This Poison Will Remain

by Fred Vargas

‘Froissy – is she worn out?’

  ‘She’s in the courtyard.’

  Adamsberg was about to go out and give her the fragile flowers which had already begun to droop in his hand, when she returned to the room, looking so happy that they hoped for a last-minute miracle. Perhaps there had been a Jeannot lookalike in Palavas, or perhaps the real one had turned up in Saint-Porchaire.

  ‘They’ve hatched!’ she said.

  ‘The baby blackbirds?’ asked Adamsberg.

  ‘There are five of them and the parents are going mad trying to feed them.’

  ‘Five is a big clutch,’ said Voisenet, looking rather serious. ‘Our courtyard is all cobblestones. And the bases of the trees have grids across them. They didn’t choose a very good place, the parents. How are they going to find any worms?’

  ‘Froissy,’ said Adamsberg, taking a crumpled banknote from his pocket, ‘there are some raspberries in the corner shop just now, go and get some. And a bit of cake. Voisenet, you can find them a dish for water, it hasn’t rained for ten days. Retancourt, please keep an eye on the cat. Noël and Mercadet, could you go and take up the grids under the trees? Justin and Lamarre, can you water the earth there to make it soft? Anyone know where there’s a shop that sells fishing supplies?’

  ‘I do,’ said Kernorkian. ‘Ten minutes away by car.’

  ‘Off you go then and buy some worms.’

  ‘Big ones?’

  ‘Little ones. Very thin ones.’

  ‘What about the meeting? It’s at 9 a.m.’

  ‘We’ll wait for you.’

  Mordent stared at the scene before him, stunned. Adamsberg was distributing orders as though in the middle of a full-blown investigation, and all the officers were obeying at once, as if impressed by the importance of their mission. They seemed to be ignoring the failure they had all experienced, and the inexplicable quandary in which they were now placed.

  Adamsberg went out into the courtyard and helped Noël and Mercadet to lift the grids. Then he took a look at the nest where five little beaks were gaping open non-stop. The parents were flying to and fro as fast as they could.

  ‘Nobody get too near to the nest,’ he said, going back indoors, feeling satisfied.

  He bumped into Mordent and clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Not so bad after all, is it?’

  And when, in a rather agitated sequence, seven raspberries had been scattered, two slices of cake crumbled, and a dozen worms released on to the uncovered and softened earth under the trees, Adamsberg sent Estalère off to organise the coffees, a signal that the meeting would now begin in the council chamber, an hour late. Danglard’s chair remained empty.

  * * *

  *

  From his office, with the door closed, Danglard had heard the commotion from the squad, without knowing what explained it. When he started to listen properly, he gathered that all this fuss was about the hatching out of five baby blackbirds. Voisenet was no doubt correct that the nestlings were unlikely to survive in the paved courtyard and Adamsberg had taken the right steps to try to save them. But, anyway, what the fuck did the deaths of five baby birds mean to him, Danglard? Nothing. He looked again at the recent text he had received from Adamsberg:

  You can go for dinner with your relatives now, Danglard, the coast is clear.

  It was just as he had feared. Adamsberg had worked it out. The commissaire had been trying to discover the reason why Danglard was blocking the investigation and he had found it. Richard Jarras. Which was quite true. As soon as Danglard had had wind of the unusual deaths by recluse spider bite, he had known from which direction the attack might have come. And he had done all he could to place obstacles in the way, and to isolate Adamsberg from his colleagues. He had thought it would be easy to outwit the commissaire, but he had been wrong. Adamsberg had followed the trail leading to the orphanage and in the end he had persuaded his team to follow him. Now that the investigation had run into the sands, and Richard Jarras was no longer a suspect, Danglard was starting to realise the catastrophe into which his emotional reaction, his impulsiveness and his fear had led him. He had once more introduced discord into the squad; he had decided to threaten the commissaire’s career; and this time, deliberately, he had done all he could to shield a potential murderer. The offence would lead to punishment for complicity. He was done for.

  And as sometimes happens when you think you are done for, and when the fault is entirely your own, Danglard’s defence mechanism led him not towards contrition but towards aggression. If he was going down, well, he would bring someone down with him, namely the cause of his misfortune, Adamsberg.

  In the council chamber, the commissaire was waiting for Danglard to deign to appear. The others all sat and watched him, anxious to know his decision. They knew that Danglard had encouraged dissent, and had intended to make a report to the divisionnaire. But Adamsberg had told only his three closest colleagues about the crime of which Danglard was guilty when he chose to shield a potential killer.

  Adamsberg pursed his lips, and took out his mobile, listening first to the cheeping of the nestlings to moderate his irritation. Instead of sending a text, he called Danglard direct.

  ‘Everything all right, commandant? You’re ten minutes late,’ he said calmly.

  Danglard said nothing, as Adamsberg indicated by a gesture to his colleagues.

  ‘According to the ethics of seaboard life,’ said Adamsberg, employing, heaven knew why, a maritime metaphor, ‘a senior officer doesn’t leave a sinking ship.’

  Commandant Mordent raised his head on hearing this noble pronouncement.

  ‘So you are expected here at once,’ Adamsberg went on. ‘Are you coming, yes or no? I’m waiting for your answer.’

  Danglard mumbled an indistinct ‘yes’ and hung up. Adamsberg looked round at the officers who were all dumbstruck with apprehension.

  ‘There are more important things in life than Danglard’s bad temper,’ he said with a smile. ‘The little birds for instance have nothing to do with the case.’

  It was this last inappropriate sentence that Danglard heard as he opened the door. He went to his seat without looking at anyone.

  ‘All right,’ Adamsberg began, ‘we’re all present now, for me to tell you what we all know. The investigation is a total fiasco. We were wrong. Or rather, I should say, I was wrong. The lead looked like a clear trail, but it was a false one. The Gang of Ex-victims did not touch the stink bugs from the orphanage. We could go on pursuing them, but it would be a mistake. If none of them had anything to do with Vessac, then they didn’t kill the others. But I am going to be obstinate on one point, one clock tower if you like. I am still sure there’s a link between La Miséricorde orphanage and three deaths: those of Claveyrolle, Barral and Landrieu. Otherwise, there is no way to explain the outlandish method of using the venom of the recluse spider.’

  He stopped since his phone had rung.

  ‘Four deaths,’ he corrected himself. ‘Olivier Vessac died at Rochefort hospital, a quarter of an hour ago. There are two men left whom we need to save: Alain Lambertin and Roger Torrailles. At my request, they are at present under police protection.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Mordent.

  ‘But this murderer has been on the go for fourteen years,’ Adamsberg insisted. ‘And if the trail leading to the boys who were bitten looked brightly lit and promising, I think the next one we have to travel will be dark and cold.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Lamarre.

  ‘I don’t know. We went astray. We followed the wrong route. One that was too brightly lit perhaps. It’s not the first time that an investigation has found itself heading into, what shall I say, a dead end, a diverticulus? Is that the right word for it, Danglard? Leading nowhere. So we have to look for a different way, a channel, a strait, that will take us through to the killer.

  ‘Oh, so easy,’ said
Danglard unpleasantly. ‘And how do you think you are going to find this “channel”, that you say is going to be dark and cold? You don’t have any elements left that make sense. Unless you hope that your own belief, your own passion, and your own certainty, are going to guide you. Like Magellan, sailing into one false creek after another.’

  ‘Magellan?’ said Adamsberg.

  And they all understood that Danglard was beginning to take his revenge, moving it on to his home ground of a war of words and encyclopedic knowledge. Magellan. Apart from Veyrenc, none of the officers in the room could have said who this Magellan was, or what he had done.

  ‘Well, why not like Magellan, commandant?’ asked Adamsberg, swinging round to face Danglard. ‘I wouldn’t dare compare our little expedition to his famous voyage. But since you insist, let’s try it. I’m in a maritime mood after seeing Rochefort harbour.’

  Adamsberg stood up and calmly walked over to a large map of the world which Veyrenc had one day pinned to the wall of the council chamber. He had said it was to give the squad a sense of the outside air. Like everyone, the commissaire knew perfectly well what Danglard was up to when he mentioned Magellan. He wanted to humiliate the commissaire in front of the team, to show up Adamsberg’s habitual ignorance and demonstrate the inconsistency of his thought processes. But while Danglard knew plenty about Magellan, what he did not know about was the existence of a certain road mender in Adamsberg’s native village. This old man had never left the Pyrenees. But he had had a passion for the voyages of sailing ships from long ago, making models of them which were the wonder of the whole district, as he reproduced in tiny detail all the intricacies of their rigging. Groups of children would watch in silence as the man’s large fingers fixed delicate stays to the masts, and would listen to his often-repeated stories. So to Adamsberg, the tale of Magellan’s voyage was entirely familiar. Once in front of the map, he put his finger on a point on the coast of Spain and met Veyrenc’s eyes. Veyrenc, realising what was happening, winked to give his childhood friend the go-ahead.

  ‘This,’ said Adamsberg , ‘is the port of Seville. On 10 August 1519, Magellan – real name Fernão de Magalhães – weighed anchor with five old and patched-up ships, the San Antonio, the Trinidad, the Concepción, the Victoria and the Santiago. As admiral, he sailed in the flagship, the Trinidad.’

  Adamsberg then moved his finger down the African coast, crossed the Atlantic, and continued along the coasts of Brazil and Argentina, until he stopped at a point on the east coast of South America.

  ‘This is the 40th parallel. A chart had indicated that the much sought-after channel through to a hypothetical ocean, the future Pacific, which would prove to the world in general, and the Church in particular, that the Earth was round, would be found at 40 degrees latitude. But the chart was wrong.’

  All faces had now turned towards Adamsberg, showing both relief and fascination, as they followed his finger. Veyrenc was watching the change in Danglard’s expression, especially when Adamsberg had listed the five ships and given the real name of the Portuguese sailor, Magellan.

  ‘And Magellan kept going,’ Adamsberg continued. ‘He kept on going south. He explored every gulf, every inlet, hoping to find a way through to this other ocean. But they were all dead ends, leading nowhere. He wore himself out, he sailed on, through storms and tempests, he and his men were half dead from cold and hunger when they reached Puerto San Julián. He went on yet further, and finally, at the 52nd parallel, he found the channel leading through to the other side, the one we call today the Strait of Magellan. After him and his crewmen.’

  The crewmen, the team, everyone understood. Adamsberg traced with his finger the long route, south of Patagonia, coming out into the Pacific, and let his hand rest there.

  ‘We have to keep on going,’ he said, finally letting his arm fall. ‘We have to find the strait, as I was saying more simply, when Danglard interrupted me by his mention of Magellan.’

  ‘About whom you seem to know a great deal, commissaire,’ said Danglard, who from inside his personal abyss was still ready to bite.

  ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘No, but it astonishes me.’

  At this offensive reply, Noël leapt up, overturning his chair and moving in on the commandant, clearly on the attack.

  ‘According to the ethics of seaboard life,’ he said loudly and angrily, ‘a senior officer does not insult the admiral. Take it back.’

  ‘According to the ethics of seaboard life,’ Danglard retorted, standing up in turn, ‘a lieutenant does not give orders to a senior officer.’

  Adamsberg closed his eyes for a moment. Danglard had changed, he had turned into a complete bloody idiot. And although the commandant was quite unequal physically to confronting a well-launched Noël – the latter having reverted to the cocky and dangerous streetfighter he had once been – he was still Danglard.

  Adamsberg caught Noël’s arm just before it connected with Danglard’s jaw.

  ‘Don’t break the rules, Noël,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Thank you, but sit down.’

  As Noël did, muttering, and as did Danglard, white-faced with shock, his sparse pepper-and-salt hair soaked with sweat.

  ‘The incident is closed,’ said Adamsberg. ‘There were fights on board the Trinidad too. We’ll take a break now,’ he said. ‘But don’t all go trooping out into the yard to see the birds, you’d scare off the parents so they might not come back, and in that case, there’d be nothing we could do.’

  XXX

  During the pause, as the team dispersed, as Retancourt congratulated Noël on his attack, offering her professional appreciation of the intercepted trajectory of his right hook, and as Danglard slunk off to take refuge in his lair, Adamsberg escaped into his office. He took out the little plastic container, made the dead recluse spider roll over, and picked up his phone.

  ‘Irène. This is Adamsberg. You know what’s happened?’

  ‘Vessac’s died, yes, of course I know. I’m whispering because I’m with Élisabeth in the hospital corridor. I’m trying to get her to leave.’

  ‘I wanted to know something. How did your Louise react? Have you been in touch? Does she know too?’

  ‘Naturally she does. People are talking about nothing else in the whole region, back home. But look, nobody’s suspecting any murders, I’ve kept my word, commissaire, I haven’t told anyone. But the “curse” of the recluse is all over the internet. They all think its venom must have transmuted.’

  ‘What about Louise though? Is she still seeing them everywhere?’

  ‘She’s getting worse and worse. She’s locked herself up in her room, and she’s vacuumed it all over, she says, I don’t know how many times. She’ll be vacuuming the walls next, you can bet. I need to get back home. And I tell you, with Élisabeth to look after, this isn’t a good moment. Just my bad luck to have ended up with Louise. I didn’t realise at first how batty she is. It began with the soap.’

  ‘Soap?’

  ‘Yes, you know, liquid soap with a thing you press and it squirts out in a jet. Well, I think it’s more hygienic. But it makes her scream, she chucked it in the bin. I took it out again, I haven’t got money to throw away.’

  ‘What made her scream, the soap or the jet?

  ‘The jet. You have to have bats in the belfry, or maybe I should say spiders in the belfry, sorry, I shouldn’t joke about it.’

  ‘I don’t mind your joking.’

  ‘Good, I like my little jokes. Make the world go round, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the point of them, Irène. Does anything else make her scream?’

  ‘Oh, any container with a thing to press, hand cream for instance. And oil. She can’t stand oil being in the kind of bottle you have to press to make it come out. But how are we going to make our vinaigrette otherwise, eh?’

  ‘Same with vinegar?’

  ‘No, vin
egar doesn’t bother her. She’s batty, like I said. And I can tell you that when I get groceries delivered, and it’s always men who come, that isn’t easy either. I have to warn her so she can shut herself in her room.’

  ‘Do you know anything about her past life?’

  ‘Nothing. Never says a word about it. I’d really like to kick her out, but I daren’t do it. Who’d take her in, eh? And I’m not a nasty person, so I don’t dare.’

  ‘Does she ever leave the house?’

  ‘On her own? You must be joking, commissaire. But if I go out on one of my arthritis trips, she’ll get in the car with me. Even though I’d prefer a bit of peace myself. But again, it would be mean to refuse her so I don’t. When we get somewhere, I drop her off at the guest house, let her find something to do, and I go for a walk with my camera. And I buy my snowstorms.’

  ‘Snowstorms?’

  ‘You know, those paperweights, like a globe, that make a snowstorm when you shake them. They’re pretty, aren’t they? I collect them, I’ve got over fifty. Look here, if you’re keen on Bourges cathedral, I’ll give you one of that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Adamsberg who liked his dead recluse spider a thousand times more. ‘But I’d like to meet her.’

  ‘To understand her arachnophobia?’

  ‘Is that the word, “arachnophobia”? I must just write it down.’

  ‘Oh, commissaire, if you want to see her, forget it, because you’re a man.’

  ‘I was forgetting.’

  ‘That you’re a man? That’s not normal, commissaire, anyone can see you are.’

  ‘No, I forgot she wouldn’t want to see me. Well, we’ll think about it, I have to go back to my meeting.’

  ‘In my opinion,’ said Irène, who despite her chatty and straightforward way of speaking, had no shortage of insight, ‘you’ve got something else in mind, besides arachnophobia. After all, you are a cop.’

  ‘And what might that something else be?’

  ‘To see whether it’s true or not that the recluses have multiplied.’