Bellringer (11 page)

‘
Ah, bon,
’ said Louis, ‘you mentioned setting a date, but there is none on the card.’

Of the two, was he the stickler for details? If so, she had best keep it in mind. ‘A date, you ask? None was necessary. It was to have been for tonight at 2200 hours sharp.’

‘But death intervened,’ grumbled Hermann, not believing a word of it.

‘Precisely, Inspector, and I shall, in tonight’s séance, be asking Cérès to contact that poor child so that she can speak through the goddess to me.’

‘And reveal who her killer was or what she wanted to tell the new Kommandant?’

‘Hermann. . . ’

‘No, please, Chief Inspector, let me answer. Caroline was convinced Mary-Lynn Allan’s death was not an accident. Things had been stolen. . . little things; seemingly worthless things. When women have so little, even the smallest, most insignificant item to male eyes could well be the most treasured: the essence of a cherished memory, the feel, the touch, the smell of an object, a bit of cloth, a seashell perhaps—all such things can have their intense value to a woman, no matter how coarse or common she might appear to you men.’

A seashell. . . ‘Caroline was asked to bring what she had,’ said Kohler. ‘Be so good as to tell us what that was?’

Had she said too much, gone too far? wondered Élizabeth. ‘Always, for every sitter, the invitation says the same thing: They are to bring something—anything—that will form a bridge to what they most desperately want to know. Cérès needs such items upon which to focus, but as a result of these continual thefts, a degree of bitterness and viciousness far beyond the measure of each loss has entered our community, our two houses, if you like.’

‘And the thefts?’ asked Louis.

‘They happen in an instant. None are planned—I’m sure of this. The thefts are random and governed totally by impulse, and I am certain too, that whoever is doing this, that poor soul is in torment and unable to resist the impulse yet exceedingly clever at accomplishing it and hiding her identity.’

‘And her hiding place?’ asked St-Cyr.

‘Though there are those who search, no one, insofar as I have been told, has ever found it.’

‘Hence Madame Monnier’s suggesting, Hermann, that if we were to discover who it was, we were to tell the thief that Madame Chevreul would keep on asking even if we didn’t confide that information and that soon Cérès would give her the answer.’

‘Léa has her uses, Chief Inspector.’

‘But has Cérès been more forthcoming?’ he asked.

‘Chief Inspector, surely you are as aware as I that there are those who steal and those who attempt to.’

‘And those who will accuse without sufficient evidence while demanding their anonymity.’

‘Precisely! And how, please, am I to differentiate?’

Had she led them into admitting that the séances might well have their uses? wondered St-Cyr. ‘If not by placing a suspect and her accuser before you and asking Cérès enough questions to settle the matter.’

‘But Cérès only speaks with the voices of those who have passed over and I have no knowledge of what is said through me.’

‘But Léa Monnier does?’ he asked.

‘As do others of my staff.’

‘Are the sitters always different?’

‘There are the regulars, there are those who have been summoned, those with special needs and requests, and those, as in the cases of Colonel Kessler and Mary-Lynn Allan, who were initiates passing through to becoming regulars. Each séance needs its core of believers. They give the whole process backbone, but even then, many sessions fail because of a doubter. Unfortunately I cannot always weed these out beforehand. Nora Arnarson had her doubts but came, and was allowed to sit, since her dear friend Mary-Lynn required her presence and was uneasy without it. Failure after failure until at last a breakthrough.’

And then a death. ‘And the home brew, their state of inebriation?’

Must Herr Kohler continue to be such a doubter? ‘I think, if I were you, Inspector, I would ask myself where Nora and Mary-Lynn went
after
Colonel Kessler left them at the door to that hotel of theirs. Mary-Lynn was happy. Tears of joy had filled her eyes. Answers, though I know them not, had been received, having flowed from Cérès through me to her.’

‘And to the ears of the other sitters, Louis, not just to Colonel Kessler.’

‘Who had grown ever more close to her, Inspector,’ she continued.

‘Too close?’ he asked.

The pregnancy. ‘That I wouldn’t know.’

But probably did. ‘Madame,’ said St-Cyr, ‘when precisely did the séance end?’

Grâce à Dieu,
he had asked, but she would give things a moment, would wait, yes, until the urgency of knowing made Herr Kohler fidget. ‘At 2330 hours.’

Had he given the sigh of the defeated?

‘And one and a half hours
before
the first killing, Louis,’ he said.

‘Did Nora not inform you of this, inspectors?’

Ach,
how sweet of this celestial dreamer! snorted Kohler inwardly. ‘It must have slipped her mind.’

‘Did she accompany Mary-Lynn on each of the previous séances that one had paid for?’ asked Louis.

‘No one pays me, Chief Inspector. The service I provide is absolutely free and freely given.’

‘A
yes
, then, to the question,’ said Kohler, ‘but if one wishes to leave a little gift, one can. That it, eh?’

‘Hermann, leave it for now.’

‘Louis, this one’s been raking it in.’

Herr Kohler would have to be given an answer. ‘Nora accompanied Mary-Lynn to each séance that one attended and sat always on her right as instructed by me. Colonel Kessler sat on the girl’s left. Beforehand, the couple would exchange pleasantries, the Colonel always asking after her well-being and that of her friends, and if there was anything they needed.’

‘And was there?’ asked St-Cyr.

Was he not the more dangerous of the two? ‘Things like more firewood or even coal if possible for their stoves, or perhaps could he allow another visit from the maid of a roommate. There was a girl in Mary-Lynn’s room whose maid had been left to look after that one’s flat in Paris on the avenue Henri-Martin and but a few steps from the Bois de Boulogne and lovely, if I do say so myself. There were, I believe, several very valuable antiques and paintings this Jennifer Hamilton had purchased for wealthy clients in America but had been unable to ship due to the hostilities, so she was, understandably, concerned and had asked Mary-Lynn to speak to the Colonel on her behalf.’

Jennifer Hamilton of Room 3–54 the Vittel-Palace, and if this one wasn’t well informed, who was? wondered Kohler.

‘Her family in Boston have been dealing in European art and antiques for over forty years, inspectors. The girl is really quite shy and very nervous, or so I have been given to understand. Mary-Lynn was simply trying to help her. Things can be so very confusing for the young when they’re away from home only to then find themselves locked up in a place like this for years on end perhaps, who knows? Caroline Lacy and this Jennifer Hamilton had become good friends and would visit back and forth. Nothing untoward, I assure you, though girls of such a tender age as Caroline sometimes welcome the reinforcement of the physical contact and warmth of another who is a little older.’

And uh-oh, was that it, eh? thought Kohler, since up to now they’d been given to understand that Caroline had had to visit
this
building and its British to find someone to talk to, but the doors to the inner sanctum had been softly opened, the wraiths appearing.

‘Ah! A little refreshment, inspectors. A choice of chamomile or a particularly delightful tisane of hibiscus leaves and rose hips, sweetened with a touch of honey.’

‘Courtesy of Sergeant Senghor, Louis.’

‘And Brother Étienne, Hermann.’

And no mention of the datura, thought Élizabeth, but a taste strong enough to mask it—was Herr Kohler not wondering this?

‘I think I’ll pass, Louis.’

‘Sleep calls, Madame Chevreul.’

‘It’s understandable. You have had a long and what must have been tiring day but surely a cupful will not hurt?’

‘There is just one thing,’ said St-Cyr. ‘Have you yourself lost anything to this kleptomaniac?’

‘Me? Why. . . ’

Instinctively she had touched the base of her throat and instinctively they had known the answer, which could not, unfortunately, remain totally hidden. ‘Why, yes, I have, but it’s of no consequence save only that it unites me more with those who have suffered such losses.’

‘And the item, madame, just for the record?’

Must St-Cyr be so persistent? ‘I have already forgotten it.’

But has Cérès? ‘For now then, madame,
bonne nuit
. The morning will come soon enough.’

‘But you’ve not partaken of your refreshment?’

‘Another time,’ said Louis. ‘It’ll save us from getting up during the rest of the night.’

The room was pleasant and totally unexpected. Tucked away in a far, third-floor corner of the camp hospital, the former villa of two doctors of thermal medicine, it had not only comfortable beds and a welcome fire in its grate, but warmed bricks tucked in under the covers at the foot of each bed and an unopened, unheard-of bottle of cognac, a Bisquit Napoléon.

‘Pure gold, Louis.’

‘And two unopened packets of Pall Malls. A wonderful welcome,
mon vieux
.’ That is,
Is someone trying to buy us?

‘
Liebe Zeit,
let’s enjoy a sip and light up.’
Or simply loosen our tongues?

Hermann indicated silence. Both began to search, and when they found the microphone placed behind a framed print of a Vittel
demoiselle
taking the waters circa 1894, they left it exactly where it was.

‘In the morning, Louis, I’d best fill Untersturmführer Weber in on things. We’re going to need all the help he can give us.’

‘But for now let’s get some sleep.
Mon Dieu,
I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.’

Pillows were thumped, a mattress sighed. A cork was pulled, glasses were clinked, a match struck, and an appreciative sigh given as Louis went over to the blackout drapes and, indicating that this partner of his should switch off the light, opened them and silently felt about until he had what he wanted.

Together, bundled against the night and with bottle, glasses, and cigarettes in hand, they slipped out onto the porch to softly close the doors behind them.

‘There are fifteen of these villas, Hermann. All but a few were built in 1930 along the same chalet lines, though this one is larger and earlier, 1899 if I remember it clearly. Terraces, sunrooms, and porches forced the
curiste,
during his twenty-one-day course of treatment to take the infrequent sun.’

‘When not busy chasing his mistress or downing that damned water with her?’

Cigarettes were enjoyed, the glasses given more than a splash while above them the stars were out, and were it not for the degrees of frost, the night would have been fine.

‘You or me, Louis?’

‘Me, I think.’

‘Agreed.’

‘An elevator gate that must have been closed in September 1939 and padlocked late in ’42 when the Americans were moved in, is unlocked and left open and yet only Caroline Lacy claims it wasn’t an accident? She insists that she saw what happened yet suffers from night blindness and a shortage of breath that has made her panic.’

‘And claims that she was to have been the intended victim.’

‘Only to be silenced a week later, Hermann. Surely all others in the Vittel-Palace must have known it was no accident?’

‘Were they afraid to say it was murder, Louis? Mrs. Parker did come up to calm them. Even she stated it was an accident.’

‘But did they agree to say that, and if so, was it out of fear of making life far more difficult for themselves?’

‘Since Weber would have turned the place upside down and found someone to accuse, even if the wrong person.’

‘
Ah, bon,
it’s possible they all felt it was murder, Hermann, yet were afraid to state this, except for Caroline who might just have been obstinate.’

‘But who then made an even bigger nuisance of herself only to become a corpse that was then tidied.’

‘Which brings us to Madame Chevreul, who wishes us to concentrate our efforts on Jennifer Hamilton, roommate of Mary-Lynn Allan and close friend of Caroline Lacy.’

‘While Mrs. Parker, patently forgetting about Jennifer, suggests we look elsewhere, namely the Grand, since Caroline had few if any friends in the Vittel-Palace and had been shunned.’

The cognac was infinitely smooth, the two of them leaning on the railing to look out over the darkened polo grounds and racetrack.

‘The one lives the dream of being the mouthpiece of Cérès, Hermann.’

‘And unless I’m mistaken, the other fancies herself as having come from the family that make the world’s foremost fountain pens.’

‘Caroline Lacy lived the dream of being a prima donna and badgered everyone about it who would listen.’

‘While her governess, Louis, dreamt and still dreams of what?’

‘A dog-eared photo from 1910 of a villa in Provence, better ones in her suitcase but none from beyond that date.’

There had also been a photo of Pétain on that wall above her bed and a map of France that hadn’t even recognized the Defeat. ‘A governess who thought that girl’s asthma was nothing more than a state of mind,’ said Hermann, who, as a former prisoner of war, instinctively cupped his cigarette in hand to hide even that tiny glow.

‘Yet insisted Brother Étienne, the visiting monk, provide an overabundance of datura seeds, from which she dutifully ground a little powder to mix with the dried and shredded leaves and stems.’

‘Before rolling them into the cigarettes that girl could not have done without. Roommate Becky Torrence claims Caroline was very upset and in tears when she came back to their room and began to search for her cigarettes, Louis. Becky turned on the light and tried to calm her while Jill Faber found them. Though she at first avoided admitting it, Becky followed Caroline out into the corridor to help her. Oh for sure, both heard Mary-Lynn fall, but was Becky really the friend in distress? And where, please, was Madame de Vernon while all of this was going on?’