All of the glazed ceramic tiles were gone, those with their pale green and brown doves, their bounding hares and hunting hawks.
Nino stood rigidly pointing at one of the flagstones in the floor.
‘What is it?’ asked Kohler. The dog gave three short, sharp barks and began to worry the flag.
Prised from the floor, it revealed its hidey-hole. Where once a bag or two of silver and one of gold, or vessels of the same, had been hidden, there were now, at the bottom, both the sickle and the martinet, whose short, black leather thongs lay over the blade of the other.
‘Good girl,’ sighed Kohler, fondling her head. ‘I knew you could do it.’
The blade of the sickle was dark with age and smeared with dried blood. Bits of lavender and winter grass still clung to the wooden haft which had been bound with baling wire. ‘Xavier, Louis.’
‘But why the martinet, Hermann, unless he wanted us to blame Rivaille?’
‘And get free of blame himself. He’d have had to bring it from the mill.’
Louis got down on his hands and knees, and using his handkerchief, gingerly pulled away the thongs to look more closely at the blade. ‘It’s perfect, Hermann,’ he sighed, ‘and exactly as I’d imagined.’
‘Ingrid? My wife …’ began von Mahler, only to realize she had slipped away.
‘Sister …’ began Louis.
‘I’m not a sister, not any more.’
‘Where has Frau von Mahler gone?’
There were tears she couldn’t stop, and Marie-Madeleine knew she must appear very pale and shaken under the blue light from their torches. ‘I … I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.’
Voices rose to fill the Grand Tinel and filter out to rooms and halls and staircases, the song now racing like the wind. ‘Alia caccia … alla caccia …’ To the hunt … the hunt … ‘Subito … Subito …’ Hurry … Hurry … ‘Di qua … qua … qua …’ Over here … here … here … ‘Venite volontieri…’ Come gladly … gladly … ‘Chiamatie li bracchi … bracchi …’ Call the hounds … the hounds …
Deep in the cellar of the Wardrobe Tower and still searching frantically for Frau von Mahler, Kohler let Nino go. Joyously she raced away and soon he could hear her barking high above him in the Grand Tinel.
But then the singing stopped, and for a time he could hear nothing. He shook his torch, cursed the unreliability especially of Gestapo Paris’s batteries these days, and got the thing going again.
A discoloured seepage had frozen to the ancient stone walls, the room square and seemingly vast but also a forest of stout octagonal stone pillars that rose to the arches they supported.
Verdammt! Where the hell had that woman got to? Why had she felt it so necessary to leave? She’d been present during the murder – had she lied about what had happened? If so, others would know of it. Others.
Switching off his torch, he strained to listen but could hear nothing definitive and then …
When he heard a breath escape, he thought it must be her, but moved aside and made no sound. The breath had come from behind one of the pillars – off to his left, he thought, and asked again, Why had she slipped away, if not because she still had things to hide? Had she killed the girl? Had she been able to lie so well until faced with their finding the sickle?
Kohler moved among the pillars until his foot came against, and sought out further, a stone ledge. Something was resting on the damned thing. Something tall and round and of cold metal that was evenly coated with chalky dust.
The thing stood on a low platform, and it was huge but still he couldn’t figure out what it was, knew only that he wasn’t alone.
Feeling always the fine coating of dust, he began to move forward. The walls were at least six centimetres in thickness and it was definitely round. Three stone steps led up the side and stopped him from continuing.
Hearing the breathing again, Kohler turned and waited, and to the feel of the dust on the rim, came the touch of a coarse woollen cassock. A sleeve …
Silently he stepped off the ledge and moved away. The voices of the singers started up and began again to filter throughout the tower. They soared, they raced away, chasing after one another, shifting … constantly shifting, the song in Spanish and about three Moorish girls who had stolen someone’s heart.
Suddenly they stopped, and he strained to hear them.
When he switched on the torch, its ghostly pale blue and slit-eyed white light fell on the Pontiff’s lead bathtub that had defied the centuries.
There was no sign of the cassock, and he knew then that it could well be that others were also hunting for Frau von Mahler.
Lute, recorder, shawm and tambourine were in hand, the tableau the singers presented like a painting of Caravaggio’s, thought St-Cyr. Beatific, pastoral, their costumes magnificent and full of vibrant colours and the play of candlelight, they looked so at ease with one another and their music. Banishing everything else from their minds, as only the truly professional can do, they sang not only for the sheer joy of it but for the group as a whole, as one and immensely proud of it. Their expressions were keen to every nuance, one smiling, another listening attentively for a note or passage which would rise above the others even as their voices chased after it, the centuries retreating from that of the mid-sixteenth to that of the mid-fourteenth.
The Grand Tinel filled and echoed with the sound of them and the echoes themselves were used to chase after or run before a part or two or three, the sound superb in every way … but murder … Murder …
Genèvieve Ravier sat central to them and at the back, with the warm tone of a lute cradled in her sky blue, silken lap. Christiane Bissert sat below her and to the right, the outspread knee of the one touching the green velvet shoulder of the other in comfort … would it be in comfort or as a warning, a threat? he wondered, entranced by it all.
Guy Rochon, the tenor, was to the Alto’s left and also just below Genèvieve. Then came Norman Galiteau with shawm in hand, and opposite him, Marius Spaggiari, and finally, Xavier.
All looked so innocent. The madrigal came to an abrupt and racing conclusion. ‘Disperse,’ cried out Simondi, as if they had to do this, had to show this Sûreté what would be lost if one or all of them were found guilty.
They took up positions widely spaced about the hall and from each other …‘Orlando di Lasso’s, Bonjour: et puis, quelles nouvelles,’ called out the singing master. Good morning. So now, what news have we?
A madrigal about a pretty maid who drew water from a well followed, their voices coming from each and every part of the hall. Echoing, ringing with bell-like tone, chasing as the maid would chase, first one and then another of the village boys, racing in joyous abandon, all united, all as one … One …
‘Quando ritrova,’ sang out Simondi. ‘It’s from the masterpieces of Constanzo Festa, Ispettore.’
A song about a shepherdess in a meadow, at a murder inquiry! A sickle … Another faucille? wondered St-Cyr, suddenly sickened by the thought of his throat being cut … Cut!
At the opposite end of the hall, and where the judges would have been seated on the night of the murder, Simondi sat to one side of Rivaille, Albert Renaud to the other. And the business suits those two wore were not at odds with the white-and-gold robes of the bishop who aspired to have the Papacy returned to Avignon in this ‘new and even brighter Renaissance’.
Grim-faced, and wearing the ruby ring only and on the third finger of the right hand as it would have been worn back then when given in marriage to God or to a woman, Rivaille gazed coldly at one of the singers … Which one? wondered St-Cyr.
The Kommandant had still not joined them, nor had his wife and Hermann … Hermann. Only Marie-Madeleine was with him, a worry to be sure, for he couldn’t guarantee her safety here.
It was not good. No it wasn’t.
Nino wandered in and out of the window alcoves and far in behind their black-out curtains. She searched for and followed one scent while Xavier patently tried to ignore his former
friend.
Ten candelabra, each with five candles, had been placed at intervals about the hall. Fifty candles had had to be extinguished before Mireille de Sinéty could be killed.
‘Gesualdo’s Moro lasso,’ sang out Simondi, his voice firmly in command. ‘Ispettore, in 1590 Gesualdo arranged for the murders of his wife and her lover, but he was one of the finest composers of his time and far in advance of most. Flamboyant, daring, a man of the world and of varied tastes and many, many love affairs, a master of the contrapuntal whose music still lives while the dead wife quickly slipped into obscurity.’
Like your own might well have done? wondered St-Cyr, frantically looking about the hall for Hermann. Where the hell was Hermann?
The singers sang the madrigal and then, at a curt nod from Rivaille, an instantly subdued and suddenly tearful Christiane Bissert stepped dutifully forward. She looked so fragile now, so lost and afraid. Setting her recorder carefully down on the floor beside her, and kneeling, she crossed herself while facing her judges and then, her lips moving in silent prayer, bowed her head and, with hands clasped devoutly, awaited their sentence.
‘There is your murderess, Inspector,’ said Rivaille scathingly. ‘Let it not be said that the Church ever failed to uphold justice and truth. She is mighty, as God is mighty. Let no man question it. This court is now adjourned.’
‘A moment, Bishop. Forgive a humble Sûreté, but …’
‘Don’t be a fool! Haven’t we provided you with the answer you so demanded and at great cost? That girl was here and has confessed! What more could you possibly want?’
‘The absolute truth, Bishop. A few small questions. Nothing …’
‘Don’t you dare taunt me with that rubbish you people from Paris pack around with you! Here we do things in our own way.’
‘The maître’s wife, Bishop? Might it not please the court to tell me where she was on the night of the murder and why, please, she’s not with us as specifically requested?’
The bastard!
‘Ispettore,’ began Simondi, gesturing apologetically. ‘My Marceline couldn’t have been here, either then, or now. She wasn’t well. Both you and Herr Kohler, and the members of this court, my singers also, know how ashamed I am of her repeatedly disgracing herself in front of others. I do what I can, isn’t that so? but …’ He shrugged. ‘What is a loving husband to do with such a one?’
Kill her, was that it, eh? The hypocrite! To lie like that and to think one could get away with it!
Marie-Madeleine had now gone to join Christiane on her knees, but with her back to the judges at the far end of the hall and all but hiding the girl from them. Looking pale and badly shaken and ready to bolt and run, Genèvieve Ravier stood next to the curtained entrance of the Saint John’s Tower.
The hall grew quiet except for Nino’s constant comings and goings. Not a one among them could fail to realize the dog was retracing the final steps of Mireille de Sinéty. Nino would pause to lift her head and look at the judges as if to say, Aren’t you going to follow me like you did on that night?
Silently Rivaille cursed Xavier for not having killed the hound and so did Simondi and Renaud, but where, really, was Hermann and why, please, had de Passe not come? De Passe … Ah merde …
The match was struck but broke and all Frau von Mahler could think about was the acrid smoke it gave. In panic, she dropped her torch, couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t even cry out.
Another match was found and she heard the grating sound it made on the sandpaper of the packet. Sparks flew up. Flame burst suddenly – hot, so very hot it became a roaring inferno in her mind. Showers of sparks landed in her hair, on her clothes, down her back … her skin … her skin …
The match went out and for a long, long time she couldn’t move yet knew she must. She must.
Another match was struck. This time the flame wavered in his hand and she saw the faces of the past leap out at her from the wall behind him. The faces of women in soft, pale blue and chalky-pink gowns. Some were staring impassively at her, others at each other or looking away. Some wore a bit of white lace over their plaited golden tresses, others did not or had their hair completely covered. Some were old, most were young and with these last, their lips were not wide in smiles of grins but compressed in judgement – judgement – their eyebrows plucked into perfect arches to frame the eyes. The eyes …
Tentatively she felt her own eyebrows, exploring where they’d once been before hesitantly covering her mouth to stop herself from being sick.
Again the match went out. I’m in the Saint John’s Tower, the lower chapel, she cried out silently to herself and tried desperately to find her torch.
This time the flame revealed him to her and she saw him against the fresco. He had removed the leather greatcoat, military cap and gloves. These were nowhere near him.
The knitted pullover he wore was of coarse black wool but frayed and worn completely through at the elbows and she wondered why he had chosen to wear it, not just because she had made it for him years ago, but because … because …
‘Liebchen, it’s only me,’ he said in deutsch. ‘My torch doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘Nor mine,’ she quavered and said silently to herself, I thought I knew you, Kurt; asked again, Why has he worn that sweater?
Neither of them moved to comfort the other. Darkness came swiftly. Kohler waited for his eyes to adjust, waited, too, for something else, and when the Hooded One followed the couple, he followed him.
The cote-hardie was of emerald green velvet whose sheen rippled softly in the candlelight. The laced-up bodice was of white silk with gold piping and brocade. There were jagged slashes of burnt sienna, an undersheath of rose madder.
St-Cyr took in everything, the cinematographer within him alert to the slightest change, the detective keyed up. Nino had ceased prowling and now stood rigidly pointing at the curtained entrance to the Saint John’s Tower and upper chapel as if she had heard or seen something.
Genèvieve Ravier was hesitant but pleaded with her eyes as she looked towards her friend and lover, and Christiane Bissert faced her from the far end of the hall.
At the opposite end, Rivaille’s expression remained grim and unyielding in its condemnation of the girl, he seated smugly with the others. In turn, Simondi and Renaud also waited for the accused to confess.
‘Inspector …’ began the girl, only to falter and to look again at Genèvieve, imploring her to understand. ‘Chérie,’ she begged, ‘I have to tell them. I must!’
‘You promised not to! You said you wouldn’t!’WOULDN’T … WOULDN’T …
‘I know, but …’
‘Mademoiselle Bissert,’ said St-Cyr sternly. ‘At the livrée this morning you felt someone would kill my partner. You attempted to distract Herr Kohler. Please state the reason for this clearly.’
Still just within the stairwell and surrounded by stone walls, Kohler could hear Louis well enough but had to shut him out of his mind, was close … so close to the Hooded One.
‘I … I had been told to do so, Inspector,’ she confessed with eyes lowered.
‘By whom?’ demanded Louis sharply.
‘César … César, must I say it here? Here and … and now!’
‘Little one, you’d best.’
She swallowed hard and stood with fists clenched, was pale and shaken and in tears no comforting Marie-Madeleine could give would stop.
‘Maître … Maître de Passe, had come to the livrée to help César. He found me in one of the corridors and … and told me what to do.’
There, she had condemned both Genèvieve and herself, she cried inwardly and begged God to forgive her, only to hear the Sûreté asking gently, so gently, ‘Or else what would happen to you, mademoiselle?’
‘Or else I would suffer and … and so would Genèvieve. The accabussade for us both. Me first so that Genèvieve could watch what was happening to me, and then … then her, too, but … but after I was no more.’
‘Ah bo
n,’ said Louis. ‘Now we can return to the murder of Mireille de Sinéty and to the night of Monday last. Your lover was to have been dismissed, mademoiselle.’
He had moved nearer to Genèvieve but was on the opposite side of the hall from her and the entrance to the Saint John’s Tower.
‘To save herself,’ he said, and his voice carried and was full and robust and without fear, ‘your lover instigated what happened to Adrienne de Langlade, both at the mas of Mademoiselle de Sinéty’s mother and then at the mill on the Îie de la Barthelasse. She egged the rest of you on, didn’t she, but with Xavier’s help and under instructions from Madame Simondi?’
‘I’m sorry, Genèvieve. I know you will hate me but yes. And yes, I helped her, Inspector. I did! And … and may God forgive me.’
‘And as an accessory to that first murder, mademoiselle …’
‘Ispettore, I object! Adrienne de Langlade drowned.’
‘An accident,’ spat Rivaille. He’d had just about enough of this upstart from Paris.
‘An accident, Bishop, to which we will return,’ countered the Sûreté. ‘But first, mademoiselle, to the murder here. You had to intervene, didn’t you?’
‘I knew what you planned to do to Mireille, Genèvieve. I couldn’t let it happen.’
‘Happen …’ sang out Marius Spaggiari.
‘Happen …’ echoed Norman Galiteau.
‘She took a black robe …’ continued the tenor, Guy Rochon.
‘A black robe from our props r—’ Xavier’s voice broke. Shattered, the song fell apart, and for a moment Christiane glared hurtfully at each of them, then angrily wiped her eyes and blurted, ‘Damn you, yes!’
‘The sickle also, mademoiselle,’ said the Sûreté, his voice carrying into the stairwell. ‘The main entrance to the Palais wasn’t locked.’
NOT LOCKED … NOT LOCKED …
‘The door was wide open!’ she cried in despair. ‘Genèvieve, I had to do it for you. I had to!’
Marie-Madeleine had reached out to the girl to grip her by the shoulders. ‘Quite by accident you ran into Frau von Mahler,’ she said accusingly. ‘You turned around and left her, didn’t you? Well, didn’t you?’
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