Madrigal (27 page)

‘A bonfire, another “picnic” last October – is that what your loosened tongue will spit out next?' demanded Genèvieve, watching her so closely now she had to shiver uncontrollably and pluck at the sheath that clung to her breasts. She had to say foolishly, ‘I must look like a ghost in this.'

We were drunk on absinthe – is that the excuse you'll give if asked, wondered Genèvieve, stepping close to her, so close each hesitant breath the little fool gave was felt.

Slowly the sheath was removed. Christiane would feel it curling up as it came away but when her arms were stretched above her head, it would stop and be held there, binding her by the wrists. ‘You had to let him know about Dédou's watching us at the picnic. You weakened, damn you! And don't start crying and begging me to forgive you, Christiane. Not after that!'

The sheath was left for her to remove. Cast into the water, it spread outwards to join the other one and slowly sink, more ghostlike now than before. ‘It … it looks as if we, too, had been drowned in an
accabussade
. Our screams—'

The slap was hard and fast. Stung by it, Christiane waited.

‘We have to think,' grated Genèvieve. ‘Mireille must have planned it all. That's why the bishop wanted the sisters to remove things from her body before the detectives found them. He knew what she might do.'

‘You hate me now.'

‘I don't! I want you to
think
!'

‘Then let me tell you exactly what I think!'

‘Look, I'm sorry I slapped you.'

But are you really, wondered Christiane. ‘Mireille was a Libra, the House of Balance; Dédou was of the Archer, a Sagittarius.'

‘And Adrienne?' demanded Genèvieve.

‘A Virgo. Carnelian and jade are the stones of her sign. Mine, unless you have forgotten, are agate, the moss variety especially, and chrysoprase, the more golden green the better.'

A Gemini …‘And I'm a Pisces, the sign of two back-to-back fishes and the wearer of amethyst. You will never have forgotten that.'

‘But Mireille didn't wear her costume when she came to practise with us on Monday afternoon, did she?'

‘She needed time to get ready … She had hours until the audition.'

‘Oh
bien sûr, chérie
, but also she wouldn't have wanted us to see the rebus. It was her insurance the truth would be told should anything untoward happen to her.'

They touched hands. Momentarily they came together to hold each other, then Genèvieve hesitantly said, ‘After practice, she presented me with a tiny chrysoprase. I … I thought nothing of it. Why should I have? The thing was chipped and ancient, a pale and dirty greyish green cameo she had found last summer while rooting around in the garden of that family house she lives in. I didn't want it and told her so.'

‘But she made you take it?'

‘You saw me do so. Why, then, do you ask?'

And I've wounded you now, haven't I, thought Christiane, but said, ‘Because it meant something.'

‘What, damn you!'

There were tears now misting those blue eyes that could be, and often were, so warm and compassionate. Tears of anguish and of uncertainty. Of fear. To shrug would only infuriate her, yet the impulse was there and had to be controlled.

‘What,
please
!'

‘I don't know yet, except to say that it was thought of as a stone neither a Pisces nor a Virgo should ever wear, since it tended to bring misfortune.'

When Genèvieve didn't say anything, but turned quickly away in despair, Christiane wanted desperately to reach out to her but hesitated. ‘It's over, isn't it, for all of us? We're finished.'

Torn from her silence, Genèvieve said harshly, ‘César … We're going to have to talk to him. It can't be avoided. Not now.'

‘They'll kill the detectives, won't they? The Hooded Ones will have to protect themselves. They can't …'

Struck twice and then again and again, Christiane fell to her knees to quickly press her face against Genèvieve's bare feet and grip her by the ankles. ‘I'm sorry, so sorry,' she wept.

‘Then don't you ever say that again! We don't know anything about those people. We're not supposed to know.'

La Cagoule
…

‘
Ispettore, da quando siete quaggiú?
' asked Simondi warily. How long have you been down here?'

‘Long enough,' said St-Cyr tensely.

‘But what brings you here,
amico mio?
Old bottles? A love of history?'

‘Absinthe, I think.'

‘Ah!
L'assenzio.
' Simondi tossed a hand. ‘
La moglie
…
Scusate, Ispettore
, I constantly forget myself even after more than thirty-five years in Provence. The wife.
L'absinthisme
is a disease not seen these days. I understand your concern entirely. It's terrible, isn't it? An intelligent, once beautiful woman … But
amico mio
, what is this? You should have come to me. I would have told you everything. To search a man's house without a magistrate's warrant? To wander about in his cellars without permission?
Non siete autorizzato.
' He wagged a reproving finger as he came closer. ‘You're not authorized to do that.'

He was right, of course, and unfortunately the bills of lading were now much closer to him and he knew it too.

Simondi unbuttoned the camelhair overcoat with its wide thirties lapels and, finding matches and a cigar, set his torch aside, and took time out to light them. The broad brimmed fedora was of a soft beige velour, the white silk scarf that of a Puccini.

‘
La sala delle statue, Ispettore
, the salon of the statues, or better still, let me show you one of my greatest joys. The library. When Marceline and I discovered this house it was in such a state. Old books … scattered manuscripts and papers – priceless letters dating from the very days of the cardinals when this and other houses like it were their
livrées.
'

Their palaces, but built on land that had been dedicated to the poor, the servants. Hence the name of
livrée
, and so much for the popular notion that its other meaning of the livery, or stables, applied, thought St-Cyr. ‘When, exactly, did you “acquire” the house?'

‘I will switch off my torch to conserve the batteries,
Ispettore
, but, really, why don't we go upstairs? It's too cold down here. The flu … One has always to watch the health, isn't that so?'

Last winter's flu had been terrible. Too many had died of it in Paris alone, but had the reference to health been a warning? Of course it had! ‘The date, please.'

Bastardo, non mi prendere in giro
! Don't mess about with me! ‘These old houses, Inspector. So few could afford them, but there was always the dream. Marceline had inherited a little money from an uncle she had favoured years ago. Nothing much, you understand, but enough to make the small downpayment its owner was willing to accept.'

‘After the house was ransacked?'

‘A small matter. A disagreement of some sort. Transients perhaps.'

Hired hoodlums, then.

‘The late autumn of 1940,' said Simondi, watching him closely through cigar smoke and Sûreté torchlight. ‘Things were in great turmoil, as you will remember. The war had been lost; the country suddenly divided into free and occupied zones. All manner of people flooded into Provence to take refuge from what was going on in the north. We never found out who had caused the trouble.'

‘But its owner felt it best to sell up and leave.'

‘No, no, it wasn't like that at all. The owner and his family had left the country before the Defeat and decided to remain abroad. America … New York, I think. Alberto was handling things for them; small matters of upkeep, taxes, household bills, the wages of a caretaker, gardener, chauffeur, cook and housemaids. He—'

‘He cabled them that an offer had been made, and the owner, feeling it prudent, agreed.'

‘Yes, yes, that's it exactly.'

Jewish, then, and lucky to have escaped with their lives, thought St-Cyr sadly. ‘So, tell me about the disease.'

Ah
bravo, caro Ispettore
, you have come back to what I wanted you to ask! But I must remove the cigar to consider it and give an expression of concern. ‘Ever since she came here to live, my wife has yearned to return to the Paris she loves. Surely you can understand such a thing, you who are known to love Paris and to miss it constantly? I did what I could. A little trip now and then, the shopping, the restaurants, but the pressures of work … One simply can't give up everything, and increasingly there was what we say in Italian,
le esigenze del successo
, the demands of success.'

‘And when the supply of what the former owner had left, and the hoodlums who ransacked the house had missed, had finally run out?'

‘I ordered it in from the only place I could.'

‘You have friends.'

St-Cyr had already looked at the bills of lading. ‘Of course I have “friends.” Without them life would be very dull.'

That, too, had been a warning. ‘Those bills suggest—'

Simondi blocked the way. ‘You don't have to look at them, Inspector. I'm not obliged to let you.'

A bribe, then. ‘But we can discuss it, eh?'

No bribe would be accepted. ‘As if among friends, yes.'

For the detective to get around him to snatch the most recent bill away would be all but impossible. The nail was sharp and rusty – a dangerous thing. ‘Find your murderer, Inspector. Go about your business with that partner of yours. This house and my wife hold nothing for you. She's not well. Now that you've seen so yourself, you must appreciate that even if she did manage to make it to the Palais on the night of the murder, what possible part could she have played in that tragic affair?'

‘I don't know yet, Maître, but as in part song, so, too, in murder, each voice carries its own measure. I think you deliberately withheld this latest shipment from your wife. A few days at least before the murder of Mireille de Sinéty.'

Some men would never learn and this was one of them. ‘Five days, as you already know,' said Simondi coldly. ‘Ask anyone. All will tell you I have repeatedly tried to wean her from that poison.'

‘Ah yes, of course, but when in withdrawal, is the absinthe addict not capable of other things? That is the question.'

The sigh he would give this
fottuto di poliziotto
would be long and deep and of a death anticipated. ‘Then come upstairs and I will tell you what you want to know.'

8

The singers were hunting for him in earnest now, thought Kohler. One here, one there, but he had no problem, really, in evading them. Simondi's villa was huge.

‘Herr Koh … ler,' shouted Marius Spaggiari, only to have Christiane's voice anxiously chase the echoes with, ‘Inspector … where are you?'

YOU
…
YOU
…

‘Please don't do this to us.'

TO US
…

‘
Signore
…' cried the housekeeper. ‘It is not permissible. You must show yourself at once.'
AT ONCE
… And over to the left, he thought, but these old places. Rooms on rooms, with columned, echoing ambulatories between …

‘He'll try to question madame,' shouted Genèvieve and well to his right, he was certain of it.

‘She's awake now,' answered Spaggiari from the head of the staircase.

‘She's at her best. She'll say something she shouldn't.'
SHOULDN'T,
gave back Genèvieve.

‘He'll find her room!' shrilled Christiane. ‘Stop him. We must stop him.'

‘Go then, Genèvieve. Go!' shouted Spaggiari. ‘I'll catch up with you. Christiane, keep looking for him here.'

HERE …

The Grand Tinel of the
livrée
seemed to run on for ever beneath a vaulted ceiling that reached to the gods. Repeated patterns of lilies and trumpet vines were interlocked with cameos of saints and cardinals, while far below them large canvases in oils were hung from floor to ceiling, with tapestries between them. Churchy scenes. Popes, nuns and priests. Scenes of the hunt. Murals of the Virgin and Child, the Crucifixion. Peasants flailing their harvest. Life in the mid-fourteenth century. The Palais des Papes, a cardinal on a white mule …

A girl in raiment so fine …

The painting was large and it made him ask, Had she been a petitioner to the Papal Court? There was a tight circlet of silver brocade around her forehead – there were enamelled blue violets in it. The hair was golden, the eyes were of that softest shade of amber and just like Mireille de Sinéty's. De Sinéty's …

There were several rings on each finger. A pendant box hung from her belt, her
girdle
, damn it!

There were tiny silver bells, a sewing kit, a purse for alms – coins!, and a tin of sardines, eh?

The dark green woollen cloak was trimmed with white ermine tails.

It was her, that other Mireille, looking down at him from across the centuries.

Her mantle was of rose madder, her gown of saffron silk, the cote-hardie of cocoa-brown velvet, its bodice of gold brocade and tightly laced up the front. A girl of nineteen. Proud, not haughty; determined, not weak, her lips slightly parted in hesitation as she awaited the verdict of the Court. And
Pater noster, qui es in caelis
…

The belt was of very soft suede and studded with an absolute rainbow of stones, replete with
enseignes
and talismans. Helmeted guards with pikes stood ready to take her away.

‘I've got to keep moving,' he told himself, but suddenly the
livrée
had gone to silence, suddenly, instead of there being no problem in evading the singers, an ominous feeling had crept in. Had others taken over the hunt? Others …
La Cagoule?
He cursed his luck.