by Fred Vargas
‘Very well, my dear colleague, I’ll take your word for it. You’ll have to accompany any visitor or see that they are accompanied. Or I’ll hold you responsible for any relapse.’
‘Trust me, I’m a doctor. I won’t let anyone interfere with this cure.’
Hellebaud nodded and let the count approach the bed. Danglard was supporting his trembling arm. Valleray stopped still, open-mouthed as he saw Léo with colour in her cheeks, breathing regularly and able to greet him with a smile and a meaningful look. He stroked the old woman’s hands, which were now warm again. Turning to the doctor to thank him, or to express his veneration, he suddenly collapsed on to Danglard’s arm.
‘Look out,’ said Hellebaud, pulling a face. ‘He’s had a shock, it’s given him a bit of a turn. Sit him down, take off his shirt and check his feet – are they going blue?’
Valleray allowed himself to be moved on to a chair, but Danglard had trouble getting his shirt off. In his confusion, the count was resisting as forcefully as he could, apparently refusing absolutely to be stripped and humiliated in a hospital room.
‘He always hates being undressed,’ Dr Turbot commented laconically. ‘I’ve seen him act like that once before, up at the chateau.’
‘Does he often get attacks like this?’ asked Adamsberg.
‘No, the last time was a year ago. Just stress, it’s not too serious. He’s more alarmed than ill. Why do you ask, commissaire?’
‘For Léo’s sake.’
‘Don’t worry, he’s as tough as old boots, she’ll have him for a few years yet.’
XXIX
Just then, Capitaine Émeri, looking deeply alarmed, came into the room and shook Adamsberg’s elbow.
‘Mortembot has just found his cousin Glayeux dead. Murdered!’
‘What? When?’
‘Last night apparently. The police doctor’s on the way. And you haven’t heard the worst – his skull was split open. With an axe. The murderer is returning to his original method.’
‘Are you thinking of the Vendermots’ father?’
‘Obviously, it must have started everything. A brute creates brutality all round him.’
‘But you weren’t even living here when that happened.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Ask yourself why nobody was ever arrested for that at the time. Or why perhaps somebody didn’t want anyone arrested.’
‘Who do you mean by “somebody”?’
‘Round here, Adamsberg,’ Émeri said in a strained whisper, while Danglard escorted the count out of the room, his shirt having been removed, ‘the only real law is what the Comte de Valleray d’Ordebec wants. He has the right of life and death on his estate and far beyond, if only you knew.’
Adamsberg hesitated, remembering the orders he had received the previous night at the chateau.
‘Look at the facts,’ Émeri said. ‘He needs your prisoner to treat Léo? He gets him. You need an extension for the investigation? He gets that too.’
‘How did you know I’ve got an extension?’
‘He told me himself. He likes you to know how far his writ runs.’
‘But who would he have been protecting?’
‘It was always thought one of the kids had killed the father. They found Lina wiping the axe.’
‘She hasn’t denied that.’
‘She couldn’t, it was all stated at the inquest. But she might have been wiping it to protect Hippo. You know what his father had done to him?’
‘Yes, the fingers.’
‘Hacked off with an axe. But Valleray could have decided to kill the monster himself, to protect the kids. What if Herbier knew that? And what if he decided to blackmail Valleray?’
‘What, thirty years later?’
‘He could have been doing it for years.’
‘But what’s that got to do with Glayeux?’
‘Just a bit of local colour to cover his tracks.’
‘But you’re suggesting that Lina and Valleray are in league. She announces that the Riders have come through, so that Valleray can get rid of Herbier. And all the others, Mortembot, Glayeux, whoever, are red herrings to get you chasing after some local maniac who believes in the Hellequin cavalcade and is carrying out His Lordship’s wishes.’
‘Well, it fits, doesn’t it?’
‘Possibly, Émeri. But I’m inclined to think that there is a maniac out there, someone who takes the Riders seriously. Either one of those seen with them who’s trying to save his skin, or someone who thinks they might be a victim in future and is trying to win favour from Hellequin by serving him.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Adamsberg admitted.
‘It’s because you just don’t know the people round here. What did the count offer you if you could cure Léo? A work of art perhaps? Don’t hold your breath. He does it all the time. And why is he moving heaven and earth to get her treated?’
‘Because he’s fond of her, Émeri, you know that.’
‘Or to find out what she knows?’
‘Christ, Émeri, he almost fainted just now. He wants to marry her if she survives.’
‘That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? A wife’s testimony couldn’t be taken in a court of law.’
‘Make up your mind, Émeri, whether you suspect Valleray or the Vendermots.’
‘Vendermot, Valleray, Léo – they’re all part of the same gang. The Vendermot father and Herbier were the diabolical side of it. The count and the children are the seemingly innocent side. But if you mix the two you get a damned unpredictable mixture, with some clay thrown in.’
XXX
‘He must have been attacked last night at about midnight,’ reported Dr Chazy, the pathologist. ‘Two blows from the axe. But the first was the one that did the damage.’
Glayeux’s body, fully clothed, was stretched out in his office. His head had been split open with two blows, and blood had drenched the carpet, the table and some preliminary sketches he had spread out on the floor. Through the bloodstains, it was still possible to see the head of a madonna.
‘Horrible,’ said Émeri, pointing to it. ‘The Virgin Mary covered in blood,’ he added with disgust, as if this revolted him even more than the scene of butchery before them.
‘Lord Hellequin certainly doesn’t do things by halves,’ Adamsberg murmured. ‘And he wasn’t even impressed by the Virgin Mary.’
‘Obviously,’ said Émeri gloomily. ‘Glayeux had a commission in hand for the church in Saint-Aubin. He always worked late. The killer must have come in, whoever it was, man or woman, they knew each other. Glayeux asked them inside. If the killer attacked him with an axe, they must have been wearing a waterproof of some kind. That would look a bit out of the ordinary with this heat.’
‘Remember there was a threat of rain. Clouds to the west.’
From outside the door came the sound of Michel Mortembot’s sobbing, or rather his stifled cries, the kind produced by men who find it hard to shed tears.
‘He didn’t cry like that when his mother died,’ said Émeri maliciously.
‘Do you know where he was yesterday?’
‘He’d been in Caen for two days, with a big order of pear trees. Plenty of people will confirm that. He only got back late this morning.’
‘And at midnight last night?’
‘He was in this nightclub in Caen, called Shake It Up. A night out with whores and faggots, so now he’s feeling guilty. When he’s stopped snivelling, the brigadier will take him off to get a statement from him.’
‘Émeri, calm down, getting tetchy won’t solve anything. When will the SOC people get here?’
‘They’ve got to get here from Lisieux, work it out. If only that wretched Glayeux had listened to me and at least let us keep a watch on the house.’
‘OK, OK, cool it, Émeri. Is it because you feel sorry for him?’
‘No, not at all, he can go to Hellequin for all I care! But what I’m seeing now is that two of the people “sei
zed” by the Riders have been killed. Know what effect that will have in Ordebec?’
‘Panic.’
‘Most people wouldn’t give a toss if they saw Mortembot go the same way. But we don’t know the name of the fourth victim. We can protect Mortembot, but not the whole town. If I wanted to find out who’s got something on their conscience, someone who’s afraid they’ve been picked out by Hellequin, this would be the moment to keep a close watch. By seeing who seems agitated and who seems calm. Then I could make a list.’
‘Wait for me,’ said Adamsberg, closing his phone. ‘Commandant Danglard’s outside, I’m going to fetch him.’
‘Can’t he come in on his own?’
‘I don’t want him to see Glayeux.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘He can’t stand the sight of blood.’
‘And he’s a cop?’
‘Cool it, Émeri.’
‘He’d have run away on a battlefield then.’
‘It’s not a big deal. He’s not descended from a marshal. All his forefathers were down the pit. Just as tough, but no glory attached.’
A small crowd had gathered in front of Glayeux’s house. People knew he had been one of those seen in the ghostly cavalcade, they had seen the gendarmes’ car arrive, and that had been enough to spread the word. Danglard was standing at the back of the crowd, making no attempt to move forward.
‘I’ve got Antonin with me,’ he explained to Adamsberg. ‘He wants to talk to you and Émeri. But he doesn’t dare try to push through the crowd on his own, we need to clear a passage for him.’
‘Let’s go round the back,’ said Adamsberg, gently taking hold of Antonin’s hand. He had understood, during the home massage, that the hand was solid but the wrist was made of clay. It had to be handled with care.
‘How’s the count now?’ Adamsberg went on.
‘Back on his feet. And dressed again, furious that they removed his shirt. Dr Turbot has completely changed sides, by the way. He humbly arranged a room, and his colleague Hellebaud is this minute holding forth and having lunch with the warders. Turbot’s sticking to him like a leech, he looks as if his preconceptions have been blown away by a cyclone. So what’s happened to Glayeux?’
‘You’d better not see him.’
Adamsberg and Danglard went round the house, protecting Antonin from each side. They met Mortembot, trudging out like a harassed ox, and being shown, quite kindly, by Brigadier Blériot towards the car. Blériot stopped the commissaire with a discreet gesture.
‘The capitaine’s blaming you for Glayeux’s death. He’s saying – pardon my language, sir – that you’ve done fuck all to solve the case. I’m just saying that to warn you, he can be very, erm, tetchy.’
‘Yes, I saw.’
‘Don’t take too much notice, it’ll pass.’
Antonin sat down carefully on one of the chairs in Glayeux’s kitchen and placed his arms under the table.
‘Lina’s at work, Hippo went to buy some wood and Martin is in the forest,’ he explained. ‘So I came.’
‘Right, we’re listening,’ said Adamsberg patiently.
Émeri was standing somewhat to the side, making it quite plain that he wasn’t in charge of inquiries, and that Adamsberg, famous as he was, had made no more headway in the case than he had.
‘People are saying that Glayeux has been killed.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You know that Lina saw him crying for mercy in among the Riders?’
‘Yes, and Mortembot, and another one we don’t know.’
‘Well, what I came to say is that when the Riders kill someone, they do it their own way. Not with modern weapons, I mean. Not guns. Because Hellequin didn’t have those, he’s too ancient.’
‘That wasn’t the case for Herbier.’
‘All right, but perhaps it wasn’t Hellequin who killed Herbier.’
‘It’s true for Glayeux,’ admitted Adamsberg. ‘He wasn’t killed with a gun.’
‘But was it with an axe?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because our axe has disappeared. That’s what I came to say.’
‘Fancy that,’ said Émeri with a short laugh, ‘you’ve come all this way, fragile as you are, to tell us about the murder weapon! Very kind of you, Antonin.’
‘My mother said it might help.’
‘Aren’t you afraid it might get you into trouble? That is, unless you think we’ll find it anyway, and you prefer to get in first.’
‘Cool it, Émeri,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Antonin, when did you notice the axe had gone?’
‘This morning, but before I heard about Glayeux. I never use it, it’s too dangerous for me. But I noticed it wasn’t where it usually is, by the woodpile.’
‘So anyone could have taken it?’
‘Yes, but people don’t.’
‘Does it have any distinguishing marks, this axe, so we could recognise it?’
‘Hippo had carved a V on the handle.’
‘And you think someone else has used it so that you’ll be accused?’
‘That’s possible, but what I mean is, that wouldn’t be very clever, would it? If we had wanted to kill Glayeux, we wouldn’t have used our own axe, would we?’
‘Of course you might. Very clever,’ interjected Émeri. ‘It would look so stupid that nobody would believe you’d done it. Especially not you, the Vendermots, the smartest family in Ordebec.’
Antonin shrugged his shoulders cautiously.
‘You don’t like us, Émeri, so I’m not going to listen to you. Even if your ancestor was a good soldier, outnumbered or not.’
‘Leave my family out of it, Antonin.’
‘Well, you’ve got it in for my family, haven’t you? But do you take after your ancestor? You go charging off after the first hare you see, you never look around, you never ask what other people think. Anyway, you’re not in charge of the case now, so I’m talking to the commissaire from Paris.’
‘Bravo,’ said Émeri with his warlike grin. ‘As you can see, he’s been super-efficient ever since he arrived.’
‘His way’s not yours. It takes time, to work out what people are thinking.’
The SOC team from Lisieux was arriving, and Antonin looked up, his delicate features expressing alarm.
‘Danglard will take you home, Antonin,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Thank you for coming to see us. Émeri, I’ll see you tonight, and take up your dinner invitation, if it’s still on offer. I don’t like quarrelling. Not out of the goodness of my heart, but because I find it tiring, whether justified or not.’
‘All right,’ said Émeri after a moment. ‘My table?’
‘Your table. I’ll leave you with the technical team. Keep Mortembot in the cells as long as you can, say you’re holding him to help with inquiries. At least in the gendarmerie he’ll be safe.’
‘What are you going to do? Have lunch? See someone?’
‘I’m going for a walk, I need to walk.’
‘You mean you’re going searching for something?’
‘No, just for a walk. You know that Dr Hellebaud says these bubbles of electricity don’t exist.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘Let’s have a word about it later.’
All his ill humour had vanished from the capitaine’s face. Brigadier Blériot was right, it went over quite quickly, which was a rare advantage.
XXXI
Anxiety would reach a higher pitch in Ordebec now, fear would spread, people would be seeking answers and, thought Adamsberg, they were more likely to be wondering about the haunting of the area by the ghostly riders than about the failures of the Parisian commissaire. For who around here would seriously believe that a man, a mere mortal, could thwart the darts of Lord Hellequin? Nevertheless, Adamsberg chose to take a little-frequented route, to avoid meeting anyone and answering questions – although he knew Normans were not the kind to ask directly. But they made up for that with long stares or heavy insinuations that stabbed y
ou in the back, and forced you in the end to tackle the question head-on.
Under a scorching sun, he went round the edge of Ordebec, past the pond with its dragonflies, cut through the wood of the Petites Alindes, and headed for the Chemin de Bonneval. There was no risk of meeting anyone on this cursed path in present circumstances. He ought to have come here before and walked the length of it. Because it was here and here alone that Léo must have discovered or realised something. But he had had to deal with Mo, with the Clermont-Brasseurs, with Retancourt going under cover, with Léo’s coma, the count’s commands, and he hadn’t acted fast enough. It was also possible that a certain fatalism had got to work on him, causing him to blame everything on Lord Hellequin instead of looking for the real-life man, the mortal, who went round killing people with an axe. There was no news from Zerk. In that respect, his son was following instructions – he had been forbidden to contact him. Because by now, after the arrival of the men from the Ministry, his second mobile had surely been detected and tapped. He would have to warn Retancourt not to contact him either. God knows what fate awaited a mole uncovered in the great rabbit warren of the Clermonts.
At a crossroads on the way was an isolated farm, guarded by a dog that was tired of barking. There was no chance this phone would be tapped. Adamsberg tugged several times on the old bell pull and called out. Receiving no answer, he pushed open the door and found a telephone on a table in an entry porch full of letters, umbrellas and muddy boots. He picked it up to ring Retancourt.
Then he replaced it. He had suddenly become aware that in the back pocket of his trousers was a bulky packet, containing the photos Valleray had given him the day before. Going back outside, he took shelter behind a hay barn to take a longer look at them, without understanding why they had suddenly seemed to call insistently for his attention. There was Christian doing his imitation of somebody or other, in front of a crowd of laughing admirers, Christophe looking clumsy but smiling, with a gold tiepin in the shape of a horseshoe. All the guests were holding champagne glasses, the dishes were decorated with flower arrangements, the women’s dresses were low-cut, there were jewels everywhere, rings embedded in the flesh of aged fingers, waiters in tuxedos. Plenty for a zoologist who specialised in the parades and habits of the super-rich, but nothing for a cop trying to find a parricide. He was distracted by a flight of wild ducks in an impeccable V-shape, and looked up at the pale blue sky – still with some clouds to the west – then he put the photos back again, patted the nose of a nearby mare who was shaking her mane over her eyes, and consulted his watches. If anything had happened to Zerk, he would surely have been informed. By now they should be getting near Granada, safe from the most diligent searchers. He hadn’t foreseen that he would start worrying about Zerk, and couldn’t work out whether it was because of guilt, or a growing affection he was as yet unaware of. He imagined the two youngsters approaching the city, looking rather dishevelled; he saw Zerk’s small bony face bearing a grin, and Mo with a nice short haircut like a good boy. Skinhead Mo.