The Cleaner of Chartres (21 page)

Chartres

Philippe was staying over at Tan’s till Monday, so it was to Brigitte alone that Agnès handed over Max that Sunday evening. Brigitte returned later than agreed, apparently having had a good time.

‘Sorry to keep you. They cancelled the earlier train.’

Agnès inwardly reflected that she found that unlikely and outwardly explained that Max was fast asleep, having had a good feed at 7 p.m.

‘Great. I’m knackered. I didn’t get much sleep to be honest.’ Brigitte wiped over the perfectly clean draining board with a disinfectant wipe and poured herself a whisky.

‘Do you want anything?’

‘Thank you but I should get home.’

Anxious to be off, Agnès did not notice immediately that Brigitte had forgotten to pay her but she assumed that Philippe would see to it on his return. So she was not surprised to answer the door to Philippe the following evening.

‘Hi, Philippe. Did you have a good weekend?’

‘Agnès.’

He looked tired. Even ill. ‘Come in. I’m about to eat. It’s chicken curry and there’s plenty if you would –’

‘Agnès. Max is in hospital.’

‘My God. Why?’

‘Apparently, he was crying all day and when I got home I said we must take him to hospital.’

Philippe sat down and stared at his hands.

‘Is it serious?’

‘They took an X-ray and it seems he has a broken wrist.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘Agnès, it must have happened on your watch.’

Agnès stared at him. Then she too sat down. ‘What are you saying?’

‘He’s very bruised. They want to see you.’

‘They?’

‘The hospital.’

•   •   •

The doctor who invited Agnès into her consulting room was scrupulously polite. ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Mademoiselle Morel.’

‘I wanted to. How is poor little Max?’

‘He has a fractured wrist and is very badly bruised. He may have a head injury. But he’ll survive. Of course we’re trying to establish how the accident occurred.’

‘He was fine when I put him to bed last night.’

‘And that was when?’

‘About eight. His mother was due home at seven but there was a problem with her train.’

‘A problem?’

‘It was cancelled.’

‘I see. And your day with Max, how did that go?’

‘He was with me for two days.’

The doctor raised well-groomed eyebrows. ‘I see. You’ve looked after him before?’

‘I’ve babysat for him once for an evening and twice for a weekend.’

‘So, could you run past me the events of last evening?’

‘I gave him some puréed sweet potato about five, then a bath about six. Then we played a little.’

‘Played?’

‘With a toy rabbit his uncle gave him. We played peep-bo with it. I gave him his bottle about seven, it took about half an hour for his feed, and then I walked him, with him on my shoulder, until he fell asleep. I put him down in his crib on his side, as usual. His mother got home around nine and I left then and went back to my own house.’

‘And at no time was there any accident that you noticed? He didn’t fall from your shoulder, roll off the bed, or the sideboard while you were changing him, for instance?’

‘I would have noticed that.’

‘No collisions with the pushchair?’

‘No.’

‘No bumps, knocks to yourself while carrying him when he could have been jolted?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing you can think of that might account for his injuries? Was he fretful at all with you?’

‘No.’

‘Would you say Max was a difficult baby?’

Agnès paused. ‘Not with me.’

‘So who would you say he might be difficult with?’

‘I didn’t say he was difficult with anyone.’

‘Does he cry much?’

She paused again. ‘He can do.’

‘And does that, or did that, anger you at all?’

‘No.’

‘Crying babies can be very frustrating.’

‘I didn’t do anything to Max.’ She was trying not to cry herself now. ‘I love him.’

‘But he’s not your child, is he, Mademoiselle Morel?’

‘No, but I love him. May I see him, Doctor?’

‘I’m afraid not, Mademoiselle Morel.’

•   •   •

Agnès did not go to work the following morning. When she came back from the interview at the hospital, she had vomited till her stomach hurt; she retched again the following morning. She had been told that ‘someone from Social Services’ would be coming to see her. By eleven, she had drunk three pots of strong coffee.

The social worker, who introduced herself as Isabelle, refused coffee when she arrived but said if there was ‘something herbal’ she ‘wouldn’t say no’.

Agnès, who since her convent days had had a repugnance for herbal teas, dug out an ancient mint teabag, left over from the days of old Madame Badon’s chronic dyspepsia. While making the drink, she poured boiling water over her hand.

‘Careful, now. That can turn nasty and blister. Pop it under the cold tap, I would.’

Isabelle had come, she explained, to try to ‘straighten out’ the facts of Max’s accident.

‘Now, you’ve babysat for Max before, Agnès?’

‘Yes. I told the doctor. I’ve stayed with him as well.’

‘Here?’

‘No. I stayed at his uncle’s apartment while his mother was away. His uncle too.’

Isabelle consulted her notes. ‘That would be Philippe. He’s a friend of yours, Agnès?’

‘I was his babysitter when he was small. Brigitte’s too, in fact.’

‘I see. So an old family friend?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And tell me what you did with Max this last weekend, Agnès.’

‘On Saturday we did a bit of shopping. Nothing much. On Sunday, I walked him in the buggy. And we had lunch.’

‘Just you and Max?’

‘No. With a friend.’

‘Girlfriend? Boyfriend?’

‘A male friend. He’s not a boyfriend.’

‘And Max was
OK
at the lunch? He was with you?’

‘He was on my lap all the time.’

‘And no tumbles there?’

‘No.’

‘What did your friend think about Max being there?’

‘He liked him. He likes children.’

‘I see. And what did you and your “friend” do after lunch, Agnès?’

‘We went to the river.’

‘Did you two do anything special there?’

‘We went to the old watermill.’

‘And . . .’

‘It was where the Abbé Bernard was found drowned.’

‘I see. Sort of spot the scene of death?’

‘I was with Father Bernard the night before he died.’

‘Right.’ Isabelle wrote something in her notes. ‘So did this “friend” come back with you to the apartment?’

‘No. Max and I went back to the apartment alone.’

‘So there was no one with you yesterday from when would you say . . .’

‘I suppose about 4 p.m.’

‘Long lunch?’

‘I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.’

‘Now, Agnès, I’ll have to speak to your friend but is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’

•   •   •

Mother Véronique had not intended any outright malice when she sent off the envelope with copies of the press clippings to Madame Beck. She had revealed Agnès’ story partly as a consequence of her pique over Alain’s corrective account of the cathedral decoration, a pique which bit the harder for the correction having taken place in front of Agnès and Laurence. But a further, more potent reason was to demonstrate that she was ‘in the know’.

Madame Beck had expressed such interest in Agnès that it seemed impossible not to confide her own superior knowledge. That the knowledge was second- or even third-hand was no longer something Mother Véronique herself perhaps fully grasped. She had found a file on Agnès in Mother Catherine’s bureau after her predecessor’s departure. It contained details of Agnès’ vaccinations, a number of disappointing school reports, some receipts for shoes and, inexplicably, her first bra, a letter from the adoption society which had taken the baby boy and a letter from Dr Deman at the St Francis Clinic, explaining that they would be keeping Agnès there for observation and if necessary treatment.

But there were also cuttings from the press describing how a ‘female minor who could not be named’ was being questioned by the police over the assault on Michelle Boyet and then a further article saying that the ‘assault suspect’ had been sent to a secure hospital but that no hard evidence had been found to convict her.

Knowledge is power. And for Mother Véronique the demonstration of power was crucial to her self-esteem.

And in this Mother Véronique was somewhat in accord with her new friend and confidante, Madame Beck. The news about Agnès spread fast and Madame Beck was in her element when she reconvened with her old friend, Madame Picot.

‘Well, they can’t say I didn’t do my best to warn them. I passed on all the Mother’s information to Father Paul and he refused to take me seriously. I’ve written to the Bishop already, as I said I would, but I think these’ – brandishing the press cuttings – ‘must be shown to the police.’

‘Oh dear, Louise, should you?’

‘Naturally, I should, Jeanette. One young woman nearly died and now a baby is attacked in her care. Of course the police must be informed.’

Rouen

‘Now, Agnès, we need to ask you what you were doing on October 28th. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, tell us what you were doing that day.’

‘Walking.’

‘Do you remember where?’

‘No.’

‘Why were you walking, Agnès?’

‘Dr Deman told me to.’

‘Were you going to see anyone in particular?’

‘My baby. I was going to see my baby.’

Chartres

‘Thank you for coming in, Mademoiselle Morel. Do sit down. We’re making some inquiries into the accident that occurred to Baby Max Nevers. I wonder if you could clarify for us exactly what happened while he was in your care? This is just an informal inquiry but you are entitled to call a lawyer if you prefer.’

Chartres

Professor Jones had not known what to think when Agnès failed to turn up at his apartment. Her arrival was such a dependable event in his week that for half an hour he thought that maybe he had got the day, or the time, wrong. So much so, that he went out to check with Nicole at the tourist office to see if his watch and diary were correct.

Although assured that he had muddled neither the time nor the date, he was no less at a loss. He wandered up the rue aux Herbes towards the cathedral to see if maybe Agnès had been detained there.

It was years since the professor had visited the cathedral and he had forgotten how its grave and graceful loveliness could smite the heart. As usual, there were many people moving quietly about, either absorbed in the cathedral or going about its business.

Professor Jones stood at the crossing point of the transepts while his eyes adjusted to the reduced light. He began to stroll round the cathedral, half looking for Agnès, half looking again at the sights he had not visited since the departure of Marion. As he strolled he ruminated. If there could be such a thing as time-no-longer, then it followed that time itself might be created. It was a novel idea and he was strangely elated by it.

•   •   •

The Abbé Paul had also gone in search of Agnès. Like Professor Jones, he had gone to the cathedral and, not finding Agnès there, had walked down the hill to her house. But, while he had both knocked and rung the bell, he had raised no answer.

The Abbé Paul was not a man to panic but he felt seriously alarmed. Until the age of nine he had lived with his family in a village outside Edinburgh, where his father held a university appointment. One summer, a series of anonymous letters had been circulated, in which malicious rumours were spread about several of the villagers. The young Paul, without knowing how, had instinctively guessed the identity of the perpetrator of this poison, a highly respectable woman whose only obvious crime was that she patted him on his head in a manner he found, though he lacked the word for it at the time, aggressive. After some nights of agonizing, he had tried to share his suspicions with his mother but had been strongly reproved for his scandalous suggestion. Mrs whatever her name was – the Abbé Paul no longer remembered – his mother had scolded, was a woman whose life was ‘beyond reproach’.

The letters led to some serious unhappiness. An elderly homosexual had been forced to flee the community; a shaky marriage was broken by the suggestion of adultery; an old man had died believing his daughter had left home because she did not love him. Since that time, the Abbé Paul had come to trust his nose for malice.

As he walked back up the hill from his fruitless mission to the Badon apartment, he observed the tops of the two cathedral spires almost effaced by the November mist. Not a day, nor a change of weather, passed, he reflected, without those two ancient co-habitees taking on a fresh aspect. Sunday was the first day of Advent and he had promised to speak with Emile, the choirmaster, about the setting of the William Byrd mass. And there was the Christmas crib and the Advent candles to see to. Whatever had prompted him to take on this profession? Suddenly, the Abbé Paul felt excruciatingly tired.

Entering the cathedral through the North Door, he stopped to look at the window of the Prodigal Son. It was his favourite of the windows, perhaps because of all his mentor’s famed parables it was the story that the Abbé Paul most turned to in his mind. But even that source of reassurance did not answer his needs that day.

The Abbé Paul’s favourite image of the presiding spirit of the cathedral was the window of the Blue Virgin and many times over the years he had stood and contemplated her image. But he also had a soft spot for the story worked in the glass beneath her feet: the story of the wedding at Cana, where the supply of wine had threatened to run out and Mary’s son, at her request, had changed the plain water into a plenitude of wine.

Over the years, the Abbé Paul had come to believe that this gift, of this most remarkable of men, was maybe the most telling of all the gifts in the peculiar story it had been the ruling aim of the Abbé’s life to follow and to serve. The other miracles, as he put it in the strict privacy of his own inner dialogues, were all well and good. But this one seemed to have been born out of a simple celebration of life and a desire to increase for others its quota of joy. It was an attitude which the Abbé could wish more of his fellow Christians shared.

Because of the restorations the Blue Virgin window was out of sight. Nevertheless the Abbé Paul stood by the scaffolding, summoning, to his imagination, the grave contemplative gaze of the mother and child. As he stood there, a young man came through a door in the screen behind the altar, a good-looking man with a sardonic, tanned face. In his hyper-alert state, something told the Abbé Paul that this was the young man that the Abbé Bernard had seen with Agnès on the occasion which had somehow involved the egregious Madame Beck.

The man walked towards him as if to leave by the South Door and instinctively the Abbé Paul put out a hand to touch the young man’s arm.

‘Excuse me,’ said the Abbé Paul. ‘But you don’t happen to know where Agnès Morel might be?’

The young man stopped and looked quizzically at the Abbé Paul. Then his expression relaxed. ‘I’ve been asked to talk to some social worker about her. Is she in trouble?’

The Abbé Paul sighed. ‘I’m afraid she may be. There have been some ugly rumours in which Agnès’ name, I feel sure falsely, has been implicated.’

‘She didn’t come in here today or yesterday or, come to think of it, the day before. I thought she might be ill. I was going to go round to her house this evening to see.’

‘If she’s there she’s not answering.’

The young man frowned. ‘Shit. Sorry, Father.’

‘Not at all. It’s a dirty business. When do you see the social worker?’

‘Right now, as it happens. She’s coming to the hôtellerie where I room.’

‘Might I walk there with you?’

‘Of course.’

Together the two men walked in silence down the hill. Approaching the hôtellerie, the young man said, ‘I’m Alain Fleury, by the way.’

‘And I’m Paul. I’m very fond of Agnès. She cleans for me.’

‘I’m very fond of her too.’

‘She needs friends. Might you feel able to come and tell me how things go with the social worker?’

‘I’d be glad to.’

‘Thank you. You know my house?’

‘One of the finest in Chartres. I’ll come after six, if that’s
OK
, when I finish at the cathedral.’

•   •   •

Just after six the Abbé Paul welcomed Alain and took his visitor into his study, where a fire was filling the room with a pleasing smell of chestnut wood. He showed Alain to a worn leather armchair and offered him wine.

‘Thank you. I’d love a glass.’

‘Bad day?’

Alain blew out his cheeks in a mute whistle. ‘What the hell is going on? The social-worker woman, who, by the way, was a total idiot – I wouldn’t have her give an opinion on a dog – appeared to be implying that Agnès and I were in some sort of sadistic baby-abusing partnership. I mean for Christ’s sake – sorry, Paul – for one thing, I hardly know Agnès. I merely took her out for Sunday lunch. For another she plainly dotes on the boy. It’s sheer fucking madness. Sorry.’

His host made a gesture as if to brush aside any suggestion of offence. His hands, Alain observed, were, for a man, unusually fine and slender. ‘I’m afraid it may be worse than that.’ He got up and went over to his desk.

When the Abbé Paul had finally opened the envelope that had been thrust into his unwilling hand by Madame Beck, he had experienced something of an anticlimax. The articles she had been sent by Mother Véronique were scarcely damning. They did not even name Agnès and, even if it were the case that she was the unidentifiable ‘minor’ in the newspaper report, all that could be deduced from that was that the poor benighted girl had spent some time in a psychiatric hospital.

His first impulse had been to tear up the photocopies but on second thoughts he had deposited them in the locked inner drawer of his bureau. He unlocked it now.

‘I’m not sure I should show these to you but some instinct made me keep them.’ He handed the papers to Alain.

Alain read them and snorted. ‘Is this supposed to be about Agnès?’

‘So I’ve been told.’

‘She’s not named.’

‘No. But the, er, person who gave them to me claims they came from a source which –’

‘That vile old nun?’ Alain interrupted.

‘Yes. She does seem to have caused a stir.’

‘I knew her for a bad lot. She had the room next to mine in the hôtellerie and she snored fit to wake the dead.’

The Abbé Paul, who sometimes suspected that he himself might snore, felt bound to suggest that snoring was not, as far as he knew, a sin.

‘I don’t know. I don’t follow the modern notion that you can’t judge a book by its cover. She looked a fright. And the old cat that hangs round the restaurant? She’s another fright. Bet she gave you this crap.’

The Abbé Paul allowed himself the luxury of a laugh. ‘As you say, Madame Beck.’

‘So that’s why they’re questioning Agnès.’

‘I’m afraid it’s a case of no smoke without fire, a particularly loathsome and fallacious proposition.’

‘I tell you what. If Agnès harmed that baby, I’ll smash every glass window in your cathedral.’

‘Not mine,’ said the Abbé Paul mildly. ‘And for many reasons, including the preservation of our beloved cathedral, I pray that it won’t come to that.’

•   •   •

Professor Jones, now truly concerned, was racking his brains for the name of Agnès’ friend who minded dogs. An English girl, short, a Northerner but with frighteningly good French which made him blush a little for his own. He’d met her a couple of times when Agnès had stayed late and she’d come to his apartment to pick her up. Rather a terrifying young woman, the professor had found her. But Agnès had referred to her as a friend.

Remembering that Agnès had mentioned that she and this friend sometimes ate at the jazz café, the professor put on his winter coat, which Agnès had patched, and strolled over to the café.

It wasn’t a jazz night, so the café was quiet and inside only a few customers were eating. The professor approached the young woman behind the bar. ‘Good evening. I’m looking for Agnès Morel. I believe she dines here sometimes.’

‘Agnès? Sure.’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘No, Professor. Not since . . .’ Monique shook her head sadly.

Surprised that this woman knew who he was, the professor took up her silence. ‘Since?’

Realizing that he must be ignorant of the scandal, Monique simply said, ‘Oh, since last Wednesday.’

‘Oh dear,’ said the professor. ‘I wonder if she’s ill.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t happen to know the name of her friend?’

‘Terry?’

‘That’s it. Do you have her number?’

‘Sure.’

The professor, who had no mobile, nor any intention of owning one, had to return home to ring Terry, who did not answer her phone. He left a slightly querulous message and spent an uneasy evening translating the final chapters of
The Secret Garden
.

With nothing to occupy him – the now healthy Colin having been reunited with his father, and the untended garden, along with Mary Lennox’s fate, having been fully restored – the professor found himself doing what he had had half a mind to do since finding the old children’s book from his past. He began a letter to his cousin Gwen at the last address he had for her, which he found, neatly filed by Agnès, among his family correspondence in one of the yellow boxes at the top of the wardrobe.