The Three Evangelists (28 page)

‘Can you hear me? It’s Marc.’

‘Where are we?’ asked Mathias in a croaking voice. ‘I’m freezing. I’m going to die.’

‘We’re in the well? Where do you think?’

‘She pushed me in!’ stammered Mathias. ‘She hit me and pushed me in. I didn’t hear her coming.’

‘I know,’ said Marc. ‘Lucien is at the top. He’s going to pull us up.’

‘He’ll rupture himself,’ muttered Mathias.

‘Don’t worry about him. He’s good at front-line jobs. Come on, drink this.’

‘What the fuck is this stuff?’ Mathias was almost inaudible.

‘It’s cooking rum for cakes, it’s Lucien’s. Is it warming you up?’

‘Have some yourself. This water’s paralysing.’

Marc swallowed a few mouthfuls. The chain around his arm was biting and burning into his flesh.

Mathias had closed his eyes again. He was breathing, that was as much as you could say for him. Marc whistled and Lucien’s head appeared in the little circle of light far above.

‘The chain!’ said Marc. ‘Start hauling it up, but very gently, and whatever you do don’t let it go down again. If it jerks, I’ll have to let go.’

His voice sounded echoing and deafening in his ears. But perhaps his ears were frozen.

He heard a clanking sound. Lucien was releasing the chain, while holding on so that Marc did not fall lower. Lucien was a trooper, alright. The chain started to go up, slowly.

‘Pull it up link by link,’ Marc called. ‘He weighs as much as a bison.’

‘Has he drowned?’ Lucien called down.

‘No! Haul away, soldier!’

‘What a bloody shambles!’ came the reply.

Marc was holding onto Mathias by his trousers. Mathias kept his trousers up with a thick cord which was handy to grip on to. That was the only advantage that Marc could see for the time being of Mathias’ rustic habit of holding his trousers up with string. The hunter-gatherer’s head banged from time to time against the walls, but Marc could see the parapet approaching. Lucien heaved Mathias out and laid him on the ground. Marc climbed over the parapet and let himself fall to the grass. He unwound the chain from his arm, pulling a face. The arm was bleeding.

‘Take my jacket to put round that,’ said Lucien.

‘Did you hear anything?’

‘No, but here comes your uncle.’

‘He took his time! Slap Mathias on the face, and rub his limbs. I think he’s lost consciousness again.’

Leguennec was the first to arrive, at a run, and knelt down by Mathias. He did have a torch.

Marc got up, nursing his arm, which seemed to have turned to stone, and went to meet the six policemen.

‘I’m sure she’s hiding in the copse,’ he said.

They found Juliette ten minutes later. Two men brought her over, holding her by the arms. She appeared exhausted, and was covered in scratches and bruises.

‘She …’ panted Juliette. ‘I ran away …’

Marc rushed at her and grabbed her shoulder.

‘Shut up!’ he shouted at her. ‘Just shut up, d’you hear!’

‘Should I stop him?’ Leguennec asked Vandoosler.

‘No,’ whispered Vandoosler. ‘There’s no danger. Let him alone. This was his discovery. I suspected something like this, but …’

‘You should have told me, Vandoosler.’

‘I couldn’t be sure. But medieval historians have special ways of thinking. When Marc gets his mind in gear, he gets straight to the answer. He takes it all in, important stuff and rubbish, and then all at once he goes for it.’

Leguennec looked at Marc, who was standing stiff and pale, his hair soaking wet, and still gripping Juliette’s shoulder with his left hand, covered in shining rings, a large hand close to her throat and looking dangerous.

‘What if he does something stupid?’

‘He won’t do anything stupid.’

Leguennec, all the same, motioned to his men to stand close around Marc and Juliette.

‘I’m going to see to Mathias,’ he said. ‘It looks as if he had a close shave.’

Vandoosler remembered that when Leguennec had been a fisherman, he had also been in offshore rescue. Water, water everywhere.

Marc had let Juliette go now and was staring straight at her. She was ugly, she was beautiful. He felt sick. Maybe it was the rum? She wasn’t moving a muscle. Marc was shaking. His wet clothes were clinging to him and turning his body to ice. Slowly he looked around for Leguennec among the men clustered together in the darkness. He saw him further off, alongside Mathias.

‘Inspecteur,’
he said hoarsely, ‘give orders to have the tree dug up back in rue Chasle. She’s underneath it, I think.’

‘Under the tree?’ said Leguennec. ‘But we’ve already dug there.’

‘Exactly,’ said Marc. ‘The place we’ve already searched, the place nobody will open up again. But that’s where Sophia is.’

Now Marc was shivering all over. He found the little bottle of rum and drank what remained in it. He felt his head swimming and wanted Mathias to make a fire for him, but Mathias was lying on the ground. He wished he too could lie down, and scream perhaps. He wiped his forehead with the wet sleeve on his left arm, which was still functioning. The other arm was hanging limp, and blood was running onto his hand.

He looked up. She was still staring at him. Of all her plans, now in ruins, all that remained was that rigid body and the bitter resistance of her gaze.

Feeling stunned, Marc suddenly sat down on the grass. No, he didn’t want to look at her any longer. He even regretted what he had already seen.

Leguennec was hoisting Mathias into a sitting position.

‘Marc …’ Mathias was saying.

His croaking voice reached Marc, shaking him into speech. If Mathias had had more strength he would have said: ‘Tell them, Marc.’ That’s what he would say, the hunter-gatherer. Marc’s teeth were chattering and the words came out in fragments.

‘What Dompierre wrote …’ he said.

Head down, cross-legged, he was pulling out the grass in tufts, as he had under the beech tree. He scattered the tufts all round him.

‘He wrote Sophia’s name in a funny way: Siméonidis S. We thought he had written that last S the wrong way round, because he was trying to summon up strength. We said it looked a bit like a 2, and we were right, it wasn’t an S at all, it
was
a figure 2.’

Marc shivered. He felt his uncle pulling off his jacket and his dripping wet shirt. He didn’t have the strength to help him. He was still pulling up grass with his left hand. Now someone was wrapping him in a coarse blanket, which he felt against his skin, one of the blankets from the police van. Mathias was draped in one as well. It was scratchy, but warm. He relaxed a bit, huddled himself into it, and his jaw became less
clenched. He kept his eyes fixed on the grass, instinctively so as not to have to look at her.

‘Go on,’ came Mathias’ voice.

Now his voice was coming back, he could speak more easily and compose his thoughts more clearly as he went along. But he still couldn’t say her name.

‘I worked out that Christophe didn’t actually mean to write “Sophia Siméonidis”. But what the hell did he write? He’d written Siméonidis 2, Siméonidis number 2, the double of Siméonidis. His father, in the review of “Elektra”, had written a rather odd phrase, something like “Sophia was replaced for three days by her understudy, Nathalie Domesco, whose pathetic
imitation
finished off the opera”: and imitation was an odd choice of word, as if the “double” was not just replacing Sophia, but imitating her, mimicking her, with hair dyed black and cut short, red lipstick, and a scarf round her neck-that’s how she did it. Sophia’s “double”. And “the double” was the nickname that Dompierre and Frémonville gave the understudy, probably to mock her, because she was overdoing it. And Christophe knew that, he knew her nickname, but not her name, and he found out-but too late-who she was, and I guessed it too, but almost too late.’

Marc looked towards Mathias who was sitting on the ground between Leguennec and another policeman. He also saw Lucien, who had taken a position standing behind the hunter-gatherer, providing him with a support to lean on, Lucien with his tie in shreds, his shirt filthy from the parapet of the well, his childlike face, his parted lips and frowning eyebrows. A closely knit group of four silent men, clearly outlined by the light from Leguennec’s torch. Mathias seemed dazed, but Mathias was listening. Marc had to go on talking.

‘Will he be OK?’ he asked.

‘He’ll be OK,’ said Leguennec. ‘He’s starting to move his feet now in his sandals.’

‘Ah, he’ll be OK, then. Mathias, did you go to see Juliette this morning?’

‘Yes,’ said Mathias.

‘And you talked to her?’

‘Yes. I’d felt warm, remember, when we were out in the street, the night when we found Lucien out there wandering about drunk? I didn’t have any clothes on, but I wasn’t cold, I felt some warmth on my back, I thought about it later. It must have been the engine of a car. I’d felt the warmth of her car, parked in front of her house. I understood then, when Gosselin was accused. But what I thought was that he’d taken his sister’s car out, the night of the murder.’

‘So you were in the shit, if you told her that. Because sooner or later, once Gosselin was exonerated, there would have to be some other explanation of why you felt warm. But when I came back to the house tonight, I knew all about her, I knew why she did it, I knew everything.’

Marc was scattering grass all round him, tearing up the little patch of ground he was sitting on.

‘Christophe Dompierre had tried to write “Siméonidis number 2” or Siméonidis’ double. Why? Georges had certainly attacked Sophia in her dressing-room and somebody benefited from that. Who? The understudy, of course, the stand-in, who would replace her on stage-in other words number 2.I remembered then … the music lessons … she was the stand-in, for years-under the name Nathalie Domesco. Only her brother knew about it, her parents thought she was doing cleaning jobs. Perhaps she was out of touch with them, or had quarrelled with them, or something. And I remembered something else, yes Mathias, Mathias who didn’t feel cold that night when Dompierre was murdered, Mathias who was standing in front of her gate, just by her car … and I remembered the police when they were digging under the tree, I could see them from my window, and they were only up to their thighs in the trench … so they didn’t dig any deeper than we did … someone else
had
dug after them, and had gone down deeper to the layer of black earth … and then I knew enough to plot the course of events, like Ahab with the whale, and like him I knew the route she had taken-and the one she would take.’

Juliette looked at the men posted around her in a semi-circle. She threw back her head and spat at Marc. Marc let his head fall onto his chest. The fair Juliette, with her smooth white shoulders, with her
welcoming body and welcoming smile. The pale body in the moonlight, soft, round, heavy, and spraying foam. Juliette, whom he used to kiss on the forehead, the white whale, the killer whale.

Juliette spat again, at the two policemen holding her, then nothing came from her but loud hoarse breathing. Then a short cackle of laughter, then the breathing again. Marc could imagine her gaze fixed on him. He thought of
Le Tonneau.
How happy they had all been there … the cigarette smoke, the beers at the counter, the sound of clinking coffee cups. The veal casseroles. And how Sophia had sung just for them, that first night.

Pull up more grass. By now he had made a little pile on his left.

‘She planted the tree,’ he went on. ‘She knew that the tree would worry Sophia and that she would talk about it. Who wouldn’t be worried by it? She sent the card, supposedly from Stelios. She intercepted Sophia that Wednesday night, as she was going to the station, and brought her back to the damned restaurant with some pretext or other, I don’t know what, and I don’t care how she did it, I don’t want to hear anything from her! She probably said she’d heard from Stelios, got Sophia inside, took her to the basement, killed her, trussed her up like a side of beef, and that night she drove her to Normandy, where I’m sure she put her in the old freezer down in the cellar.’

Mathias was wringing his hands. Oh God, how he had wanted that woman, in the cosy proximity of the restaurant at night when the last customers had left, or even that very morning when he had brushed against her as he helped her tidy the house. A hundred times, he had wanted to make love to her, in the cellar, in the kitchen, in the street. He had wanted to tear off the clothes that constricted him. He wondered now what obscure prudence had somehow always held him back. He also wondered why it was that Juliette had never seemed attracted to any man.

A rasping sound made him jump.

‘Make her shut up,’ shouted Marc, still looking down at the grass.

He drew breath. There was no grass left in reach of his left hand. He shifted position. To make another pile.

‘Once Sophia had disappeared,’ he went on, in a shaky voice, ‘everyone began to get worried, and she was the first to raise the alarm. Like a loyal
friend. The police were sure to dig under the tree. So they did, and found nothing there, so they filled it in again. And then everyone ended up thinking Sophia had gone off somewhere with Stelios. So the … the place was ready. Now she could really bury Sophia where nobody, not even the police, would ever look for her, because they’d already done it once. Under the tree. And nobody would be looking for Sophia any more, they all thought she’d gone swanning off to some Greek island. Her body, sealed in by a beech tree nobody would touch, would never come to light. But she needed to be able to bury her unobserved, without any nosy neighbours around-without us there to see.’

Marc stopped again. It was taking him so long to tell all this. It seemed to him he wasn’t telling things in the right order, the proper sensible way. Well, the proper sensible account would have to come later.

‘She took us all off to Normandy. And that night, she got into her car, with her frozen bundle, and drove back to rue Chasle. Relivaux was away, and we like complete nitwits, were sleeping peacefully in her country cottage, a hunded kilometres away! Then she did her disgusting job, and buried Sophia under the beech tree. She’s a strong woman. In the early morning, she came back to the cottage, on tiptoe …’