‘In any case, the battle was fought,’ he murmured uncomfortably.
‘Yes. The Veneti, the most powerful and brave of all the Armoricans, lost to the Romans and …’
He gave a sigh. ‘And were then led into slavery.’
‘With their women, their young girls, their virgins.’
Ah merde, why must she bait him like this? ‘Please turn on the lights. I’ve experienced enough of your darkness.’
Bits of charred human bones in little heaps, all with carefully labelled cards giving the location and details of excavation, lay about among the artefacts. In all it was the work of a pack rat of antiquities. Prehistory, perhaps some two or even three thousand years of it up to 56 BC and a little more recently, yes, had been gathered in one room.
Skulls were among the treasures. Bronze cloak pins and belt buckles lay with linked cloak belts of exquisite design and glass bracelets of deep blue or soft pink, most of which had been broken long ago by age, by frost, or simply by ancient custom or carelessness.
Charbonneau had not been selective. ‘Your father has been busy.’
She heaved a weary, much troubled sigh. ‘Yes, but there are many sites he has yet to explore.’
‘And that is his map of them.’
Herr Kohler was persistent. ‘The Préfet …?’ she said. ‘Victor is just a friend, Inspector. Oh for sure he’s a little lonely now that his children are all grown up and his wife has turned to religion. What man of his age would not seek the cup of coffee or herbal tea with someone younger, especially if that someone herself was a little lonely and, yes, a little lost and perhaps even in need of help or just plain friendship? The people around here keep to themselves. Yvon’s behaviour has … has, well, scared them off, I suppose.’
Ah Nom de Dieu, she demanded of herself. What had Victor said to them in that jail with Johann there and the others? Had he said something stupid?
‘On the day of the murder, madame, did the Préfet pay you a visit?’
Again there was that empty look from the Bavarian. His big hands with the strong, blunt fingers of a peasant or a machinist, were seldom still but now rested on the arms of his chair, gripping them as if about to launch himself at her.
Gestapo … she said. Don’t forget it for one moment. Never mind what Victor said about him to the contrary. Never mind what anyone says.
‘He came to visit us, yes,’ she said quietly. Would Herr Kohler notice how pale she had become? Had he seen her glancing apprehensively across the room to the door and the hall that led to the kitchen and Angélique? Were the child and St-Cyr still there or had they gone into Yvon’s study or up to the attic?
‘At what time did Préfet Kerjean get here, please?’
Could he always be so formal when needed? ‘At about one o’clock, I think. Yes, it was during lunch – we seldom eat dinner any more. He couldn’t stay – urgent business, he said. I … I offered tea, I think, or a glass of the Muscadet – yes, I think there was still some left over, I …’
‘Why not simply tell me?’
‘He … he asked if I knew where Yvon was digging and I … said I didn’t know. My husband seldom tells us, Inspector. Victor or his assistant, the Sous-Préfet le Troadec, bring him home if they think it necessary and they’ve been passing by one of his sites. Yvon really is not well. Though it is my constant hope that the three of us might obtain laissez-passers to leave the Forbidden Zone and return to Paris, I doubt very much if the Kommandant of this district would listen. He would only think we might tell others about the comings and goings of the submarines. Yvon won’t have it either, of course, and in this patriarchal society Vichy has thrust upon us, the husband has the final say. Préfet Kerjean has been trying to help me. That is all there is and ever was to our relationship. He’s a good man, and very kind. He wouldn’t have killed that shopkeeper and neither would my husband.’
Kohler gave her a curt nod but didn’t take his eyes from her. ‘Then Kerjean was at the clay pits too, is that it?’ he asked.
‘I … I didn’t say that! Now listen, you …’
‘But you as much as did say it, madame. Was he there? You must answer truthfully.’
‘Am I to be charged?’ She felt her cheeks colouring rapidly and knew he would see this.
‘Under French law the accused is guilty until proven innocent. The Kapitän zur See Kaestner is the one who has been charged.’
‘But my turn will come?’
Verdammt! what was it with her? ‘Perhaps. Now answer the question.’
Angélique will have told the other one everything, she sadly reminded herself. It was all so hopeless. A shopkeeper… Who would ever have thought that wretched little man could cause such pain?
‘I don’t know, Inspector. I wasn’t there.’
‘Then why did you say he couldn’t have killed le Trocquer?’
She wrung her hands in despair and shrugged. ‘I don’t know why I said it. There, does that satisfy you?’
Anger made her very beautiful but it also heightened the aloofness of the Parisienne.
‘Kerjean claims the Captain was having sex with you against your will.’
Ah no … ‘He what?’ She blanched and felt her eyes rapidly misting.
Kohler told her what had happened. Unable to look at him, she found the tiled floor no better, though she had always loved its warm and earthy colours and the small irregularities that gave character.
Her voice was harsh. ‘Herr Kaestner would perhaps like to engage in such an activity with me, Inspector, but I have to tell you for me I could never contemplate it. I love my husband. I have always loved Yvon even when my dearest friend was alive, though nothing has ever yet happened between us or with anyone else. Nothing, do you understand? And you can tell that to the child! Please do,’ she tossed a hand. ‘You have my permission many times over!’
Was she lying? wondered Kohler. She appeared as if betrayed by things beyond her control – the child perhaps.
‘I had best get Angélique to bed, Inspector. That girl, she would stay up all night if I let her. Usually she does anyway. Reading by candlelight or by one of those primitive lamps Yvon lets her have, though we really can’t spare the oil. It’s so scarce. She prowls about searching for answers to life’s mysteries. The moon, the stars, her rabbit … she used to talk to it, the … the pigeons too. Ah damn! Damn this place! Damn those wretched stones!’
Unable now to stop herself, she buried her face in her hands and shut her eyes before the fire. He watched – she knew he did. He wouldn’t say a thing. He wouldn’t even sigh.
Sex … sex with Johann in that railway shed? She knew this was what he might be thinking.
‘The lights …?’ he said suddenly.
Ah grâce à Dieu! ‘The bombing. Every night now the Ger … they turn the electricity off so as to prevent fires and make certain no lights are seen.’
The sound of breaking waves was everywhere up here. The attic, high above the study, was crowded with things they could not see but only sense. For whatever reason of her own, the child had switched off the torch before their final entry from the staircase and was now depending on the night outside to light their way.
‘It is over here, Monsieur the Chief Inspector. It is at the spyglass window. Give me your hand, please.’
Her fingers were cool and sure. His shoulders brushed against things – piled-high suitcases perhaps, or steamer trunks, an armoire whose doors were open – was there a mirror on the inside of one of the doors? A lamp, he said to himself, dark sheets or curtains draped over something as a sort of door perhaps, into another part of the attic, a rocking horse – was it really that?
He heard it.
The window was perhaps a half-metre in diameter and of very old glass with bubbles in some places, she told him. ‘Big ones, little ones, some squished out, but still it is a good window and does not interfere too much. At night I open it anyway, or go outside to the sundial.’
They came at last to stand und
er the roof beams and she placed his hand on the cold brass tube. ‘With my telescope you can see the craters that give the moon its face. You can see Mars and Jupiter and the rings around Saturn. You can see many things both far and near.’
‘The beach?’
Ah, good. He had remembered the painting in the living-room. ‘Yes. The submarines too, of course, but only until they go below the surface which is much closer inshore now because the British aeroplanes always come to their Playground like hungry bumblebees.’
‘They know when each submarine leaves or returns?’
‘The time exactly! This I confide in you with the utmost secrecy. I’ve even watched them fight! I have.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’ he sighed.
Was it so difficult for him? ‘Only that sometimes when the sardiniers are gathered out there perhaps ten kilometres offshore where it is still too shallow to dive, the submarines slip among them to hide and you cannot see their conning towers among the faded burnt-red sails.’
He’d best be firm. ‘You should not be watching such things, mademoiselle. It’s dangerous. The Germans might come and …’
‘And arrest us?’
Was she hopeful of it? ‘Yes.’
‘But she’s the one who purchased the telescope for me when my mother was alive? She’s the one who allowed the Préfet Kerjean to use it?’
Must God do this to him? Had the conscience of the patriot not been tried enough? ‘When, please, did the Préfet use it?’
How cautious he was. She had him eating out of her hand but would the sparrow see that among the crumbs, illicit love had blossomed? ‘First, in the early spring of last year, then again many times over the following months until he was certain of whatever it was he was looking for, and then again in October, from the 28th to the 3rd of November.’
‘On each of those last days?’ U-297 had returned on the 5th. The money had been missing for some time but the loss discovered only just before the submarine’s return …
‘It was risky, isn’t that so?’ said the child. ‘She warned him of this, Inspector, but Préfet Kerjean has said he would come at different hours, though just before sunset was best, since the sardiniers, as has been their custom for centuries, always gathered then for the night. I heard the two of them whispering. I did.’
‘What was he watching for?’
She heaved a disappointed sigh. ‘It would be better if you were to ask …’
‘Angélique! Darling, please come downstairs. The … the electricity has been turned off. It … it is time for us to go into the cellar.’
‘I won’t!’
Ah damn such interruptions. ‘Please do as your stepmother says, mademoiselle. Bombs are no respecters of life or private property.’
The candle wavered in clasped hands, its pale light serving only to emphasize despair. Trapped by the light she held, the woman waited, caught among forgotten pieces of broken furniture too valuable to discard. A lamp whose dusty shade of pale silk was fringed with dark red tassels, a plain but beautifully carved chest of drawers, a blanket box without its hinges. Sheets draped over things …
Always there was the sound of waves, the nearness of the sea.
‘Go,’ he said quietly and, reaching out, plucked blindly at the child’s sweater until he had a tight grip on her shoulder. ‘Do as I say or I will get difficult.’
‘Then stop pinching me!’
The child launched herself towards the stepmother but as she passed the rocking horse, Angélique pushed the head down hard to leave them with its sound as well. He would not see the dolls for they were hidden behind the sheets in their house. She would not dare to show them to him. Not her, the harlot!
‘What did Angélique tell you?’ asked the woman bleakly.
‘Nothing. Only that she could see the rings around Saturn.’
‘Please don’t lie to me.’
‘I’m not.’
*
The detectives were gone from the house and the child was asleep, or was she faking? Unable to stop herself, Hélène Charbonneau wearily climbed the stairs from the cellars to the attic, coming to stand at last beside the telescope. Angélique had been thrilled to receive it. They had had such wonderful times exploring the sites and other things, yes, of course. How could one have known this same instrument would be turned against oneself by that same child? The thing should have been packed away and hidden long ago. Why had she not insisted? They had taken one hell of a chance by leaving it out here especially.
‘But I loved you,’ she said, a whisper. ‘I was your dearest friend and I could not see you robbed of joy when all else had been taken from you. Please don’t do this to me, chèrie. You really don’t understand what’s been happening or why.’
Not a light showed out to sea, and when she tilted the telescope down towards the shore, that same darkness appeared.
‘You saw me down there with Victor – I know you did. You saw me with the Captain too, and no matter what I say to the contrary, your mind is made up. I’ve encouraged both of them and been unfaithful.’
When the sound of air-raid sirens came faintly, she instinctively stiffened – always it was the same. She simply could not get used to that sound, no matter how faint or how far it travelled.
When the bombing of Lorient started, she ignored the danger and went outside to watch – shivered without her overcoat and hugged her shoulders. Tried to find a solution to things.
Flak poured up from the anti-aircraft batteries making rapid little bursts of light among the clouds. The drone of the bombers seemed to come from high above her. Brilliant bomb-flashes hugged the low-ceilinged cloud some twenty kilometres to the north-west over the city and its harbour but came also through some trick of optics from far out to sea.
The Luftwaffe had no night-fighters stationed near Lorient. Even so, sometimes a plane would be shot down and sometimes its aircrew would be able to bale out. Sometimes these men were hidden; sometimes given up. It all depended on who found them first.
So far, none had come here and secretly she was glad of this for she had enough troubles of her own. ‘Though it’s cowardly of me,’ she said, ‘and I ought to do something. Everyone should.’
But I can’t, she whispered inwardly. I dare not. The Germans would shoot us and Johann, no matter what he feels for me, would not be able to stop them, nor would Victor. Poor Victor.
When a bomber came in directly over the house, she ran indoors, throwing only a brief look up at the spyglass window.
‘Angélique is there,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I know she is. She can’t leave things alone. Not now. Never now.’
The bomb had not been fooling. Hung up in some bomb bay, it had finally dislodged itself and had sought a target of its own.
Now the bus lay on its back like a grilled crab with its stomach split open not far from the house.
St-Cyr could barely contain his anger. ‘I told you we should have returned to Quiberon but oh no, you had to watch the fireworks from the beach.’
Kohler sighed heavily at the outburst. ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? Try to think on the positive side. If we hadn’t left the bus, we would have had to pay for all those seats we burned up. Now everyone will just think we were damned lucky.’
St-Cyr threw questioning eyes up to God in exasperation. ‘And the owner of that bus?’ he demanded.
A shrug would be best as they humped it along the road. ‘There’s a war on. He’ll just have to understand.’
‘Well, so will you, my friend. It is three kilometres out to the main road and twenty-two more to Quiberon!’
He’d best distract Louis and get him working on things, though it was tempting to tell him it wasn’t raining. ‘That’s about half-way to the clay pits but in the opposite direction, eh, Chief?’ he sang out. ‘That must tell you something, seeing as you’re from Paris Central and the husband and the stepmother would both have had a long bicycle ride to get there.’
No one should have to
listen to such things. ‘These days long bicycle rides are an everyday thing, Inspector, or hadn’t you noticed? Besides, they were common enough in the past and twenty-five kilometres is not so much, especially if you want to stop a murder.’
‘Or commit one.’
‘Ah yes, it could have been either way. It is also quite possible for a pretty woman on a bicycle to hitch a ride in a Wehrmacht lorry. You had best check this. As the senior detective of the partnership, I leave the task to you.’
Still bitchy? wondered Kohler. They were passing through moorland pasture, with clustered farm buildings and tiny, whitewashed houses whose dark slate roofs blended perfectly with the night sky. A dog barked. Another took up the challenge and soon he was able to tell exactly which farmers blamed their dogs for all their troubles. Most of them!
They’d best run through things again. ‘On the 30th of December Baumann delivers a message the Captain sent from Paris, Louis. Both the pianist and his wife read it and have plenty of time to think about it. They know Kaestner will be at the clay pits and so does the child.’
The Sûreté’s head was tossed in acknowledgement. ‘The Obersteuermann carries the look of death perceived. 6,000,000 francs of their money are missing and presumably either stolen by this … this shopkeeper everyone seems to have hated or by his daughter. But …’ He paused. ‘… the Captain does not appear to have been too concerned.’
‘He’s too busy making dolls and gathering clay,’ snorted Kohler. ‘If you ask me, Chief, Herr Baumann had every reason to slam that shopkeeper. Pay the son of a bitch back and get the Captain hauled in on a little charge of murder. From what we’ve seen of them, U-297’s crew don’t want to return to sea. They know damned well they won’t be coming back and Baumann’s look only reinforces this.’
‘And the shopkeeper’s daughter has the odds down pat.’
‘Has she got the money? Is she just waiting for them to go to the bottom?’
‘Or does she know who took it?’
Questions … there were always so many of them and so little time.
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