morally’ do about it.
But before she could broach this subject her eye was caught by the turquoise drop.
‘How did that get here?’
‘What is “that”, Madame?’
‘My earring. There. On your table.’
‘That? That is not yours, Madame.’
Madame Beck started up from the blue chaise-longue, slightly disarranging her wig. But some swift instinct in the Abbé Paul led him to pre-empt her. He rose from his chair and retrieved the earring.
‘Father, be so good as to give that to me.’
The Abbé Paul had a tendency to stoop but when he straightened himself he was an unusually tall man. He positively loomed now over Madame Beck. ‘Why should I do that, Madame?’
She looked up at him, her bloodless face gleaming with righteous ire. ‘I must insist, Father. That is one of a pair of earrings given me by my late husband. The silver work is quite distinctive. I lost one of the pair in Evreux but I . . .’
‘Madame Beck, stop a moment –’
But she was not to be stopped.
‘. . . have always treasured this remaining one because I too, Father, am the sole survivor of a pair.’
The Abbé Paul looked down into his visitor’s livid little eyes and with a sinking heart observed in them a most acute and horrible distress. For half a second, and maybe for the first time in their acquaintance, his heart was wrung for her. She was a sad old woman, maybe once attractive but clearly going bald – a part of the Abbé Paul longed to straighten the crooked wig – who had found nothing better to do with her considerable intelligence than sow rumour, discord and strife. It was, he allowed himself to reflect, an appalling fate.
But the general manqué in the Abbé Paul was never wholly mute and dictated where his higher duty lay. With what might have been construed as a gesture of menace, he placed a hand on Madame Beck’s shoulder.
‘Madame Beck, I’m afraid you have made a mistake. I assure you, indeed’ – he directed his straightest look at her flinching eyes – ‘I take my oath as a priest of your Church, Madame, that this is not your earring.’
55
Chartres
When Alain turned up half an hour later, the Abbé Paul made no mention of his encounter with Madame Beck. Instead, when Agnès came down from her room, he let Alain give her the cleaned necklace with its little turquoise drop, only remarking, as he poured his guests wine, that such things were providential and it looked as if it was Agnès’ lucky day.
The three of them ate a rather awkward supper at which conversation did not flow smoothly and when the meal was finished the Abbé Paul insisted on doing the washing up. He left his guests together in his study.
Alain said, ‘So now, we’ve recovered your necklace. As Paul says, that’s a sign. You’re going to be all right, Agnès.’
‘Am I?’
‘I think so. People, the police, are not daft.’
‘No?’
‘Sometimes they are. But over all not. People by and large know the truth of things even if they don’t always admit it.’
‘Do they?’
‘I think so. Who do you think did this thing to Max?’
She waited a little before saying, ‘Brigitte, I suppose.’
‘And she’ll be the first police suspect. If she is responsible, believe me, it will come out. You must simply stick to your story.’
At which, to his pleased surprise, she laughed. ‘I can do that.’
‘The truth is consistent, you see.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you feel up to walking to the cathedral, Agnès?’
‘If you like.’
‘Get your coat, then – it’s cold. I’ll tell Paul.’
The Abbé Paul was mopping the floor when Alain looked into the kitchen. ‘Good Lord, Paul, you are a domestic bird. You’d make someone a good wife.’
‘Really?’
‘Agnès and I are going out for a brief stroll.’
‘Fine.’
Oh dear, Alain thought, as he collected Agnès from the hall. I must have offended him.
The cathedral, though dark, was lit well enough by the light of the lamps outside filtering through the windows. Alain said, ‘Let’s visit the Blue Virgin.’
They climbed and this time she went first. Up on the scaffolding Alain switched on his lantern torch.
‘Look at her. She won’t let you come to any harm.’
‘But you don’t believe in her.’
‘No. I do believe in her. I just don’t believe she’s the Mother of God.’
‘Then who is she?’
‘The image of the spirit of all mothers – of motherhood. That which holds us when we’re hurt or angry or afraid. She’s a cosmic pair of breasts – there’s a lovely window with her breastfeeding, have you seen it in the South Clerestory? – and a great wide lap in which I for one have sat many times and been comforted. You can be too.’
‘Maybe because I never knew my mother –’
‘I know. That makes it harder. But you have her earring back. And, see, it’s blue, like the Virgin. Maybe that’s why she left it with you.’
‘It would be nice to think so.’
‘Listen. We found the necklace and the earring. When this is over – all this foul business about Max – you’ll have unwedded yourself to misfortune. Luck is a strange phenomenon.’
‘I don’t know that I will ever be lucky.’
‘To be lucky all you need is to believe you are lucky. I was lucky in a mother who, simple soul as she is, believes in luck. Even when her man, my dad, died she went on believing she was lucky. And she made me feel so too.’
‘I don’t know – is being lucky something you can learn?’
‘With help, I think so. And one way to be helped is to be around a lucky person. Like me, for example.’
A hush fell. Somewhere in the depths of the cathedral she heard the faint cheep of a bird. Then she said, ‘I’m not sure what you’re saying.’
‘I’m saying come live with me and be my love.’
‘I’m older than you.’
‘Only by a year. And I like older women. They know more about love.’
‘I’m not very good at love.’
‘You haven’t tried.’
‘I don’t even like sex much.’
‘You will with me. I’m a terrific lover.’
At which she laughed. ‘How you have the nerve, Alain Fleury?’
‘It’s true. How many lovers have you had?’
‘No one you could call a proper lover. I tried it with a few people. I didn’t like it much with any of them.’
‘Was Robert one? Don’t answer that. And listen, I’ve had more lovers than I can count and I promise you they were all very happy with me. Merry as midsummer larks. Until I left them.’
‘But then you might leave me.’
‘I might. But I doubt it. I like you, I admire you and I fancy you like anything. In short, I’m in love with you.’ And all in an instant Alain understood that that was what had been eating the Abbé Paul. ‘Poor Paul,’ he said aloud.
‘Why?’
‘Never mind.’
Behind them, the Blue Virgin sat in enigmatic witness of their conversation. Somewhere below, the cloistered bird had found a companion. ‘Sparrows,’ Alain said. ‘They’re in the choir. I guess it’s the right place for birds.’
‘They used to drive poor Father Bernard wild.’
‘Well, he’s saved from that,
at least, wherever he is now.’
‘Maybe with his mother. Though she sounded as if she was more of a weight on him.’
‘You must wonder about your mother.’
‘Yes.’
‘And your father?’
‘You know, I don’t bother my head about him. I always feel, even though she abandoned me in that way, that it was my mother who loved me.’
‘Well, there you are, then. That’s not a bad start.’ The wind outside whined, wrapping itself round the cathedral, and he pulled her towards him. ‘Remember how the gods come in through the door of winter? The door that lets in the light.’
‘Alain.’
‘I’m here.’
‘I want to tell you something. Or, I don’t want to at all, but it’s that, it’s that –’ How could she say it? But how could she not say? It would be there for ever waiting to destroy her all over again if she did not say it now. She looked across at the Virgin, flanked on each side by angels brandishing swords. ‘It’s like this. I can’t come with you until I tell you. And when I tell you, you may not want me.’
‘Try me.’
She got up and went over, apparently to examine the angels’ swords.
‘I tried to kill someone.’
‘Ah.’
‘I didn’t kill them but that was just luck. I wanted to and I might have done.’
‘What happened?’
‘They ended up in hospital very badly hurt.’
‘No, I mean why did you do it?’
‘I thought this woman had my baby. I was wrong. It was another baby and she was just the nanny anyway.’
‘You’d lost your child?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you thought she had it –“it” – sorry – boy or girl?’
‘A boy. Gabriel. Yes.’
‘And?’
‘They took him from me. They thought I was too young.’
‘Of course losing your child made you murderous. Who’s “they”?’
‘The nuns. You don’t mind?’
‘Come here.’ She turned back to him, hesitating. ‘Come and sit down. Please.’
She slowly went over and knelt beside him and he put both arms round her shoulders. ‘Listen to me. I did the same once.’
‘What?’
‘Tried to kill someone and like you by good fortune I didn’t succeed. We’re two of a kind. It’s probably why I fell in love with you.’
‘You’re making this up.’
‘I’m not making anything up. In my case, it was a drunken British lout trying to carve an obscenity on a beautiful ancient column in a poorly supervised site. I tried to knock his block off with a bit of scaffolding. He had a hard British lout’s skull and recovered, otherwise I’d have probably been incarcerated in a Turkish jail.’
‘It doesn’t sound –’
‘Agnès, if you never listen to me again listen now. Everyone has a murderer in them. That’s the point of the Ten Commandments. But that doesn’t make them murderers for all time.’
‘But I don’t –’
‘Shut up, will you. This is something I know about. You are not going to murder me because I am going to give you a baby and not take one away from you, and you, as far as I can judge, are unlikely to try to deface an ancient monument. So I think we’re both safe. Hey, darling, don’t cry. Or rather do.’
She did cry until Alain said, ‘Now you’re going to stop crying, or go on if you like, but we are going to start on that baby because we mustn’t waste any time and I’m going to show you what it’s like to be made love to before the eyes of the Mother of God.’
• • •
The Virgin’s expression looked no less serene when, sometime later, they eased their bodies up from Jean Dupère’s old coat, which Alain had spread out on the wooden platform.
‘Was I right?’
She laughed, shaking her head, but not in denial.
‘Go on admit it. That was the best lay ever, wasn’t it?’
‘There wasn’t much competition.’
‘That’s another reason for loving you. You’re droll. As well as wise.’
Agnès said, ‘I remember you calling me a savant. I thought you were laughing at me.’
‘I would never do that. Shall we visit the Minotaur’s lair?’
Down in the body of the nave the lights illuminating the Western Front were making darkly brilliant sapphires of the great rose window. Agnès squatted down, peering at the floor.
‘What are you doing?’
‘There’s gum here.’
‘Dear God. I tell the woman I’m in love with her and want to spend a lifetime with her and she’s worrying about chewing gum. Where is it?’
‘There.’
He bent down and scraped with his knife at the centre of the open rose. ‘It’s probably another reason for loving you. You’re like me – obsessional.’
‘Am I?’
‘Fastidious, is maybe what I mean. All I know is that we’re two of a kind. Where shall I put the gum?’
She took out a tissue. ‘Here.’
‘I suppose you’ll always be a cleaner at heart.’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too, I expect. Agnès?’
‘Yes?’
‘The Minotaur is dead.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Yes. It’s dead.’
She smiled up at him. ‘But you’re not Theseus?’
‘But I don’t mind being Dionysos. And since you may have the makings of our baby inside you, I think I shall carry you off.’
Picking her up in his arms, he carried her out of the cathedral and down the southern steps before the bleak gaze of Madame Beck, standing sentinel and alone in her watchtower.
56
Chartres
The moment Madame Beck got in from her abortive visit to the Abbé Paul, she went straight to her dressing-table and her jewellery box.
Compared with her other jewels, the earrings were not valuable but Claude had given them to her when it was clear that they had finally begun to make a go of the restaurant. They had had a party with all their best customers to celebrate. A publicity event, Claude had called it. They had agreed on such things, she and Claude. She had found the earring gone from her ear when, way past midnight, they finally tipped into bed and Claude had said not to bother to go and look, and she would be sure to find it on the floor in the morning. And then they had . . .
Denuded of her wig, Madame Beck allowed herself to remember the embraces of the man she had loved and once believed herself loved by. Too happy at the success of the evening and Claude’s sudden desire for her, she had not taken the usual precautions and it had led to the one and only pregnancy of her life – the pregnancy that they had both decided was better discreetly terminated by a private gynaecologist who was prepared to take the necessary risk with the law.
Claude had not wanted children. Had she not wanted them either? She had wanted, or she had believed she wanted, what he wanted, what he said was best for the business. But, Madame Beck allowed herself to muse – pulling from her jewellery box the soft cloth bags in which she kept the tokens, the pearls, the diamond clips, the costly rings and bracelets, that Claude, over their long marriage, had also given her – it might have been nice sometimes to go, as Jeanette did, on shopping sprees with a daughter.
For all she had searched the restaurant the following morning, she never found that missing earring. That pert Algerian waitress with the long black hair took it, she was sure of that. The one she had had to fire for taking the restaurant linen. The one she found that time with Claude. The woman had had the nerve to write to him some months later asking for ‘help’ with some trouble she had got herself into. Lucky that she had intercepted the letter before he read it. Claude had had a soft side.
; Alone on the wide matrimonial bed that her husband, in later years, had so rarely occupied, Madame Beck found at last the small white box where she kept those earrings which, over the years, had lost their partners. But, tipping them out on to the bed, to her amazement, when she had sorted through the jewelled jumble, she found the solitary turquoise drop, set in the distinctive silverwork, that she had been so convinced she had seen on the Abbé Paul’s table.
A horrible fear began to overtake Madame Beck. Perhaps she was going demented, losing her mind? Hadn’t Jeanette made a comment about that only recently? Despite their recent coolness, she rang Madame Picot, who was, after all, her closest friend; but she got no answer.
An hour or so later, after a dispiriting frozen ‘single’ meal and an unamusing TV programme, Madame Beck went to her bureau, sat down and took out a box of scented notepaper.
‘Dear Mother,’ she wrote beneath a spray of honeysuckle. ‘I would be glad to take up your kind suggestion of a stay in your Retreat Wing.’
• • •
Madame Picot was out on a mission of her own when her old friend failed to reach her. She had taken Agnès’ address from Terry and put sixty euros into an envelope, along with the card which Auguste had brought back from the Courtauld in London, the picture by Gauguin of the young woman asleep on a yellow pillow, whom Agnès so resembled.
On the card she had written ‘A little “thank-you” for finding Piaf. Affectionately, Jeanette Picot.’
Putting the card through the door of the Badon apartment, Madame Picot felt the peculiar warmth of unmerited self-satisfaction. Walking back into town, she thought that Louise may not approve of what she was doing, but, as she murmured to Piaf, Louise could ‘go fuck herself!’
• • •
Professor Jones had popped out to post a letter when he observed the figure of Alain carrying Agnès down the cathedral steps. An awful thought had beset the professor. He had never paid Agnès, and although she had never referred to this oversight he had concluded that this was why she had disappeared. The money he had so lavishly distributed; none of it had gone to her. What had he been thinking?
About to hail her, in an attempt to correct this dreadful omission, the professor held back. The couple were laughing; his presence would perhaps be an intrusion.
The Cleaner of Chartres Page 26