Somehow a handkerchief was found, its red that of field and harvest or cowshed, felt St-Cyr. The nose was blown, the dimpled cheeks and chin mopped of its snowmelt, the big, dark-brown eyes as well, and wary. At thirty-eight, the brother would have been too young for Verdun but more than acceptable for 1939. Had he hidden behind the cloth, as some might wonder if succumbing to the invective typical of veterans of that other war who sought to find those to hold accountable for the nation’s failure in this one?
Having sat down, facing him across the table, felt Brother Étienne, this sûreté took out pipe and empty tobacco pouch, gesturing at the hopelessness of such a situation.
‘Frankly, mon Frère, I don’t know where to begin. Two murders and a petty thief.’
As well as a visiting monk who was supposed to arrive next Wednesday but had told them all he would come today, a Sunday, and early at that—was he wondering this also or had he accepted the excuse? ‘And almost a thousand souls to question here, and nearly seventeen hundred in the Grand.’
‘And one missing capsule of Datura stramonium.’
The massive fists were clenched.
‘Madame de Vernon, that most persistent of creatures, was robbed?’
‘But not, I think, by our petty thief.’
‘Who seems only to have impulsively snatched the visible and all but worthless,’ muttered Brother Étienne, running his hands over the table between them. ‘Kleptomania. . . They say it can’t be treated with herbs or anything else. Believe me, I’ve searched. I even went back to Culpeper, the British herbalist who died in 1654.’
‘It’s a disease of the mind, though invariably ignored by psychologists and little studied.’
‘But in a place like this, is it that those so afflicted subconsciously demand of themselves that they acquire some little item which then defines each of their victims? Items, mon cher chief inspector, with which to identify their owners and possess a tiny part of them. Is it power over others that is desired, the afflicted not even knowing this of themselves?’
The depth of thought and sincerity were evident, the conclusion not easily arrived at, the expressions and gestures reinforcing these, the initial cloud of cologne very at odds with them. ‘You’ve lost things too, have you?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘Often I must empty overloaded pockets to find an item.’
‘And?’
How anxious this sûreté was, though waiting pensively now to look beyond the answer. ‘A bent, hand-forged nail I kept to remind me of the Cross. It could not have been easily straightened and was of no use otherwise, lest one had magnetized it, of course, which I had.’
‘To pull grains of iron oxide from sand?’
‘Ah, bon, Chief Inspector. Magnetite which I then grind for those needing it, just as a prisoner of war will file a nail or bit of wire to place the filings on the tongue each day. The body needs its iron but such a thing is too often overlooked.’
Hermann had done that very thing during the more than two and a half years he had been a prisoner in that last conflict, but had this one known of his imprisonment? ‘Anything else?’
‘The woven string I used to wear at all times around my left wrist. Its knots were to remind me of the sister who had woven it for me when I entered the priesthood. Celibacy, she said, would be the hardest task of all. If I had any doubts at any time, I was to touch each knot and think of her. The string had worn through long ago but I couldn’t part with it, for she was very dear to me. Put plainly, Inspector, our father couldn’t afford to keep either of us. Marie became a nun, I being given to les Pères Tranquilles.’
A light knock at the door was repeated.
‘Entrez, ma chère,’ he called out, assaulting the ears as he quickly leaned over the table to whisper, ‘A little nourishment in a house where not a morsel can be spared.
‘Mrs. Parker, how many times must I tell you I have eaten, that the journey was far from long and tiring, yet still you never forget?
‘A little soup, Inspector. Blow on it. Don’t burn the tongue. We’ll share, the two of us. It’s best that way. Friends at once. Comrades.’
Urging that the soup be dealt with, he took her hands in his and ran big, work-worn fingers gently over the backs of them before nodding. ‘Twice each day. You’ve been very good about it.’ His whole being was intent on her and her alone. ‘But still a little more is needed, don’t you think? Once on waking, after the morning’s wash and a good dry. Not too rough now, you understand? First warm the towel over the stove, then pat lightly with it. Give the healing every opportunity but use the lotion only twice. You’ve marvellous hands. A fountain-pen maker’s daughter, Chief Inspector. Remarkable instruments I first encountered as a boy when wounded Americans were brought here to these very hotels and were writing letters home. The Treaty of Versailles was, I believe, signed with a gold one President Woodrow Wilson donated.’
Colouring, this spokeswoman blushed at the recognition and, taking one of the burlap sacks, quickly fled the room to softly close the door.
‘One tries, Inspector, to find that most responsive chord. She has, I believe, no relation whatsoever to that family but dreams of it.’
And before coming here the brother had found out all he could about Hermann and him. ‘Don’t touch the soup.’
‘Ah, mon Dieu, you can’t think she would poison me? Not Eleanor.’
‘Perhaps, but did she fill that canister whose smell, unless I’m mistaken, is far stronger than it should be?’
‘Datura stramonium is very bitter and needs masking. In India they mix the seeds with curry, or with figs or dates but not to kill, only to incapacitate so as to rob or rape.’
A well-read man. ‘Just don’t eat or drink anything but what you’ve brought yourself or can get in the guards’ canteen.’
‘Surely you must have been made aware of the brush with which I’ve been tarred? With that cloak of mine reeking as it does, I would be most unwelcome in that canteen and subject to both verbal and physical abuse.’
‘Welcome or not, the warning is clear.’
‘And I, the healer, knowing each of the inmates intimately, must have much to tell you.’
‘But plainly our killer or killers can’t allow it.’
Filling the tin cup, the Brother drained it. ‘The soup is perfectly fine, Inspector. All my life I have dreamt of this task God has prepared for me, and now again I must rise to its challenge.’
5
Kohler noted the ripe smell that emanated from the room in which this ringer of bells sat with Louis. Closing the door, he leaned back against it to block all exit while lighting yet another of Madame Chevreul’s cigarettes.
‘A nothing monk, eh, Louis, who stinks to high heaven? Comes here hot on the heels of two detectives to have a look at them and see what’s up? Made sure our first victim had the eggs, milk, and cheese the child inside her needed yet helped her try to abort the mistake? Always brought the former Kommandant a little something to grease the wheels. Was full of juicy gossip that he embellished for Colonel Kessler’s benefit. Ein Spitzel, ja?’
‘Herr Kohler. . . ’ began Étienne.
‘It’s Herr Hauptmann Kohler to you, my fine one, or Herr Detektivinspektor Kohler, and don’t forget it.’
‘As you wish, but what makes you think I wasn’t acting on Colonel Kessler’s requests? He was fully cognizant of Mary-Lynn’s mistake, as you put it, and that her health, as that of everyone herein, was in jeopardy. Could he not have asked me to do both?’
‘Feed her and abort her without telling her he’d asked you to?’
‘Hermann. . . ’
‘Louis, let me handle this one.’
‘He wasn’t the father, not in so far as I knew, Herr Kohler, but if you must make that assumption and think what you will without further evidence, so be it. And as for my coming here today, I was late on Friday and couldn’t attend to all who needed my presence.’
A smartass and defiant as well. ‘Then understand, mein Lieber,
that Untersturmführer Weber has it in for you. If not a charge of dealing on the black market, then one of bribing the former Kommandant into letting you come and go at will.’
There was no response. ‘Have I rung his little bell enough, Louis, or do we need more?’
The cigarette was remembered and passed to his partner.
‘Merci, mon vieux,’ said St-Cyr, ‘but he has already informed me that he believes his days of coming here are numbered.’
‘If I’m not first poisoned,’ said Étienne with a shrug. ‘But Herr Weber has it in for the Senegalese as well, has he not, Herr Hauptmann und Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter?’
‘Ach, sprechen sie Deutsch?’
‘Is Alsace not just on the other side of these hills and mountains or have I been mistaken all my life?’
‘Louis. . . ’
‘Doucement, Hermann. Brother Étienne has many to attend to and very little time.’
‘Madame Chevreul, eh?’ asked Kohler, still not budging.
‘The one who blasphemes by claiming the goddess Cérès speaks through her?’ demanded Brother Étienne rising to the bait.
‘The very one.’
‘Schlaflosigkeit, mein lieber Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter. Schlaflosigkeit.’ Insomnia.
That did strike this belligerent Gestapo in the balls, thought Étienne, but had Élizabeth said the opposite? ‘After one of her so-called séances the Lord, I know, will forgive, Madame Chevreul is so excited sleep will not come since the goddess, still having her ear, keeps on pouring it at her.
‘She dreams, Inspector Kohler, if you will allow me to use a shortened title for you. She awakens with a start at some sudden revelation only to drift off until interrupted again by another juicy bit of news. In desperation this humble monk before you has prepared infusions of betony and skullcap; of lady’s slipper, oats, and skullcap; a decoction of mistletoe, lime flower, and hawthorn; and infusions of lemon balm, hyssop, and lavender, and yet again, a tincture of St. John’s wort. Though she has repeatedly begged me for a stronger sedative, and such things can become addictive and are oft-dangerous, I now have her on a tincture of valerian before bed, and an infusion of it with mistletoe and skullcap, but she is not, I repeat, to take too much of either.’
‘Like the thorn-apple seeds you gave Madame de Vernon?’
‘Hermann. . . ’
‘Louis, how many times must I tell you never to interrupt a member of our glorious Führer’s Gestapo when he’s in the process of questioning a murder suspect?’
‘Madame de Vernon, Herr Hauptmann?’ said Brother Étienne, reminding him and ignoring the accusation.
‘The very one.’
‘Is a hypochondriac that would try the patience of Saint Bénédict himself. If not the headaches, the migraines; if not those, the neuralgia and/or the rheumatism—I never know ahead of time, you understand: the shoulder, the hip, the spine, the knuckles of the left hand. Did you know she used to play the piano for the ballet studio her ward attended in Paris? Ah, I thought not. Currently I have her on a tisane of the Herb of Grace.’
‘Ruta graveolens, Hermann. It’s good for many complaints not just neuralgia and rheumatism. Brother, why the extra datura?’
They had every reason to want an answer, though temptation demanded that one not be given; however. . . ‘She rightly claimed that the dried leaves and stems stank, but of course, having hung the bunch I had given her above her bed, would not listen and insisted that I powder and bottle them. This I did, but she claimed they were not enough. Since the contents can and do vary from leaf to leaf, not just from plant to plant, I was forced to let her use a little of the powdered seeds as well, but of course she then demanded more of those than I felt safe. The war, she said, the uncertainties of it. I might be called away and not allowed to return—what would she do? The child would have an uncontrollable spasm and die. Inspectors, can it be that you have yet to encounter Madame de Vernon? If so, let me tell you that one can only surmise she has been put-upon and is very angry at what the world and life have dealt her.’
Their looks were questioning, the cigarette butt carefully pinched out by the sûreté and returned to Herr Kohler for that one’s little tin. ‘All right, I worried because I felt she might well misuse them. Madame de Vernon hates those with whom she has to share a room and blames them for her plight, as much if not more than that dead husband of hers.’
‘Who sold her villa out from under her and ran off with his mistress, Louis, thereby losing the cash.’
‘Having gambled it away, no doubt, Hermann. Apparently Caroline Lacy thought there must have been a problem with his death in 1920.’
‘As did Jennifer Hamilton, the girl’s lover whom Madame de Vernon must have hated with a passion,’ added Kohler.
Ah, bon Dieu, de bon Dieu, thought Étienne, the husband a gambler but did neither of them know of the nocturnal fire that had destroyed the casino here on Saturday 17 July, 1920?
‘Brother, what’s the problem? You seem to have thought of something,’ asked the sûreté.
‘I was just thinking of my patients and wondering when I might be allowed to attend to them.’
‘Perhaps. On Friday last, at about 1530, Caroline Lacy went out-of-doors. You must have met her. You were, I believe, among the last, if not the last, to have spoken with her.’
And the prime suspect, was that it? ‘I had arrived late. A flat. My petrolette. I’m always having trouble with the tires. These days one can’t find a replacement for the inner tubes when needed. Mine date from 1938, or was it 1936? One of the Senegalese offered to patch it and I had wheeled the bike over to him and another.’
And so much for his also having had a flat and arriving late on the last day of Mary-Lynn Allan’s life, thought Kohler. ‘Their names, please?’
‘Sergeant Senghor and Corporal Bamba Duclos. Caroline motioned to me, and I went over to her first before leaving the bike with them. Inspectors, I have been given to understand that the girl was killed in the Chalet des nes. Is such a terrible thing possible?’
‘Who else was nearby?’ asked Hermann.
‘Or did I follow her inside that stable and kill her with a pitchfork, I who have the hands and strength that could have done the job far more easily? A child, the hesitant lover of Jennifer Hamilton? Ah, mon Dieu, you two seem so in the dark it frightens me. Caroline needed the comfort of another human being; Jennifer offered it, and what was that lonely, desperate girl of nineteen to have done when she found herself a friend just along the corridor from her own room and in a hotel where most had shunned her? Certainly one thing led to another, but for the first time in her short life, she thought she was being valued by another. She had found, if I must put it bluntly to you, that sense of worth which is so necessary.’
‘Was Jennifer Hamilton predatory when choosing her relationship with Caroline?’ demanded Louis.
Ah, bon, Chief Inspector. Bon! thought Étienne, but I will not give you the benefit of the answer you appear to want. ‘That I could not say nor think.’
‘But when you met her on that last afternoon, Caroline was uncertain?’
‘Hesitant. Upset and very depressed, which caused me to believe she had lost her lover and was brokenhearted. I gave her what she asked for and said she needed most, which was God’s blessing, and then a little snack and the few things I had brought for her.’
‘The nettles, Louis.’
‘The Host wafers and that small bar of soap, Hermann. Beechnut oil.’
‘Alfalfa seeds,’ said Herr Kohler.
‘A seashell,’ said the sûreté.
‘I didn’t give her that, inspectors.’
‘But you knew of it,’ said Louis.
Ah, merde, without so much as a hint, the two of them had worked together to lay a trap for him. ‘A creamy white to yellowish, oval seashell with coarse, short teeth along its aperture, but only because the girl had shown it to me.’
‘But did she show you anything else?’ asked Hermann.
&
nbsp; ‘Nothing, Inspector, nor did she tell me why she had shown me the seashell. I think perhaps that she had simply been feeling it for reassurance.’
Like the buds of that beechwood sprig, but fair enough, thought St-Cyr. ‘It was near the end of the day, Brother. Most of the other internees would have gone indoors. A few were about but not too near?’
Ah, nom de Dieu, how much did they really know? ‘All right, Becky Torrence was near. I. . . May God forgive me, I felt the girl might well have been following Caroline, for she stood some distance from us among the trees on the other side of the clearing where they used to walk the donkeys.’
‘Was Caroline aware of her?’ asked Louis.
‘I don’t think so. Her back was to her.’
‘Anyone else?’ asked Hermann, not taking his gaze from this healer for a moment.
It would have to be chanced. ‘Is it that you want me, Herr Hauptmann und Detektivinspektor, to name anyone, or am I to tell you how it really was?’
‘Don’t get too cocky.’
‘Zut, why would I? Nora Arnarson was some distance away and homeward bound from one of her forages.’
‘Trapping rabbits, Brother?’ demanded Louis.
Brother Étienne’s fists were again instinctively doubled.
‘Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, so what if she traps a few of them in a place like this? Look, I know it’s illegal and that there are either three years forced labour if caught, or prison, but here. . . Surely you would overlook such a thing?’
Or would they? They gave no hint.
‘Did Mademoiselle Arnarson wave, pause, or start towards you and Caroline Lacy?’ asked Kohler.
‘Nora was cold and, seeing that I was occupied and late, pressed on.’
‘Nora, Louis. He knows her well enough.’
To have used the informal. ‘Must suspicion run constantly in your veins, Inspector? Nora looks after Angèle when I bring her, as I have today. She will have stabled her, rubbed her down, talked to her, thrown the buffalo robe my great-great Uncle Marcel brought home from the Western Plains of Canada and the United States of America over her, and forked out a plentiful supply of hay.’
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