by Fred Vargas
Only two officers left the room, Lamarre and Justin, one needed by his son, the other by his mother.
Danglard did not look up, keeping his eyes fixed on his notes. Since when had Danglard ever needed notes? The papers in front of him were only there, Adamsberg concluded, so that he need not meet the commissaire’s eye.
‘Although I have no idea,’ Danglard began, ‘why the commissaire wants information about women recluses of the Middle Ages, as they have no bearing whatever on the matter in hand, I will summarise what’s known about them, since he has ordered me to do so. The phenomenon started in the early Middle Ages, let’s say in the eighth or ninth century, expanded greatly after the thirteenth, then faded out in the seventeenth century. These women, often young, chose to be walled up alive for the rest of their days. They would be shut into a small enclosure or cell, sometimes so small that there was no room to lie down. The biggest ones were about two metres across. No table or writing desk, no mattress to sleep on, no pit for rubbish and excrement. After the woman had gone inside, the cell would be sealed up, apart from one small aperture, sometimes placed so high that the recluse couldn’t see out or be seen. And it was through this little window that the woman would receive the charity of the local population: gruel, fruit, nuts, beans, water, which might or might not enable her to survive. Since there was usually a grid on the window, bales of straw could not be passed through to absorb the detritus. There are cases of recluses being knee-deep in a layer of rotten food and excrement. So much for the conditions of their “lives”. Short lives often, because they mostly fell ill or went mad in the first years, despite the help of Jesus who was supposed to be their companion in martyrdom and who would surely lead them to everlasting life. But some women survived a long time, thirty or even fifty years. At the height of this practice, every town might have a whole collection of recluse cells, a dozen say, built alongside the pillars of bridges, or the town walls, against church buttresses or in graveyards, the most famous in Paris being those in the Cemetery of the Holy Innocents. As you will no doubt know, that cemetery was closed and evacuated in 1780 because of the noxious gases emanating from it. The bones of people buried there were transferred to the catacombs of Montrouge . . .’
Danglard was proceeding in a dry and pedantic tone, and Adamsberg forced himself to keep calm. The commandant’s revenge had not yet been fully accomplished.
‘Could we get back to the point please, commandant?’
‘Very well. These women were respected, revered indeed, but that didn’t mean they were properly fed, and the ordeal they underwent in the name of the Lord was considered a form of guarantee and divine protection for the town’s population. They were the town’s saints so to speak, quasi-nuns, in spite of their terrible appearance and degradation.’
‘Thank you, Danglard,’ Adamsberg broke in. ‘What I would like to know now is the motives that drove these women into these deathly cells. Yes, there was a strong desire to cut themselves off from the world and serve God, but surely there were convents for that. Can you tell us about their reasons?’
‘It was because they had lost all possibility of living a normal life on earth,’ Danglard went on, turning over a page of non-existent notes. ‘Because in fact even the convents’ doors were closed to these women. They were seen as unworthy persons banished from society. These were women forbidden to marry, to have children, or an occupation, family, respect, even to exchange words with others, because they were considered impure. Either they had “gone astray” before marriage, or else their family had rejected them because they were unmarriageable for some reason – disgraced, handicapped or illegitimate. And the most frequent reason was that they had been raped. Women in that situation were considered guilty of having been soiled, having lost their virginity. They were pointed at if they went out of doors, they were fallen women, and all that was left to them was wandering the streets, prostitution or the recluse’s cell. Where, since they had convinced themselves that it was their own fault, they were expiating their sins in the torment of isolation. I don’t want to say any more about them. They’re of purely historical interest, and apart from the name, these recluses have absolutely nothing to do with the matter currently in hand.’
‘Apart from the name, indeed,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Thank you.’
Danglard shuffled his papers into a tidy pile and left the room. Adamsberg looked round at his officers.
‘Apart from the name,’ he repeated, and closed the meeting.
XXXIV
Adamsberg signalled to Mercadet and went upstairs to the room with the drinks machine.
‘One point I didn’t mention in the meeting. When you’re checking rape victims who spent time in psychiatric hospitals, can you pay particular attention to cases of sequestration? By the father. Start with those.’
‘And I don’t tell anyone else?’
‘Just Froissy, Veyrenc or Voisenet if you like. But keep it between ourselves.’
Deep in thought, Mercadet watched Adamsberg go out. Why would that make a woman want to kill people using recluse spiders? Even if she’d seen some in her attic or cellar? After all, everyone’s seen spiders. But the loyal Mercadet was not about to question the commissaire’s instructions. He would have hated to be in charge of this infernal affair of the recluses.
* * *
*
Adamsberg found Froissy sitting on the stone steps watching the nestlings being fed their evening meal. Not having forgotten her laptop, from which she was never more than two metres away. He sat down beside her.
‘How are they doing?’ he asked.
‘Down to the last raspberry.’
‘Have we got some more?’
‘Yes, of course. What’s going to happen now with Danglard?’
‘Something.’
‘It’s a shame.’
‘Not necessarily. Is there a way to find out the exact day and time of Olivier Vessac’s burial?’
‘We can check the local funeral directors. But we don’t know if it will be in Saint-Porchaire. It might be in Nîmes, or somewhere else entirely.’
‘We’d need to know where his parents are buried.’
‘He was an orphan, commissaire. Both the father and mother were deported during the war, never returned.’
‘Grandparents then?’
Froissy opened her computer as the female blackbird carried off the last raspberry, and Adamsberg watched Danglard out of the corner of his eye. At the other end of the courtyard, the commandant was loading a cardboard box into the boot of a car.
‘They’re buried in the Pont-de-Justice Cemetery in Nîmes,’ Froissy announced.
‘Well, that’ll be it then.’
‘I’ll check.’
‘What the devil is he doing, the bloody idiot?’
‘Who?’
‘Danglard. He’s putting boxes into a car.’
‘Is he going away? Got it, sir: Olivier Vessac, burial Friday 10 June, 11 a.m.’
‘Tomorrow? So soon, only twenty-four hours later?’
‘Well, that could be because it’s more expensive on Saturdays, to put it a bit crudely. They’d have to put it off till Monday.’
‘I suppose Irène pushed Élisabeth to get it over with quickly. But what the devil is he up to?’ Adamsberg said again. ‘Get me the number of the gendarmerie in Lédignan please, lieutenant. Not too fast, give me time to type it. Name of the commandant there?’
‘Fabien Fasselac, he’s a captain.’
‘Another thing. Mercadet’s got some info for you, but it stays between ourselves.’
* * *
*
Adamsberg stood up and waited for someone in Lédignan to answer his call. He crossed the yard diagonally, then with one arm pushed Danglard sideways from where he was standing leaning over the boot of the car, and read the labels carefully stuck on the boxes: ‘Dictionaries and
anthologies’, ‘Personal effects, 19th-century ornaments, Egyptian scarab’, ‘Personal writings, Essay on criminology, 15th century, Holy Roman Empire’.
Message received. Danglard was packing up for good.
‘Is that the Lédignan gendarmerie? Commissaire Adamsberg here. Captain Fasselac please, it’s urgent.’
A few clicks, several muttered oaths, and he finally got the captain.
‘Still at work, captain?’
‘Two sodding traffic accidents out of town. Be quick, commissaire, what do you want?’
‘You’ve got two men keeping watch on Roger Torrailles.’
‘You know that, you asked for them yourself. Which leaves me two men short, and I don’t know how I’m going to manage.’
‘You can’t get reinforcements from Nîmes?’
‘They’re not rushing to help. They’ve got plenty to deal with too, a gas explosion on a housing estate, fair enough. Casualties. Possibly criminal.’
‘I understand, Fasselac. I’ll send you a couple of men tomorrow, they can take over from yours.’
‘I appreciate that, Adamsberg.’
‘What time does the first train from Paris get in?’
‘One gets in to Nîmes at 9.05, almost on the hour, that’s rare.’
‘Leaving Paris at?’
‘6.07. Why is it trains always leave at funny times, why can’t they make it ten or ten thirty? Beats me. What’s worse, they really do arrive at seven, eighteen, thirty-two, whatever, minutes past.’
‘I’ve never understood that, either.’
‘Not just me, then. That’s reassuring. Thanks for the help.’
‘I’m sending you a woman too, it’ll be more discreet.’
‘Why, what are you planning?’
‘The funeral of the fourth recluse victim, Olivier Vessac, is being held in Nîmes tomorrow, 11 a.m., Pont-de-Justice Cemetery.’
‘You think it might have been a murder?’
‘Not a word about that.’
‘OK. Wouldn’t care to be in your shoes, Adamsberg.’
‘It’s possible Alain Lambertin and Roger Torrailles, because they’re his two surviving friends, will come to the funeral. My men will be watching, and the woman will pose as a journalist to take photos of the people who attend.’
‘In case the killer turns up at the burial?’
‘Can’t rule it out.’
‘No.’
‘They’ll report to you when they get there. Can you give me the name of a local paper in Nîmes?’
‘Les Arènes, that’s the one takes most photos.’
‘Important point, Fasselac: encourage the rumour about the spider’s venom having mutated. No one must know we suspect foul play. Otherwise the killer could panic, and bump off the last two men before we get a chance to lay hands on her. She’s got to finish her mission. And she’s already got a lead of twenty years on us.’
‘She?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Weird business, commissaire. Twisted, vicious. Well, good luck, and thanks for the extra resources.’
Adamsberg put his hand on Danglard’s shoulder. His colleague had been standing transfixed by the car.
‘You, commandant. Don’t move. You don’t leave without saying a little word of goodbye, do you, after all these years? I’ll be right back. What’s the time?’
‘Five to eight.’
Adamsberg went through the big room to find Retancourt, who was clearing her desk.
‘Wait a sec, lieutenant. Who else is still here?’ he asked, looking around the room.
‘Kerno, Voisenet, Mercadet, Noël. Kerno and Voisenet are on night duty, Mercadet’s asleep.’
‘I need two men for tomorrow. And I need you, Retancourt. Train leaves for Nîmes at 6.07 – not 6.05, but 6.07. Is that OK?’
‘Who with, then? Lamarre’s got his kid.’
‘No, don’t bother him.’
‘Justin’s got his mum and dad.’
‘Yes, we can bother him, he’s always there with them.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘No, but call him, he’s got to leave with you. If he wants to drag his mum and dad along too, fine. The mission’s to attend Vessac’s funeral tomorrow, 11 a.m. at the Pont-de-Justice Cemetery.’
‘And you think Torrailles and Lambertin will be there, so we need more protection.’
One of Retancourt’s other advantages was that you didn’t have to spell everything out to her.
‘Now you, lieutenant, are going to be a photographer for the local paper, Les Arènes.’
‘I take snaps of anyone who turns up? Especially the women?’
‘Take them all. She might even be disguised as a man. Even easier for someone old.’
‘You think she’s old?’
‘Yes. In some ways she goes back to the Middle Ages.’
‘Right.’
Adamsberg went upstairs to find Noël who was sinking a beer in the room with the drinks machine, alongside Mercadet who was sleeping.
‘You’re keeping watch over him, are you?’
‘Meetings make me thirsty. Why did you stop me punching him on the jaw this morning? He acted like a swine, Danglard, I mean.’
‘Correct, Noël, he was acting like a swine, but one who’s in the depths of despair. You don’t punch a swine who’s in deep despair.’
‘OK,’ Noël conceded after a moment. ‘Should have thought of that more often when I was younger. But how’s he going to get back from this? I mean, how’s the real Danglard going to come back to us, unless he’s brought to his senses by a good sock on the jaw? I thought a punch would rearrange that stupid bloody idiot expression on his face. Well, I thought that afterwards.’
‘Leave it to me, Noël. You’re going to get a train to Nîmes tomorrow morning 6.07, with Justin and Retancourt. She’ll explain. Before going to the cemetery, you need to report to Captain Fasselac in Lédignan.’
‘Right you are, sir,’ said Noël, pouring the rest of his beer into the sink. ‘Know what? I liked that stuff Voisenet told us about poisonous creatures and what people thought they did.’
The lieutenant pulled up the sleeve of his T-shirt, revealing a blue-and-black cobra on his arm, rearing up, with its red tongue sticking out.
‘Got this tattoo when I was nineteen,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now I see a bit better what was going on in my head.’
‘Yesterday, I understood something going on in my head too, but it started when I was twelve.’
‘A snake?
‘No, worse, a kind of spectre covered in cobwebs.’
‘And now?’
‘Finally made contact with it.’
‘What about mine?’ said Noël.
‘Yours is different. You’ve tamed it.’
‘And you haven’t tamed this spectre?’
‘No, Noël, not yet.’
XXXV
Danglard had slammed down the boot of the car and was sitting on it, shoulders hunched, arms folded across his chest. ‘You don’t leave without saying a little word of goodbye.’ That was exactly what he had wanted to avoid this evening, to give himself time to make arrangements. Avoid having it out with the commissaire, avoid the lecture, and the letter of resignation.
And then the trial for ‘non-reporting of a crime’. Danglard knew what the law said about this, and the punishment. This misdemeanour applies to a person who has knowledge of a crime when it is still possible to prevent or limit its impact, or when its perpetrators are likely to commit further crimes which might be prevented, if that person does not inform the appropriate judicial or administrative authorities.
For once, he would rather not have remembered the exact words so well. There would be aggravating circumstances, because of his job and rank: possibly five years in pr
ison. He had gone off the rails, like a train without brakes plunging into the countryside. And he had given in to it. The commissaire would have no other choice than to dismiss him. If he was not to go down with him. It was sheer bad luck that Adamsberg had had the brilliant idea of exploring those horrible recluses. Who else would ever have thought of them?
He’d been hoping for time to make arrangements. What arrangements though? See the kids first, of course. But then? Should he run away? Enter a hermit’s cell, like a recluse? Look at the world through a tiny window? Shoot himself? What good had it been, all his wretched encyclopedic and philosophical knowledge? What use had he made of it? Simply to mortify Adamsberg this very morning, acting in a more arrogant and wounding way even than that lawyer, Maître Carvin.
* * *
*
As he crossed the courtyard again, in failing light, Adamsberg took a call from Irène, who was using Élisabeth’s mobile.
‘I wanted to warn you, commissaire. The funeral’s going to be tomorrow morning in Nîmes. Is it true what they say in cop shows on TV? That killers turn up at their victims’ funerals?’
‘Yes, it does happen, a final treat, so to speak, mission accomplished.’
‘That’s disgusting, isn’t it? That’s why I was calling. In case you wanted to send some policemen along, see what I mean?’
‘It’s already in hand, Irène, thank you.’
‘Oh, sorry, my fault, of course it’s in hand, you’re a cop. But how did you find out so fast?’
‘We have ways and means, Irène.’
‘Oh, sorry, of course that’s absolutely true, I should have known, but I wasn’t sure. You know, the funeral being held so quickly after the death. But Saturday was all booked up. So I thought the sooner it was over the better, then I could get Élisabeth away from here.’
‘By the way, Irène, was she with you just now when you mentioned “killers”.’
‘I’m not so daft, Jean-Bapt. I’m on my way to pick her up in Saint-Porchaire, she was going to fetch her clothes for the funeral. You’ll see. We’re going to drive down through the night.’