All Pure Souls

by John Brooke

  “Because it’s none of your business.”

  “I think you don’t have enough respect for your mother.” Aliette makes no reply. None of them do. They sit in a row and watch him. To Maman he says, “According to our contract, the boat leaves in thirty-five minutes. Maybe you should find your husband.”

  Maman looks around briefly and agrees. “Yes, maybe I should.”

  Ignoring Aliette, he offers a gallant thanks for the snack to Anne.

  But now all heads turn as a white cow goes striding, fifty yards away. The creature’s heavy movement is momentum incarnate, as if falling perpetually forward, heading for a sunlit patch of green beside the lighthouse... A young girl follows ten steps behind, running to keep up.

  “Salut, la belle Céleste!” calls Yvon; “...à la prochaine!” Only Aliette realizes he’s calling to the cow... “Maeve will give you a head of steam,” he adds, with a sly smile for the cop. Then: “I will see you on the dock...” looking up at the sky as he walks away.

  “What were you talking about?”

  Maman is on her hands and knees, gathering bits and pieces of the reopened picnic. “Yvon was telling us about his previous lives. He’s 350 years old, broken down over eight different lives. He discovered the original icon at Auray...found it buried in the mud when he was plowing his field. He says it was Anne la Noire, the divine underground mother, and that the priests took her away from him and painted clothes on her so she could be a properly presentable Saint Anne. Poor man says he’s been seeing the ghost of a naked woman ever since...”

  “Mother!” Maman’s droll report undermines Aliette’s fragile sense of Sein.

  Madame Nouvelle stands, groaning with the strain on her hip. “Do you think I’m going to risk alienating someone like that out here on this godforsaken place? — and with someone as irresponsible as her...” a cool glance at Anne, “encouraging him at every step? I don’t want to die where no one knows me... Your father’s probably been cooked and eaten by now.”

  “You were fascinated,” snipes Anne.

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t interesting...so many of them are, aren’t they? He does seem to have a wonderful respect for his old maman. That touched me, I admit.” Then, squinting as she scouts the distance, “...Where is your father?”

  Aliette demands, “But why did you have to tell him what I do?”

  “I couldn’t think of any other reason to give when he asked me why I’d come to Sein.”

  “And so you told him about the case?”

  “Just the broadest of outlines, dear.”

  “So now the whole place is going to know.”

  “Perhaps not. It’s not his island, remember...”

  “There he is,” says Anne.

  Papa is approaching from the eastern side. It seems he has circled the island. He has found a stick of some sort — is using it as a staff. The end of it glints as it catches the sun for a split second with each stride he takes toward them.

  They gather round and examine the elegant black lacquer, now more than a little scratched, the gold knob and tip...it has to be gold; brass would have been stained green from the salt. He’d picked it out of the rocks. “Up by the light...it was just sitting there waiting for me.”

  Aliette turns it over in her hands. The cow is now standing across the way, like the proverbial statue, her nose pointing straight at a cairn to the left of the light, half submerged in the rising tide.

  Yes, everyone’s helping you out on this one, Inspector...

  But the boat is leaving at four.

  5.

  Would Substitute Procureur Cécile Botrel make good on her promise and ask police bosses in the Finistère to help an inspector from the east? She would. Aliette waits an hour, then calls Monsieur Varney, the Divisionnaire at Quimper, who passes her along to Monsieur Armez, Principal at Audierne. “A boat to Sein with a diver? It will be our pleasure, Madame Inspector... Well, as soon as you can get here in the morning.”

  She gets back into Papa’s car and onto the early ferry across to Quiberon, and heads back up the coast. At ten past eight she leaves the dock at Audierne with one Inspector Brisson, a diver and a man at the helm who’s supposed to be an expert in the shoals. A stiff wind, a brilliant sun... Just before noon they find two bodies on a shelf in a grotto at the head of the island. Manon’s luxurious chemise is in tatters, permeated with salt. Marcel Cyr has one spindly arm protectively around her. How? There’s no evidence on his body implying he was forced to be there with her.

  Part of the deal, Aliette — you can ask Céleste.

  Sure; watching as the two corpses are floated out... An old man came to Sein. To die. To die willingly? Between the likes of Angélique, Céleste and this drink they call Maeve, she reckons there’s no answer that will ever make sense beyond the boundaries of Sein. The place is only rocks and sea; you had to include the sea as part — not separate; and in so doing, an event such as Marcel Cyr in a grotto with a murdered plaything becomes uncanny.

  They find a third body in Angélique Ménou’s salon, half a glass of Maeve still on the go beside her. Sad, but not too; ninety-two years old; a hard life but a good long one. “We’ll never see the likes of her again,” says the father of the girl who lives down the lane. Aliette agrees. Angélique’s time is past due. As a priestess, she’s obsolete. And quite likely even on the witness stand she would have kept on talking according to her own way of seeing it. Fueled up with visions, perhaps, but not much use to the court. Aliette returns to the mainland with Maeve instead, and two waterlogged souls on loan from Mari Morgan.

  That night, back at Belle Île, a small miracle: “It’s marvellous,” says Anne, where she stands with Maman and Papa, looking north from the kitchen door, up at the amazing dance of green-gold light in the northern sector. “And rare in these parts,” adds Papa. “It occurs when the solar winds are trapped by the earth’s magnetic field. It usually needs a much more northern climate than this.” Joining them, watching with that shared sense of wonder, Aliette thinks maybe what it needs is her, coming to collect one her own.

  The last day, after rolling off the ferry and before heading down to Nantes, the Nouvelle family takes a short detour by the cathedral in Carnac at Aliette’s request. “I just want to look at it. Just for a minute.”

  “At what?”

  “The horse...in the frieze over the front door.”

  They stop. Maman pulls out her book. “In the Celtic tradition the horse stands for loyalty, ennobling the man it carries on its back, accepting to obey him but not to be his slave. The horse is the funeral animal, the one who carries pure souls to the Beyond. The relationship between man and the horse is not a confrontation but a collaboration, a union based on equality. The horse is not the one who brings death, like the bull; it is the one who submits to death with its master. It dies with man in man’s wars because it has tied its destiny to man’s...”

  Anne asks, “What about woman and her wars?”

  Maman only nods, continuing, “The Celtic horse goddess, Epona, the mare, is also called Rigantona. She is the Great Queen, the Mother Goddess.”

  Aliette gazes up at the image of the horse bearing the Virgin, and the line of colts following. “Why is it all so incoherent? Makes sorting out the angels look like a piece of cake.”

  “Because it’s so old.”

  “I’d rather be a horse than a cow.” It’s the kind of thing she could say there in the car...with just them.

  “Then you will be, dear,” assures Maman.

  “Yvon says I remind him of Anne,” says Anne.

  “Anne dear,” advises Maman, “it’s the last week of the holiday, it’s the best time to enjoy yourself. But I want you to think of next week as the beginning of a new year. A clean slate. Time to start over. New clothes, a new attitude. Maybe a steady job...”

  “A new boyfriend?”

  “Not him. Please.”

  To keep things fair for the two girls in the back seat, they stop at Auray, home of
the mother of the mother of Christ (at least according to the story). Saint Anne held a rosy apple in her right hand; with her left she supported her daughter, the Virgin, sitting on her knee holding, in turn, her own blessed Child on her lap. “The last time we were here the two of you were like wild horses chasing each other around the place,” remembers Papa. “I was just waiting for you to knock something priceless over.”

  “So was the guide,” recalls Maman. “We were asked to leave.”

  Neither Aliette nor Anne can remember that...

  Back at Nantes there are three messages from Maman’s friend about a bridge night, two from Yvon Nicolazic, obviously not too conversant with the machine, and one from Monique back at the office: it’s urgent, it’s concerning the Commissaire.

  12

  Tricky Territory

  A partouze is a sexual encounter involving more than the usual couple. A threesome, a foursome...une partie de débauche is how Petit Robert defines it. We have to believe it’s the last thing on Interim Adjunct Commissaire Néon’s mind as he goes walking into Mari Morgan’s the night Inspector Nouvelle’s information arrives from Audierne. So the missing body of the murdered pute has been found, as well as that of Marcel Cyr, regular client and close friend of the suspect Dupras? Good. Claude goes walking into the brothel excited in the way any cop will be when he has something that might provide an advantage. Yes, it has occurred to him that Inspector Nouvelle acted behind his back. But she has the support of that new Sub Proc Botrel; and none of Claude’s counterparts at the other end have seemed at all put out by her presence on their territory. Whatever she’s done out there, she’s done it right — found her own way in as usual. Claude Néon, each day a little less the neophyte Commissaire, is learning to live with these irregularities, and, he hopes, to work with them. Alors...walking in, in no way under cover and with no intention of making any kind of fuss that might get him sued over the privacy rule; just a smile on his face and a major secret up his sleeve, ready to play the game. If he could engage the one Aliette has marked as the leader, why — she might say something that could close this thing.

  “It’s the Commissaire, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oui, Claude Néon. You are?”

  “Florence Orain...this is my colleague, Louise Lebraz.”

  Shaking hands. The redhead is quite something.

  “Is this business or pleasure?”

  “Just stopping by to give you an update. PR is becoming very important, no? My inspector’s off on other business just now and — ”

  “Yes, we’ve missed her. One begins to feel close to one’s inspector.”

  “The fact is,” explains Claude, “the inspector has done her bit, for the most part. The thing’s pretty straightforward as far as our work goes: some interviews, coordinating forensics, reports to the Instructing Judge. There are some loose ends, but it’s mainly in the hands of the court now... Oh, and the psychologists.”

  “The psychologists?”

  “They’re looking quite closely at the prisoner. Has a lot to do with how the Procureur presents his case.”

  “Ah. And how is he doing?”

  “Don’t know...” Keep that smile, now: polite, casual. “Not my business... Basically, I just need to see that the seal is still on the room and — ”

  “We haven’t touched a thing...” Leading him through to the back.

  “It would be nice to be able to get at the books,” says Louise as they peer into Herméné’s empty office. Two strands of yellow tape bearing City Police Commissaire Duque’s signature still bar the way.

  “I don’t see what harm it would do,” says Flossie.

  “Sorry, mesdames, but that’s the rule.”

  “And where would we be without rules?”

  “Hate to think...” Taking a peek through the glass doors opposite, into a darkened dining room. “This is a nice place.”

  “What were you expecting?” Louise again; her tougher tone reverberates in his lower parts.

  “I try to steer clear of expectations, Louise.”

  “And does that mean everything’s a surprise — or nothing is?”

  Yes: A bitch. But he could buy her, couldn’t he? If he wanted. “I bet you’re a surprise.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, Monsieur le Commissaire.”

  The other one, Flossie, offers, “Would you like a drink?”

  “Sure, why not? ...Be able to say I’ve had one at Mari Morgan’s.”

  “Tell your girlfriend,” suggests Louise.

  “What’s your problem, madame?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Just looking.” And smiling.

  “What a shame.” The redhead walks away.

  Leaving him with Flossie, arms folded, an impish grin on her face, a satin choker with a tiny silver bell around her neck. Fine; that’s who he’s come to talk to. Isn’t it? It is disorienting around a place like this. “Everyone wants Louise,” she says, taking his arm, jingling faintly as they head back out to the front and into the bar, “but I think we should start you off with something a little easier.”

  Which takes the wind out of his sails... Didn’t it, Claude? Yes. Afterward Claude could distinctly recall the feeling of losing his footing at that moment with Flossie Orain on his arm. A sense of time, a sense of purpose... “Look, madame, I said I’m just — ”

  “I know...” Laughing gaily. “Don’t worry, we’ll find you exactly what you need.”

  “I’m working!”

  “But so am I, monsieur.” Sitting, sweeping her hair back from her neck...her white neck with that bell; leaning toward him, confidential. “Two professionals. Eh, Claude? Have a drink with me.”

  Are you supposed to get up and walk out? No, you have to go with it and hold your own, and especially when you’re the Commissaire. The place is full; that is, eight men sit quietly, nursing drinks. And a smiling Claude, hi guys! makes nine. Recognize any? Can’t tell; things are moving quickly here. “Thanks...” Sipping at something like a fruity Scotch. “Homemade?”

  “Dorise, our cook. Chin chin, Commissaire.” Clinking glasses. “See anyone you like?”

  No one appears to be “with” anyone. The women seem to circulate, from the bar to a chair or a lap, to chat or flirt...then they’ll drift out to the front for a word on the phone or back to the bar to fetch a refill...then back to the tables, each one letting each man have a touch, a whiff, a whisper, until his senses lock onto something desired. Then the man Flossie says is the accountant from Hôtel de Ville leaves the room in the company of a short one with carefully coiffed black hair who looks something like Monique, his secretary. Hm. And that Louise looks to be settling in with the eldest of the evening’s guests — a psychiatrist apparently, retired now, Flossie says he used to do a lot of consulting to the court but it must’ve been before Claude’s time.

  If an old man can handle her, why couldn’t I?

  “Only you know the answer to that, monsieur...”

  “What?” But I didn’t say... Then a girl he has not yet seen comes into the bar. Young, in a dress that’s more of a jumper: tight bodice, short, to mid-thigh; a midnight blue under the dim light, with tiny sequins glittering in random waves. He marvels at the soft oval face of an ingenue framed in swirling hair. She passes him without a glance and sits with a guy on the far side of the room. Also young; hair and coat look foreign.

  “That’s Vivi...that’s her American.”

  “She’s — ”

  “She’s new.”

  “Ah...her mother’s the one — ”

  “ — the one who died, yes.”

  “It’s tough.”

  “She’s a strong girl.”

  Claude imagines her strength. He asks, “What do you mean, her American?”

  “Her regular.”

  “That mean exclusive?”

  “Not at all. But tonight it does.”

  “Ah.” He sips his drink. It’s good.

  “What about the ca
se, Commissaire?”

  “Claude.”

  “Claude...” Flossie smiles and rings her tiny bell.

  It rings in Claude’s mind, a tiny sound tugging at him as though each moment were beginning to stretch. What about the case? And all your responsibilities? Claude is stuck for a reply. This ringing is growing, splintering his varied feelings about the case into a detailed breakdown of the fragments of his life: work, loneliness, choices...this is love, this is obsession, this is duty...this is what you are, this is not who you think you are...where’s the balance between those honest mistakes and the wilful pretense? A man will wonder, with or without a drug in his brain. By that point Claude knows Flossie has given him something stronger than whisky. Now does one get up and walk out? Claude is not inclined to. The girl and her American leave the bar hand in hand. And now Louise, on the arm of the old shrink. Somehow they fit together well. That old man is going to have fun...

  “Fun is mostly in the mind, Claude.”

  Jesus! I didn’t say a word. Did I?

  “Maybe you should meet Céleste.”

  “Céleste?” Heavenly name...heavenly sound, and surrounded by ringing.

  “Our cow... Surely Aliette told you about Céleste.”

  SurelyAlietteSurelyAlietteSurelyAliette... Echoing something in the inspector’s report about milk in the morning, a cow in the kitchen. “I never did like cows, me.”

  “Oh, she’s beautiful... Dorise says Aliette loves her. You will too, Claude. Everyone does.”

  SurelyAlietteSurelyAlietteSurelyAliette... This is work. This is for the case.

  “What do you want, Claude?”

  “I want to laugh.”

  “Like Herméné laughs?”

  “It might be important.”

  “I think it’s crucial.”

  “For the case.”

  “Absolutely. It’s why we’re here.”

  Like a drunk unable to remember how he made it home, driving by pure instinct and rote, must have stopped here, must have turned there, haunted by the thought of it, his mind hot-wired by the thing Flossie has fed him, it’s a trip to a place well known but the way is not describable.

  But it leads through Flossie’s bed: “Is it you?” ...as she settles on him, high on his chest, looking down, inching closer still.