All Pure Souls

by John Brooke

  Right. A journey. Merci. She collects her things and heads straight out. Walks it, down to the Palais through the excellent morning. She should call, but can’t wait for official channels; she’ll knock on the door instead. She’ll be on that plane tomorrow.

  Marcel Cyr; that first day: “Here’s to the next part of her journey.”

  Could he actually dig her up and drive her to the coast in that lovely car, put her on a ferry and take her across to Sein? You would need your non-live-in as a helper for a trip like that. We’re talking ten, twelve hours, more like a day in that old car; even a Marilyn Monroe would begin to reek something horrible. And why in the world? Yet all signs point that way.

  3.

  Not Gérard’s door. Gérard has escaped — he should be somewhere near Lyons by now, his kids presenting arguments for their lunch. Nor the door of any junior J.of I. who may have been left with the file. Aliette climbs the marble stairs, turns right instead of left on the landing, and hustles along the solemn hall. The offices of the Procureur occupy the other end of the top floor. The better end, known as le Parquet, referring to the magistrates down on the floor representing the interests of the community as opposed to the magistrates up on le Siège (the bench), independent of interest save service to the written law. But not Michel Souviron’s door either. Michel has also escaped — from what she hears, he usually goes camping in the Alps. Michel, pleasant and accommodating as he is, would still likely tell her to go back to Gérard, or if he did let her in (after a good long wait, because that’s Michel’s quiet way of making sure we don’t lose track of who is who), he would somehow make a joke of it and tell her no. Aliette has thought this through. If Gérard or Michel cry foul and they remove Inspector Nouvelle from the file? Well, wait till September...

  “Can you help me?”

  It’s Substitute Proc Cécile Botrel who lets her in without a wait, who’s in charge of this one during Michel’s absence, who’s not at all put out by the inspector’s request. Nevertheless:

  “I’m sorry, there’s still too much of a gap. Nothing to support it.” The inspector’s second try at an interpellation order to be served to Florence Orain. “He said you might come calling with just such a request and forbade it expressly. The risk. He meant the fallout, not the legality, of course. But that’s part of his job. Mine too. I won’t second-guess him...I like it here.”

  Very up-front, this Sub. Maître Botrel is in charge, but, as she admits, not completely. “I had to ask,” shrugs Aliette... Yes: Her smile, smart eyes, simple hair, bookish lenses, no adornment in her ears, minimal makeup, there’s a synchronicity between her pared-down presence and her straightforward manner that attracts. Despite the refusal, the inspector finds herself buoyed up by this woman. An ally. Hard to come by when competing duties lie between.

  “...But I will rewrite your mandate to include the locating of the missing body, obviously. To include, but not necessarily be tied to, your search for the car and Marcel Cyr...” jotting notes; “the same to apply to the locating of one Francine Léotard, aka Léonie Brandeau. Include InterPol alert; a car like that’s a treasure, could be headed anywhere. I assume you’ve a network up and running on this.”

  “Yes, but I’ll need an assistant to work it when I’m away. If you could suggest it to my boss.”

  “I could... And I’ll send introductions if you find yourself working on someone’s else patch.”

  Merci.

  “Do you think it’s likely? I’ll call this afternoon. I’ll tell them you’re coming and make sure they welcome you with open arms.”

  “Please, I wouldn’t call anyone just yet. I’m not certain and I apologize for that...”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “Maybe there is no connection. Maybe this Doctor Cyr is a very strange old man and that’s all there is to a missing body. If I were Flossie Orain, that’s what I’d say... I’ll be very quiet. Likely mostly on the beach. What I mean to say is, it’s down on the books as my holiday.” No point playing games with someone who seems open, willing, even eager to try things.

  Cécile Botrel says only, “A holiday is good for the soul.”

  Yes, purify it a bit; get rid of this sour sense of things. “But I will go to Sein; it’s just up the road. It all starts there — at least according to what I’ve been hearing, and I have to go and see. I’ll call you if it’s turning into work.”

  “Fair enough.” The Substitute lays her pen and notes aside. “I appreciate your frustration, Inspector. Body snatchers don’t help the matter. And I do see your inclination to have a better leverage with Florence Orain.”

  “Do you?” On the record or not, I need some back-up here.

  “When we went in there, after you... It’s just a feeling you get from a person, isn’t it? Apart from the way she worked Michel, I was quite spooked by her intelligence, frankly.”

  “Yes...”

  “She doesn’t need to be there, doing that...she could be sitting here, easily, if she had wanted.”

  “Well, she has a cause, doesn’t she?”

  “The goddess?”

  The inspector offers a bitter smile. “Her brothel is ground zero.”

  “She said that?”

  “Yes. And she more or less admitted she handed the blade to Colette Namur...challenged her into slicing her wrists.”

  “More or less?”

  “Like you say, she could be sitting here if she’d wanted. She knows exactly where the lines are.”

  “Did Colette Namur want her child back?”

  “I don’t think so. She idolized Flossie Orain all her life. Call it separation anxiety. Flossie helped her deal with it. A true sister.”

  “In any case, Colette Namur’s a tragedy but she’s out of the game. It’s still this unknown Manon Larivière.”

  “We know she had headaches.” This is a cop in the act of mocking her own lack of results. Stop it, Aliette — work with this woman!

  “And that she appears to have been killed by a man who — ”

  “ — whether you like him or not appears to have had a genuine affection and no real reason!” The inspector rolls her eyes, takes a deep breath...this by way of begging pardon for interrupting in such a manner; pardon is granted with a nod; the inspector repeats what her gut will not stop telling her: “It’s Flossie. And some or all of the rest of them. Somehow.”

  “Fine. That’s the way you’re headed — let’s stick with that.” Cécile Botrel sits back in her chair, considering it. “Killing their own... You’d think it would be men — if we’re talking ground zero.” And now a wry smile, musing, “...the poor goddess.”

  “You’re laughing?”

  “Not in the least... I — well I’ve never been the kind to burn twigs, but I...”

  But it’s Aliette Nouvelle who has to crunch the smile. Call it incredulity.

  The Proc catches it. “But I’m a lawyer?” She allows a quick laugh to emerge, to show she can live with incredulity. “Yes, and I love the law, the logic...better word is reasonableness. The goddess keeps me grounded when the abstractions glow too strongly. Fairness, not power... It’s inclusive. The state needs fairness as much as the defence, no? And I don’t feel you and I are in competition the way some of my colleagues might. You and I, we circle around truth and a fair solution. It’s not set in stone. The goddess seems to be a reflection of that and this lawyer happens to be more comfortable with her than any of the other choices. That is, if spiritual predilection is a choice.”

  The inspector is bemused, as always when people start telling her, unbidden, about their lives.

  “And you?” asks Cécile.

  “Oh...” For Aliette, the question is like a balloon floating in the air: one tapped at it when it came near, one waited till it came near again...with no deep need to grab onto it. “I never really think about gods or goddesses. I hope there’s one who likes me...” Folding her arms, feeling her cheeks warming. Embarrassed. Why? Because this woman is willing to shar
e some feelings over and above her professional opinion? “I mean, should the Pope capitulate on female priests or should a doddering old church just quietly die? I think about it once in a blue moon but never more than that... Be sad if it died.”

  “It’s too rich to die,” argues the lawyer. “And ordination of women wouldn’t take away the politics of hierarchy. People would still fight and make deals — all that tiresome noise when it’s supposed to be about the sound of eternity. Personally, I can live without churches.”

  Simultaneously, both women make gestures as they face each other, waving away a church that has grown too old. Bon, we connect through silence, even in offices. I do...I like this woman. “But, no offence, Maître, there’s never been a matriarchy. Matrilines, yes, lots; but matriarchy...” shaking her head at Cécile Botrel, “no proof at all, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m not offended. And I don’t need proof.” Confident lawyer eyes fixed on those of a skeptical cop.

  “A lawyer who doesn’t need proof? What then, if I may ask?”

  “Some stories. A feeling. An approach to life that grows from one to the other. Forget the philosophers, the logistic proof on any side of it — god, goddess, however you conceive of it. Philosophy, logic, history, anthropology, myth or theology...all very necessary, lots of it beautiful, but none of it can cross the gap to faith. Only the poets can build that kind of bridge.”

  “At Mari Morgan’s they have a verse. And a motto. And...” it occurs; “a model of a cow.” Hm.

  “Voilà. Stories and a feeling is all it ever is...” A big bright smile sent across the table. “I’m a lawyer. I know these things.”

  A partial smile coming back. Oh yes? “I’ve been wondering...if there were a goddess ascendant, in our minds, the culture...wherever — whether there’d be any prostitutes at all. Perhaps human beings would be different. Perhaps love and attraction would occur in a different way.” She shrugs. “...I haven’t got too far with that one.”

  “There are reputable psychologists out there who’ll tell you that prostitutes are the goddess. But,” her tone falling back inside its official timbre, “it’s not prostitutes or a goddess, Inspector, it’s a murder. One human being killing another. This is what we’re here to solve.”

  “You’re right...” Actually chuckling for the first time in several days; “I guess everyone needs a clear-thinking lawyer occasionally.”

  “And I’ll pretend that’s a compliment.” Standing, like Michel, like Gérard...reaching to shake her hand. “Enjoy the beach. I hope you see something miraculous on Sein.”

  5.

  Aliette goes back to her office and confirms her flight. Assistant Inspector Patrice Lebeau taps on her door: at her service. Merci, Cécile Botrel! She briefs him on Marcel Cyr and his bogus maid, the classic car...asks him to keep an eye on the premises and movements of Ondine Duguay. She clears her desk. Waters her cherished shamrock, promises it Monique will come in to take good care. She smiles a modest au revoir to Claude.

  Claude, unsmiling, says, “Bonnes vacances...” Adds, “Leave a number with Monique.”

  “I will.”

  She calls her mother to announce the change of her change of plan.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  She probably deserves that — although from the very first declaration that she would become a “detective,” Maman has been consistently leery of her elder daughter’s chosen career. “I’m fine. Things are just a bit tense at the moment.”

  “A good time to come home then. We look forward to seeing you.”

  “Merci. I love you...”

  On the way out, stopping at Monique’s desk with watering instructions and coordinates for Nantes and at Belle Île — there’s an envelope from Le Parquet. The note is printed on official stationery:

  Inspector, Messieurs Léger and Pouliot of IJ have sent along the results of their work yesterday. This morning’s developments mean I can’t comment on its evidential value. However, where Monsieur Pouliot can offer no solution to Colette Namur’s final moments in her bath, something did occur to me which may be of interest. Given the context of your investigation as it appears to be evolving, you might want to consider that ‘Maeve,’ an Irish name and still quite popular, was the name of a legendary Celtic queen given to war, dirty politics and much sexual subterfuge. Maeve was one of those who knew all about power. I have no idea if she was actual or not. Interesting character, though. Tuck it away.

  Faithfully, Me. Cécile Botrel, Substitute Procureur.

  C’est beau Maeve?

  She takes the long way home and stops at Ondine Duguay’s. She feels the seamstress may be more forthcoming now — out of fear if nothing else. And she wants her new top, if not for Raphaele Petrucci’s pleasure (no, she hasn’t called him yet to break their date; wasn’t in the right frame of mind as she left the building; but she will, she will...) then for whichever man lucky enough to meet her on the beach at Belle Île. Mmm, now she knows for sure she’s going, Raphaele is fading. Now it’s a stranger who admires her, who holds her hand and guides her through his airy rooms overlooking the ocean toward his simple bed...

  “Something’s not right with the goddess... Eh? Ondine? Want to talk to me yet?”

  Not yet. Aliette’s package, wrapped in tissue and packed in a much-travelled shopping bag, is duly handed over. She doesn’t open it. She waits for Ondine.

  Whose eyes, red and strained behind bifocals, will not meet hers. They’re looking away, out the window at the small service tree, growing heavy, dropping its fruit in the shadows of the long neglected yard. Finally Ondine says...whispers is more the tone, “We have to be strong. So strong. Everything is changing.”

  “Madame, we have to be superwomen. But if we don’t make the grade it doesn’t mean we have to die.”

  “Everyone has a role to play.” As if repeating a catechism.

  “Right,” snaps the cop. “Now why don’t you go over there and tell it to Flossie Orain!”

  “I don’t... I can’t...it’s not my world.”

  “Will you stop saying that! You’re still here in the world with the rest of us...you’re not helpless! You brought the goddess to those women. It’s you who knows what she’s supposed to be. Tell them! If not for Manon and Colette, then for the sake of Colette’s daughter... Tell Flossie. Tell Louise — they’re not doing it right. What’s your role, Ondine?”

  Ondine trembles as she ventures to speak. An inquisitive look — like some mistreated animal: why are you doing this to me? Biting down on her bottom lip, she manages to squelch the tremor. “I make their things. Aren’t you going to look at the thing I made for you?”

  “What if I went to Sein? What do you think I’d find there? Would it help me understand the problem at Mari Morgan’s?”

  “Nothing... Rocks. A beach. The sea. Stars in the sky...”

  “What about love? ...Ondine!”

  “I don’t know what’s there for you! ...I found something spiritual at a time when I needed it. Don’t you blame me for it!”

  “I wouldn’t. I won’t!” Calm down, please, Aliette. “...But what do you need now? It would be good to have someone to talk to, wouldn’t it?”

  “And stop treating me like a fool! I’ve had enough!”

  Aliette believes her. She asks — simply, “Do you want me to bring Georgette?” Ondine only stares at the package. So she opens it. Soft... Yet such a cool steely blue, holding it close to her eyes in front of the mirror. And the edging is an intricate calligraphy any lover could study for hours at the table of her body. The AN monogram stitched in royal at the right thigh: it’s Aliette’s and no one else’s. It is Aliette — it’s the thing that waits inside. “It’s lovely. Perfect...” Trying to smile, taking out her wallet.

  “Thank you.” The compliment; the payment. Ondine seems lost as she smiles back.

  So that an inspector feels like crying. That provisional feeling. That urge to get away.

  As for Georgette: No group on F
ridays; and anyway there’s too much packing and buttering up of Madame Camus, her landlady, getting an absolute promise not to forget to feed poor Piaf, let him out, let him in, yes of course he loves to be scratched... For Georgette she composes a brief note to be left under the wiper of the old VW Westfalia van sometime in the middle of the night:

  Your sister needs you. AN.

  And Raphaele? Don’t be such a chicken, Aliette. Call him... I’m not! I will. Tomorrow...

  6.

  Tomorrow arrives. Saturday, August 15. Assumption Day. It’s well flagged on any calendar and any girl schooled by the nuns will mark it, at least in passing. The cab driver is instructed to stop for a moment at the pathologist’s apartment door. Good strategy: a plane to catch — no way she can sit there making excuses for too long. Is this called sexual subterfuge? But he’s not there. Damn. Probably at the market getting those three cheeses and other nice things for tonight.

  Oh well. Another note:

  Sorry — duty calls me westward. Please forgive... Perhaps when I return?

  But how to sign it? Aliette? Aliette Nouvelle? Your friend, A. Nouvelle? Inspector Nouvelle?

  Oh god... She goes with the friendly, but not overly, AN.

  Assumption Day. At noon the skies are clear. She’s feeling virginal in the original sense, i.e., independent, free of it all, for a month at least...at least for today.

  And so she flies away.

  3rd Part

  Personne Poursuivi...

  Peine Justifiée

  In search of the mind that guides

  the murdering hand.

  “By ancient tradition, the White Goddess becomes one with her human representative — a priestess, a prophetess, a queen-mother.”

  — Robert Graves,

  The White Goddess

  10

  A Line Across Your Life

  Time draws natural lines across the course of a life; but an island in the middle of nowhere will tend to bundle time into itself. This is how the goddess sees it. While Aliette flies west in a jet, ultimate destination Sein, Ondine gets there first by memory.