‘For the toothache, Herr Detektiv,’ offered the boy, with no feeling in his gaze or voice.
Two 9mm Parabellum rounds were confiscated. ‘We’ll get to these. Now tell me where you got the goat’s cheese?’
‘From home, from les Baux.’
A village some twenty-three kilometres to the south.
‘Inspector, he ran away,’ confessed Brother Matthieu lamely. ‘When he heard of what had happened here, Xavier left us and has only just returned by way of our kitchens and at the bishop’s command.’
‘Afraid, was he? The boy, that is.’
‘Upset, yes. All of us were and are.’
Kohler gave the brother a curt nod. Towering over them, he said, ‘Is that why he hasn’t quite emptied his pockets, Father?’
The monk silently cursed this Bavarian from the Kripo as a small brass bell, une clochette, fell to the hearth to ring and roll into the ashes.
‘The boy sleeps with the dogs for warmth, Inspector. They are a modest duty he undertakes.’
‘For whom?’
May God forgive me, said Brother Matthieu to himself. ‘His Holiness, the Bishop.’
Each dog, when out hunting, would wear a bell whose sound was different from those of all the others. And when the dogs drove game towards their master, he would know exactly where each of them was.
The tin of sardines had come from the firm of D’Amelio et fils in Marseille and it would have cost a fortune on the black market, thought St-Cyr. At least 1200 francs, the equivalent of a kilo of butter or five kilos of potatoes, if one could find them, and half a month’s wages for a department store clerk or minor government official. Its presence was so incongruous he drew in an impatient breath. Always there were questions, and always under the Germans virtually no time was allowed to sort such things out.
The label carried an artist’s romantic view of the Vieux Port with the slumbering industry of beached and anchored trawlers whose burnt ochre sails held their inverted triangles to the intense blue of the sky. Twin sardines, swimming away from each other, were superimposed on the label in a softer, greyer blue but he thought no more of them.
Not two weeks ago, from 13 to 15 January, the Germans had destroyed the warren of slum housing that had occupied the whole of the first arrondissement of Marseille. Hitler had been in a rage. On the third of the month German security forces had attacked a brothel hoping to arrest résistants in hiding, and several of the Occupier had been killed.
Avignon could not help but have shuddered at the news, and this one must certainly have been aware of it.
There were several rings on each of her fingers – one of plain gold had round projections, others were of polished cabochons: a superb jasper of deep red was thinly banded by silvery-grey magnetite; there was a sapphire …
Three spare rings hung around her neck on a fine gold chain. There was a zodiacal ring on the fourth finger of her right hand, with garnet rings placed before and after it. This fourth fingernail had been broken, a painful tear she had not had a chance to attend to. What had she torn it on?
‘I don’t even know your name,’ he said apologetically. ‘Forgive me.’ And lifting the hem of the cote-hardie, the gown and sheath, examined her hose for tears, for pulled-down garters, for bruises and scratches.
There were none, and the hose, which came to just above her knees, was also of the very early Renaissance, of a soft, crocheted wool and white in colour – grey had been preferred for practicality but this one had spared no expense. She had come to the Palais, to a rendezvous perhaps, and had worn nothing but the finest of raiment.
But how had she come by such clothes in these times of extreme shortages, and who had she really been?
‘You lived in your imagination,’ he said. ‘You were a creature of it. You must have been.’
‘Her name was Mireille de Sinéty, Louis.’
‘Ah! Hermann. You took your time.’
‘It’s nearly five a.m. The photographer and fingerprint artist is waiting. The flics have brought a van with two of the sisters to guard her virtue.’
‘Bon. I’m staying with this one. I’m not letting her out of my sight until I’m satisfied we have a record of the trinkets she wears and where they are located. Each item may have meaning.’
‘And you don’t trust others, not even the sisters?’
‘Avignon is like Lyon, a city of the hidden, Hermann. They play games here and we must never forget this. Petrarch wrote of it in his secret letters to Rome in 1346 or thereabouts, but it is Victor Hugo we have to thank for the statement, “In Paris one quarrels; in Avignon one kills.”’
The Latin temperament. ‘Any sign of a dog?’
‘Why?’ Louis had been startled by the question.
‘Because, mein lieber französischer Oberdetektiv, there could well have been one.’
A dog …‘Is there a priest with the sisters?’
‘The bishop himself, who else?’
‘Then he has had a long night and is very stubborn.’
‘I’ll show the photographer in first, shall I, Chief, and then the others when he’s finished?’
Their voices were rebounding from the walls and would be heard. ‘You do that. You tell His Eminence we will allow the Sacrament of the Death but his anointing the body with oil is definitely out until after Peretti has seen her, unless, of course, Extreme Unction has already been given and we have not been informed of it.’
‘To not anoint the body is a sacrilege, Inspector. What harm can it possibly do?’ came a voice, firm and determined, the traces of langue d ’oc as old and stubborn as the hills.
He stood alone, this Bishop of Avignon. He wasn’t tall but was as if cut from stone, the nose so fiercely prominent it would dominate his every expression. The dark brown, steely eyes were hooded and empty of all else beneath bushy iron-grey brows that feathered thickly to the sides. The forehead was blunt, a stern and unyielding prelate whose grimly set lips were turned down at their corners.
‘Bishop, why is there secrecy with this one?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘There is no such thing.’
‘Then please be good enough to tell us who found her and when?’
‘Salvatore awaits your pleasure in the guardroom near the entrance. He’ll tell you what you need to know. Now if you don’t mind, I must give this poor child the release you spoke of. Her soul has already been forced to wait too long.’
The bishop removed a black woollen overcoat and a grey scarf, and thrust these at Hermann. Dressed simply as a humble priest in a black cassock, he found his kit and opened its little leather case as he knelt beside the victim.
St-Cyr brought the lantern close, recording distress in the bishop’s questioning gaze at the affront of such an intrusion, the slight trembling, too, of short, thickset fingers whose nails were closely trimmed.
‘Inspector, have you no conscience? This is a matter between Mireille and her God.’
Not ‘Mademoiselle de Sinéty’, or even simply, ‘the mademoiselle’, but Mireille. ‘Murder is never private, mon père. God is as aware of this as He is of her needs.’
‘How dare you?’
He wore no ecclesiastical rings, this bishop, not even a wrist-watch. The Cross he used was of black iron. ‘My child,’ he said, turning to the victim, ‘God forgives your sins as He forgives the one who did this and the one who intrudes upon our sacred moment.’
He closed her eyes but couldn’t stop his fingers from lingering. Tender … did he think this of the touch of her skin? wondered St-Cyr. Seen from above, the bishop’s hair was thick and grey, cut short and unruly below and around a tonsure which hid neither blemish nor birthmark but was in need of a razor.
Bishop Henri-Baptiste Rivaille anointed her body with the oil, made certain her soul was consigned to Heaven. He would take an hour at least to do it if necessary! he swore to himself. The rings were there on her fingers, the decade with its ten projecting knobs so that she could privately say an Ave as she touched eac
h of them and then a Pater Noster at the bezel. Had she done so in her darkest moment? he wondered.
A gimmel ring was there too – a pair of circlets and bezels that interlocked when worn together as now, but which could be separated so that each half of a couple could wear one as a sign of true affection, but would the Sûretè who was watching him so closely understand its meaning?
The fleurs-de-lis of twin brooches were on either side of her wounded neck and mounted high on her chest to clasp the mantle she wore beneath her over-cloak. The brooches were of champlevé, with polished cabochons of ruby, emerald and sapphire which were set in collets or mounted à jour with claws to let the light shine through them.
On a gold chain, fastened to her girdle, there was a pendant box, of two foiled crystals mounted in silver gilt, and Rivaille knew he mustn’t let his eyes dwell on the box, knew precisely what it contained.
A jasper ring drew him as he continued, his lips so familiar with the sacrament that his eyes and mind could search undisturbed for the slightest detail of her person.
The dark red jasper was banded with silvery-grey magnetite and he knew it was a type of loadstone and associated with earthly love, the stone worn so as to attract another.
But would the one from the Sûreté discover this?
Her kirtle was of Venetian silk, the colour of the finest La Mancha saffron. Her belt was of the softest suede but he mustn’t examine it too closely, mustn’t tremble at the sight of it.
From high on her left hip a trail of gold and silver, of precious and semiprecious stones fell to lead buttons and pearls but began with her own sign. And he knew then beyond question that she had defied God and the Church and had left a rebus among the enseignes and talismans, the cabochons and zodiacal signs. But would the detectives be able to decipher it?
Making the sign of the Cross over her, he gave a sigh whose sadness he hoped would not be misinterpreted. He touched her hair, her lovely hair …‘My work here is done, Inspector. The sisters are to stay with her until she is released for burial.’
‘They may have a long wait,’ said St-Cyr.
‘That does not matter. This one was special.’
* The works of Thomas Mann and 841 others, including those of all British authors except for the classics. Spy novels were considered a particular threat, as were histories and novels of WW1.
2
In the guardroom just inside the entrance to the Palais, the smell of roasting garlic was mingled with that of smoking kerosene. Bent over the lantern, the concierge had pushed up the globe to warm a tiny repast but was still unaware of company. ‘Putain de bordel,’ he hissed at the lantern. ‘Behave yourself!’
The skewered garlic was withdrawn, smoke continuing to pour through the lantern’s vents. Brushing away the soot as best he could, he cut the clove in half and took to rubbing it into a twenty-five-gram slice of the National bread.
With great deliberation he finally gave up and began to finely slice the garlic with an ancient, wooden-handled knife. The bread would be grey and full of sweepings best not eaten but when one is hungry enough to eat lunch a good six hours before noon, what could be said?
‘It helps, doesn’t it?’ Kohler indicated the garlic, startling him. ‘It stays with you longer than most things and gives the illusion of a stomach at work.’
The chewing stopped. The mouse-brown, unblinkered eye began to moisten.
Salvatore Biron dragged off his beret, the garlic chips tumbling from the bread to lie sweating their juice under the flickering light. ‘Forgive me,’ he said and ducked his good eye down.
Immediately he began to tidy things, the left hand busy, the hook that served as the right hand unoccupied. One of the anciens combattants from the last war, like Brother Matthieu, he was, in addition, a grand mutilé, an amputee. ‘Verdun,’ he muttered, not looking up. ‘Your side’s machine-gun nest. In the carelessness of my grenade attack the bunker was removed but so was my forearm, and fortunately for me, but a portion of my parties sensibles. One testicle, not the member.’
‘A fag?’ said Kohler, hauling them out only to see Biron shake his head and hear him mumble, ‘I have my own and because tobacco is so severely rationed, must limit myself lest the desire become too great.’
‘Nicht deutschfreundlich, eh?’
Not friendly to Germans. ‘Should I be?’ he asked, looking up at last but not defiantly. ‘They removed my right leg below the knee. Another mistake of mine, but no matter.’
The face was pinched, the hair dyed jet black, as were the eyebrows to match the layers of cloth that had been glued to the inside of the right lens of his specs.
‘And yet you’re here, guiding “tourists” through the Palais, seven days a week at their command.’
‘One has to live, and since the pension is small, we Avignonnais tend to take care of one another. The bishop has a kind heart.’
Had Biron turned grey overnight during the war? wondered Kohler. Many of the boys had. ‘So, okay then, start telling me about the girl.’
‘I found the child on Monday night at about ten minutes before the curfew started.’
At 10.50 p.m. on the twenty-fifth. The wire summoning Louis and himself to Avignon had arrived in Paris at about 8.00 a.m. on the twenty-sixth. ‘What made you go up there at that hour?’
‘The bishop always requires that I go through the Palais to make certain all is well and no one has remained behind to make mischief.’
‘But someone did.’
‘Our “tourists” often throw stones at the statues or yell so as to hear the echoes of their voices.’
‘Soldier boys will be boys. When do you usually check through?’
Salaud! Son of a bitch! ‘After closing. At … at five thirty in the afternoon, unless, of course, there is one of the concerts. The madrigal singers perform here and when they do, la chambre de la grande audience is always full. A crowd, some of whom like to wander off, especially in summer when it’s warm outside, but cool in the darkness here.’ If the Inspector thought anything of this, he gave no indication.
‘What detained you from five thirty until ten minutes before the curfew?’ he asked.
Jésus, merde alors, why must he persist? ‘A film. It’s not often I get to see one but …’
‘But on Monday evening you just had to go to the cinema,’ snorted Kohler. ‘Which one, eh? The film, I mean, and then, the cinema.’
‘The … The Grapes of Wrath.’
‘Pardon?’
‘An American film left over from the evacuation.’
The Occupier had moved into the Free Zone to occupy the whole of France on 11 November 1942. On the 8th the Allies, the Americans, having joined them, had landed en masse in Algeria and Morocco. On 27 November the French had scuttled the French fleet in Toulon Harbour – over seventy ships – and on 17 December General Niehoff, now based in Lyon, had been appointed Commander-in-Chief of the France-Sud military region.
‘The cinema?’ asked Kohler, a breath held.
The detective would find out anyway – he had that look about him. ‘L’Odyssée de la grande illusion. It’s one of your Soldatenkino but Monsieur Simondi, the owner, turns a blind eye sometimes.’
‘Nur für Deutsche, eh?’
Only for Germans. ‘Yes.’
‘So you spent the evening watching The Grapes of Wrath.’
‘It’s … it’s supposed to show your soldiers what things are really like in America. Such poverty, Inspector. Such dust. Do they have the mistral there too?’
Had there even been subtitles to tell the boys what was being said? ‘I’ll ask my partner to check into it. He’s a film buff. Simondi, did you say?’
‘César Simondi.’
‘Any connection to the victim?’
‘She was one of his singing students in addition to her being the group’s costumière. Still, for her there were the auditions, the constant need to prove herself when she … she was ten times better than any of the others.’
&nb
sp; ‘A golden voice?’
‘That of an angel.’
This time the offer of a cigarette was accepted. The concierge’s fingers trembled. He coughed twice, shook some more, and finally got to inhaling the smoke.
‘When I found her, Inspector, there was no one with her – I swear it – but the blood was still hot. It was running down the wall and from that terrible gash in her slender throat, a throat I …’.
‘You what?’
Ah Jésus! ‘I admired as much as did many others. It’s no sin, is it, for a broken man to admire a pretty girl?’ The detective would file- the remark away. He had that look about him constantly.
‘Did you touch anything – apart from dipping a finger?’
‘Touch …? I heard a sigh but it couldn’t have come from Mireille, this I know, for I’ve seen death often enough.’
A sigh …‘At ten fifty p.m., or very close to it.’
‘Yes. I … I went at once to inform Brother Matthieu but couldn’t find him. I then went to see the bishop.’
‘Hang on a minute. Was there any sign of the murder weapon?’
‘The weapon? No, I … I didn’t look closely, though.’
‘But you definitely heard someone?’
‘Yes.’
‘A man or a woman?’
‘I … All right, I didn’t hang around to find out who it was.’
‘You went to inform the bishop. Where was he?’
The eyeglasses were removed and the good eye wiped with a handkerchief. ‘Bishop Rivaille was out – that is what his housekeeper told me when I woke her. A dinner engagement, things to discuss. The concert on the thirtieth. The singers. This new tour they are planning – Aix, Marseille, Toulon, Aries also, I think. The bishop takes a very special interest in the madrigal singers because they also sing the Masses, the Magnificat and other canticles. Simondi is choirmaster and director of music at the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame-des-Doms.’
Right next door to the Palais. ‘Either that girl had a key to the front entrance here or someone left the door open for her. Who has keys?’
‘Only the bishop, myself and Brother Matthieu. The door wouldn’t have been left open, Inspector. How could it have been? Are you certain she had a key?’
Madrigal Page 3