Mayhem

by J. Robert Janes

  You wise old owl, thought Kohler, snorting inwardly. Who was it they saw bathing in the river? The Arcuri woman or her maid? ‘Our Lady Scholastica …’ A hiked-up habit, eh? Come on now, Reverend Father.

  The abbot’s gaze was clear. ‘We will find Brother Michael in the caves, messieurs. If you would be good enough to follow me, I will, of course, have to take you there myself. No one else can release Brother Michael from his vow. He’s very strict, that one. He refuses even to communicate by gestures or written words on such days. Me, I am concerned he might fall ill at such a time but … ah, God will never refuse grace. He had much patience with Brother Jérome, you understand. Infinite patience. They argued of course. What more can I say? The wine, you understand. The shipments to Paris and elsewhere. The Germans … Forgive me, Inspector Kohler. Once released, you see what the tongue does. Midnight is still a long way off.’

  He lifted tired, brown, worried eyes from the boulder, then thought better of leaving the thing so openly on the desk.

  Pocketing the boulder somewhere in the coarse black habit, he came round the desk, was all graciousness now. ‘We will have a glass of our wine in the cellars, eh? In honour of your little visit, and perhaps if it is to your taste, a bottle or two to take away with you.’

  One thing was certain, they’d never get to talk to Brother Michael alone.

  A corridor led to stone steps and these, down to the start of a long tunnel which ran under the hill for some distance.

  ‘Voilà, our caves, messieurs,’ said the abbot. He was obviously pleased with the effect, though he must have shown the place thousands of times.

  The ‘caves’ were huge and lit by infrequent electric lights. Rows and rows of barrels lay on their sides. Beyond the barrels there were other caves that held racks of bottles. Here and there in the feeble light silent monks patiently turned bottle after bottle.

  ‘It’s done each day,’ confided St-Cyr.

  They could hear the patient drip of water and against this, the shuffling sandals of the monks and the hush each bottle made as it was turned in the rack. It was like no other sound Kohler had heard.

  Brother Michael was in the fermentation room, holding a glass of the white before a lighted candle, grim, taciturn, grizzled – well up in his sixties, a man of little patience when it came to the youth of today.

  The black beret was clapped on the wide grey head. Hairs sprouted from beneath it. No monk’s tonsure for this one. No habit either. A man of less than medium height, he wore blue denim from head to ankle and sensible black boots.

  The lips were turned down in grim contemplation of the wine. Sad grey eyes, bags under them, a full, hooked nose, so typically French, warts and moles and jowls … Kohler could just imagine him discussing the doubts of the flesh with that young boy. Had Brother Jérome’s pecker been stiff? he wondered. Had the good Brother Michael not caught the younger man at a little self-gratification?

  Ah now …

  ‘Brother Michael, hear me,’ said the abbot, making the sign of the Cross.

  The eyes fled anxiously from the glass to take them in. ‘Our Lady Scholastica frees you from your vow of silence, Brother,’ went on the abbot.

  Still there was no sound from the man. Hurt-filled eyes now flicked from one to the other of them. ‘But I had a dream, Reverend Father …?’

  ‘It’s all right, Brother Michael. Our Lord will understand. Now don’t take on. A glass of your wine for our guests and then a private word, I think. Yes, that would suit God’s way and that of our Holy Rule.’

  The wine was drawn from a barrel in yet another of the caverns. Brother Michael waited tensely for their reactions. St-Cyr wafted in the bouquet before letting the wine pass his lips.

  It was a moelleux, of Sauterne sweetness and robust fruity flavour. Clean and crisp on the palate.

  He nodded curtly. ‘It’s magnificent, Brother Michael. Me, I would like to purchase a dozen bottles if it were not for the rationing.’

  Brother Michael heaved his shoulders. ‘It’s all sold in any case. Goering of the Luftwaffe sent his buyer. We will of course keep some for ourselves, but not much.’

  ‘Brother Michael …’ began St-Cyr.

  ‘Please allow me,’ interrupted the abbot. ‘Brother Michael, these gentlemen have come to see you on a matter of great delicacy. It appears, Brother, that the rock which killed our beloved Brother Jérome came from our district. Perhaps from as much as seven … perhaps eight, or would it be twelve kilometres over which the perruches would be found with its boulders?’

  Brother Michael didn’t bat an eye. ‘Twenty-eight kilometres, Reverend Father. Much of the Domaine Thériault, our own, and downstream, I believe, as far as Rochercorbon there is such a silicious clay. Those boulders …’ He clucked his tongue. ‘They cause much trouble with the plough.’

  St-Cyr again tried to step into things but the abbot smiled benignly. Apparently the vow of silence could only be broken one way. ‘They wish to know your opinions of Brother Jérome, Brother Michael. Please, I know how distressing this must be for you, but,’ the abbot clasped his hands in the sign of prayer, ‘God’s grace is infinitely understanding.’

  The monk clucked his tongue and ground his false teeth. ‘The boy had no sense of vocation, Reverend Father. Always going off to see his sister. Doubts … plagued by doubts. Paris … when we shipped wine to Paris, he hid in our truck, our beloved gazogène. Brother Emanuel discovered him. He was not at the appointed place on the return journey.’

  A fussy man once unleashed. The abbot, far from discouraging him, said, ‘And, Brother, what else? Theft, I believe.’

  ‘Yes … Yes, God forbid – we have nothing of our own here, but some will covet little things, Reverend Father. You know I’ve urged the birch many times. A small gold figurine the Brother Lucien found in the fields. Seven centuries of mould and worth something, I am certain.’

  He paused to blink and blow his nose. He was obviously greatly distressed. ‘Brother Jérome sold the figurine in Paris, Reverend Father. He said he had to have money for prostitutes, Father. I have prayed for his soul ever since.’

  ‘Did anyone visit him here?’ attempted St-Cyr.

  Kohler merely watched the proceedings, likening the pair of them to a couple of carnival shysters.

  ‘Visit?’ exclaimed Brother Michael, darting eyes at the abbot for reassurance. ‘Yes … yes of course he had visitors. Always that sister of his, always the long walks and talks, the cajoling, the pleading. Always picnics by the river. Swimming …’ He knew he’d said too much. God forgive him. ‘Brother Jérome was unclean, messieurs. Soiled.’

  ‘Now, Brother …’ began the abbot.

  ‘Our vows of chastity are sacred, Reverend Father.’

  ‘You have no proof, Brother Michael. This business of prostitutes in Paris was never proven. There wasn’t a shred of evidence. The boy was merely telling you to mind your own business. You must search your soul on this matter, Brother. I command that you do so.’

  ‘He made allegations of an improper nature against Brother Sebastian, our beekeeper, Reverend Father. I didn’t wish to trouble you with the matter until I had had the opportunity to investigate. He borrowed my bicycle far too many times,’ went on the wine maker. ‘I’d like to have it back. These old legs of mine…’

  Again St-Cyr stepped in, this time with more success. ‘The Préfet of Barbizon will see that it is returned to you, but tell me, Brother Michael, to ride so far …? Would someone not have given him a lift?’

  ‘Plenty of times. The countess in her car. Others, too, perhaps.’ He gave a shrug and turned away.

  Was the interview to be concluded on such a note of innuendo? ‘A moment, Brother,’ said St-Cyr desperately. ‘The General Hans Ackermann perhaps? He visits the château, I believe?’

  ‘The general …?’ Brother Michael flung a look at the abbot who calmly said:

  ‘A distant cousin, I believe, Brother Michael.’

  ‘Me, I don’t know about such
things. I only know Brother Jérome was absent far too many times.’

  St-Cyr gave them another moment then gambled. ‘Did he sign his will, Brother Michael?’

  ‘His will? No … No, he …’ Dear God forgive him. ‘No, he … he refused. When … when I went to look for it in his box in the scriptorium, it … it was missing, Reverend Father. I would have told you but …’

  ‘You should have told me, Brother Michael. I’ll see you before chapel. In my office! Gentlemen, your interview is concluded. Follow the arrows and they will lead you out to our road. Good day.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Kohler when they’d gone some distance.

  St-Cyr tossed his hands in a gesture to the gods of gambling on a shoestring. ‘As a Benedictine novice, Hermann, Brother Jérome was required to renounce all worldly goods and give himself to Christ and his God.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Ah, the problem, my friend. The problem … Before taking their final vows each novice signs over his worldly goods to the monastery. He makes out a will and it’s as if he has already died.’

  ‘But he couldn’t have had anything in any case? His father’s the Chef de Culture at the Domaine Thériault. The countess told me the family had worked for them for the past ninety-seven years. If that isn’t indentured slavery, I don’t know what is!’

  ‘It’s what the countess didn’t tell you that puzzles me, Hermann. Why, for instance, should the Benedictines accept such an unworthy candidate – true, he was escaping his military service like so many others and true, money – a donation – may have changed hands, but still …? And why was he such a pretty boy, as is the son of Mademoiselle Arcuri? No, my friend, there’s more to this than meets the eye. These old families …’ St-Cyr clucked his tongue and shook his head. ‘Sometimes life is so simple, Hermann, we don’t see the obvious.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s time we paid our respects to the grieving family?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Visitations were being held at both of Vouvray’s funeral homes but it was to the larger of them that they went.

  The countess was waiting for them and, as she got out of her car, St-Cyr nudged the Bavarian and said, ‘She’s decided to save us time, Hermann. Better this than a confrontation with the grief-stricken parents.’

  He was impressed. When the chips were down the countess hadn’t hesitated. That’s what it took to run such a place. Decisions, decisions, always things to decide.

  ‘Let the parents have their grief in private with their friends and relations. Jérome was fathered by my husband. Look, I don’t know who told him of it but he had some crazy idea that it would entitle him to a share of the Domaine Thériault and the monks believed him.’

  ‘But the Domaine belongs to your grandson on your death?’ exclaimed St-Cyr.

  ‘Yes, of course René Yvon-Paul inherits everything unless Gabrielle should marry before he comes of age.’

  ‘How many people know of this?’ demanded St-Cyr. No time for pleasantries or introductions. A stunning woman …

  ‘Too many. Now, please, I’ve told you what I can. Leave them in peace, for God’s sake. They’ve suffered enough. Both of their children … No bodies to bury as yet…’

  She turned away so swiftly, on impulse St-Cyr reached out to comfort her.

  A silk handkerchief was found in her purse. He helped her to her car. ‘We’ll be in touch, Countess. For now it goes without saying, no one is to leave the district and we’ll pop into the préfecture to make them aware of it.’

  This one was kinder than the Bavarian. Though sudden, her tears had convinced him that at least she was sincere.

  ‘Give my regards to Mademoiselle Arcuri, Countess. I’m sure we’ll all have much more to say when we meet again.’

  She managed a weak and grateful smile. ‘I knew you’d understand. Gabrielle was quite taken with you, Inspector. She liked your honesty. She said you were very considerate for one so diligent.’

  5

  It was well after curfew when Kohler let him out at the foot of the rue Laurence Savart but then drove up the street into the darkness anyway. St-Cyr cringed as the sound of the Citroën’s muffler fled through the city, he following its location with uncanny accuracy.

  Hermann shot across the boulevard de Belleville. When he reached the Place de la République, he swung the car in a screeching loop and pelted back up the hills going faster … faster … leaning on the horn as well. Ah, Mon Dieu, what was the matter?

  The car shot into the street, the Bavarian braked hard. ‘Get in, Louis.’

  ‘Hermann …’

  ‘Look, you son-of-a-bitch, I told you to get in and that’s an order!’

  When they reached the house, Kohler threw the car into neutral and yanked on the emergency brake. ‘Now give me your torch. Mine fell on the road and broke.’

  Leaving the car door open, he proceeded to sweep the front gate with the light, crouching to run his fingers lightly round the sill and then up over the latch. ‘So far so good,’ he breathed. ‘I’d hate to be picking butcher’s pieces of you off the walls.’

  Gingerly Hermann opened the gate. All his training in demolitions came to the fore. Intuitively he knew where to look. ‘Okay,’ he snorted. ‘Now for the walk, eh, Louis?’

  There were no tripwires, no hidden grenades or mines. ‘Clean,’ he said with surprise. Perhaps they’d been cleverer than he’d thought? ‘Now give me your key, Louis. Come on, don’t waste my time.’

  ‘It’s under the mat. Hermann, Madame Courbet comes in each day. If there’d been any surprises, her youngest son would have been waiting to tell me.’

  ‘Idiot! Boys can’t always be trusted, Louis. You of all people ought to know that after this morning.’

  Kohler found the key then felt around the door jamb before easing the door open a millimetre and shining the torch all round.

  Satisfied, he nudged the door wide and shone the light into the vestibule – did the floor and walls, picked out a chair, a cabinet with its mirror and the coat pegs one by one.

  He crouched to place three fingers lightly on the floor, then gingerly lifted a corner of the carpet. ‘Your housekeeper ought to do under here,’ he said. So far so good …

  ‘Hermann, if the Resistance wanted to nail me, they’d have simply waited in the street.’

  The Bavarian shone the light up into St-Cyr’s face. ‘Louis, why do you think I came back? Those bastards were waiting for you. I flushed them out and chased after them. They had a motorcycle. There were two of them.’

  St-Cyr blinked painfully and shielded his eyes. A motorcycle …

  ‘Let’s have a look at your mail, eh?’ said Kohler, swinging the beam of the torch over the cabinet.

  A motorcycle … ‘It’ll be on the kitchen table. Madame Courbet will have put it there.’

  She’d done more than this. Several of his books, including the Daudet he’d been reading, had been destroyed, their pages made into papier-mâché balls which were now being patiently dried for use in the stove. Two of the books had been from the central library … In the name of Jesus, why couldn’t the woman have asked?

  ‘We’d better get you some coal and a couple of sacks of kindling out of Gestapo stores,’ snorted Kohler.

  ‘You do and my neighbours will only hate me. Envy’s a terrible thing, Hermann. Pity is much better.’

  ‘Fuck your neighbours then.’

  Among the dross there was a small brown package.

  Kohler stopped the Frenchman’s hand. ‘I’ll get the Unexploded Bomb boys to deal with it, Louis. Why take the chance? ‘Then we’ll clean the rats’ nest out. We can’t have them interfering at a time like this.’

  The Resistance … ‘Hermann, leave it, will you? It’s only a warning, eh? Me, I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Since when? Gott in Himmel, it’s not your ass I’m worried about! It’s mine, you idiot! If something should happen to you, what the hell could I say to von Scha
umburg? Oh sorry, General, but the man whose wife ran off with your nephew has just been blown to pieces?’

  St-Cyr tore the wrapping paper off the thing and laid the little black coffin on the table between them. The Resistance had spelled his name correctly, even adding the Jean to the Louis.

  Kohler gripped him by a shoulder and gave him a brotherly shake. ‘Try to get some sleep, eh? I’ll be in touch.’

  They both stood there looking down at that thing. The beam of the torch fell on it as a stage light in some seedy nightclub, a last act, a fond fairwell. A chanteuse in an iridescent sheath of silk and pearls, a mirage, an angel with a voice …

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense, Hermann. It simply doesn’t.’

  ‘Does anything in war? If so, be sure to let me know.’

  St-Cyr followed him out to the car, then stood at the kerbside long after he’d left. It had been such a worthwhile day, so good to be out of the city and in the country. A real challenge and now this, a complete misunderstanding, a piece of foolishness.

  As he turned to go back into the house, the swish of slippers came to him in a rush and then a woman’s silhouette and the hesitant, breathless and inquisitive tongue of Madame Courbet, still in her nightdress and cap.

  Thank God it was dark! ‘You had a visitor,’ she said. ‘Late this afternoon. He wouldn’t take no for an answer when I told him you were away, and how was I to refuse? I had to get the key and let him into your house. A general… one so disfigured … Ah, Mon Dieu, those boys … the filthy urchins, my son Antoine excepted, all ran from him in fright but called him names.’

  ‘A general?’

  ‘Yes, Ackermann. A friend of yours. He noticed the shoes, Inspector, just as I did.’

  The woman clutched the throat of her nightgown. When there wasn’t any response, she continued. ‘Such pretty shoes, Inspector. It’s a shame one of the heels has been broken but my husband’s brother, the one with the limp, he is very good at fixing such things. Me, I could arrange to have them repaired.’