Madrigal (6 page)

Kohler let him be and shone his torch up over the outer wall. There were windows inset into tall, arched alcoves. The leaded glass wore the Occupation's coat of laundry blueing. Heavy black curtains had been installed but had been flung open here and there, the irregularity of their openings causing him to wonder if the girl had waited in any of the alcoves, listening for the slightest sound. Ah yes, after the rustling of her skirts had first been silenced and the sounds of the tiny silver bells, the trinkets, the scissors and the coins had been finally quietened by her.

Right in the middle of the outer wall there was the entrance to a square stone tower with a staircase. Perfect ease of access and departure, then, and with heavy curtains to seal it off.

‘That is the Saint John's Tower,' sang out Biron. ‘There are two lovely chapels. The one you're facing is above the other. Giovanetti painted the frescoes. If you would care to …'

Ignored, or so it seemed, Biron carried on with the chairs. They were old, of darkly stained wood, and they folded outwards to form gracefully curved Xs with no backs, but with plain, straight armrests.

He lined them up. Under the light from the lantern they threw the shadows of their slats on the floor behind.

Three chairs, side by side and sitting as if in judgement in the flickering light of a smoky lantern, thought Kohler. Had they been there on the night of the murder? Had they been used during the Renaissance – were they that old?

The thought was eerie and unpleasant, for the length and size of the hall made one automatically focus on them. Brutally Kohler rang the
clochette
. Instantly Biron was alerted and never mind his having a deaf ear.

‘Inspector, where did you get that?' he shrilled.

It was rung again and then again – clear, sharp, musical tinkles – and when they were back in the
Chambre du cerf
, light from Herr Kohler's torch fled over the frescoed wall down which her blood had run. The hare they'd seen before must have been chased by hounds towards the monk, the Pontiff Clement VI, some said, upon whose gloved fist a hawk waited to make the kill but—

‘Inspector, what is it you wish me to see?'

‘The monk … He's distracted and is looking the other way, even though the hounds are driving that hare towards him and he has yet to release the hawk.'

Six hundred years ago each of the hounds would have worn a
clochette
similar to the one the Inspector was holding but why had he to notice this? wondered Biron. It could only mean trouble.

‘The monk, the pontiff or whatever, should have heard those dogs,' breathed Kohler.

One would have to try to divert him. ‘Perhaps he did. Perhaps one of his hounds had wandered off and he heard its
clochette
against those of the others and wondered what it was driving towards him.'

‘A hound that likes to wander, eh, and a wild boar after truffles and disturbed at its repast?'

‘Inspector, the
maquis
of our hills, the
garrigue
, is very rough. The little bells make it possible for the hunters to know where each of their dogs is as the game is driven towards them.'

‘But this hound couldn't have been running with the pack, could it?'

‘I … I wouldn't really know. I'm just a simple man.'

‘Then tell me,
mon fin
, if the girl knew the dog that wore this bell and if that dog would have come to her as a friend?'

Ah
merde alors
! ‘I have nothing to do with the bishop's dogs, Inspector, and couldn't even keep one as a pet. Indeed, they are each served more meat in a day than I, or most of my fellow citizens, taste in six months.'

Apart from the meatless days, the adult ration, if one could get it, had been pared from 184 grams per week in September 1940 to 100 grams with bones, 75 without.

‘Then the dog wouldn't have been hungry?'

‘Inspector, dogs are always hungry, some more than others, and the bishop always oversees their feeding so as to make certain nothing is wasted or inadvertently taken, but they are kept in the stables at his residence. They don't come here.'

‘Then you tell me why there's a bird's nest over in the window alcove closest to that fireplace?'

Ah
nom de Jésus-Christ
, what was this? ‘The mistral, Inspector. From time to time things are blown in from the battlements. There are pigeons … Traps have been set. The birds are always causing a problem. The Kommandant has seen the need and … and allows them to be taken.'

There, he had said it, thought Biron, and the detective knew he was sweating.

‘Tasty are they? Hey, that's no pigeon's nest,
mon fin
. It's a reed warbler's, and you're talking to an ex-farm boy who loved dogs and always had one or two.'

They went to look at it and all the
grand mutilé
could find to say was, ‘So it is.'

‘Then if the mistral didn't carry it in here through closed windows, what did?'

A bird's nest … who would have thought of such a thing happening? ‘I can't possibly say, Inspector. One of your soldiers perhaps. They often go for walks along the river. They are always exploring the countryside and picking things up they then tire of.'

‘But you just said you couldn't possibly say?'

Sainte Mère
, what have I done but make matters worse, thought Biron ruefully. ‘You must ask Xavier or Brother Matthieu. Reed warblers … pigeons … I have nothing to do with the dogs.
Nothing
, do you understand?'

Piece by piece, garment by garment, the body of Mireille de Sinéty had been stripped of its finery in the morgue and each item noted, tagged and described as to its nature and position, once by Jean-Louis and once by himself, thought Ovid Peretti. He let his sad grey eyes pass down over her. The breasts sagged sideways, the skin had begun to blotch and discolour. She'd soon begin to stink. A waste, a tragedy – a danger. Why had he been so stupid as to have agreed to take on this task? Was he bent on self-destruction? he asked himself.

The elder of the two nuns stood grimly on guard at the head of the corpse, refusing to budge.

‘Sister,' he said, ‘I won't molest her. I'll be as kind and gentle as possible.'

‘With forceps?' shrilled the younger nun. ‘With bone-cutters?'

‘Jean-Louis, get those two out of here at once!'

‘Sister Agnès, it's illegal for you and Sister Marie-Madeleine to be here,' said St-Cyr. ‘With the clothing, the jewellery and other things we could make allowances, but with what's about to happen you will understand Coroner Peretti can't possibly continue in your presence. Now come away.'

‘The clothes … We must dress her in them after it's done.'

‘For burial?'

‘Yes! The casket is to be open.'

‘With a neck wound like that?' stormed Peretti, towering over the corpse.

She gave him a cold look. ‘Such things can be hidden. There are ways and we will use them.'

‘Then leave us, Sister,' said St-Cyr gently. ‘I'll join you shortly for a quiet word. A few small questions, nothing difficult, I assure you. The preliminary autopsy will take several hours and I can't remain here either as I've other things I must do. You can come back after the midday meal.'

‘We don't eat lunch. Not in these troubled times.'

‘
Merde alors, foutez-moi la paix
!' shouted Peretti. Bugger off.

He turned the body over and, shaking a thermometer to get its mercury down, eased it into the girl's rectum. ‘Sister, I told you to leave. I might break the glass.'

The nuns fled, with the Sûreré driving them, and when Jean-Louis returned, his cheeks blown out in exasperation, he, too, swore, then said, ‘The bishop …'

Peretti recorded the body's temperature. ‘You want to watch your back with him, Jean-Louis. There are whispers.'

‘Whispers?'

Bon
, the point had been taken. ‘Power. The bishop yearns for the old days, covets the Palais and thinks our friends from beyond the Rhine can be convinced to give it to him if Il Duce fails and Italy falls to the invader when that one makes up his mind to invade.'

Ah
nom de Dieu
…‘The Papacy?'

‘He dreams of its return to Avignon and is convinced of the possibility. The Kommandant lets him since it costs nothing, except, perhaps, the life of this one.'

They were alone, thank God. ‘How sure are you of this? The Papacy …?'

There was a shrug. The thermometer was cleaned off and sterilized. ‘There are always whispers, some more prevalent than others. Here in Avignon is God not held in contempt while everything breathes a lie?'

Petrarch had said as much. ‘But the Vatican …? Surely they must have something to say in the matter?'

‘Rivaille keeps up a continuous correspondence which His Holiness answers, of course, for, like the Kommandant, what is there to lose? The Church always dabbles and hedges its bets, so why not with this?'

‘But …'

‘Look, all I'm saying is let's not fool ourselves. Let's find out the truth but keep as much of it as we can to ourselves. Oh by the way, she was still a virgin.'

‘A virgin … The Papacy? Does he
want
to become the Pope?'

‘A cardinal perhaps. I really don't know, but you're in Avignon, remember? Six hundred years ago or today, it's exactly the same. Whereas the Occupier uses guns, the citizens still prefer poison, the garrotting wire or the knife.'

‘It was a sickle. I'm all but certain of it.'

‘Bend, gather, pull and then reap, eh? We shall see.'

Still upstairs in the Palais, Kohler was lost in thought. A chamber separated the Grand Tinel from the Kitchens Tower and in it the girl could have waited out of sight until the judges had been seated. But had she taken off her overcoat, her winter boots, hat and mittens? ‘She couldn't have walked through the streets dressed in costume, not even after dark,' he said to the concierge. There'd have been the chance of a spot check or control – a
rafle
, maybe.' A raid, a house-to-house search or roundup. ‘She'd have had a handbag.'

Her identity papers …‘There was nothing here, Inspector. Nothing in the Palais to suggest …'

‘Nothing but a bird's nest.'

Kohler shone his torch around the barren floor and up over walls that had once held frescoes whose patchy remains revealed the faint grid lines in reddish ochre that had allowed the artist to easily transfer his drawings. Together, he and Biron went into the Kitchens Tower. It, too, was barren.

‘The chimney is huge, Inspector. A pyramid in the octagonal shape.'

Nothing remained of the bake ovens and yet one could sense the constant comings and goings. Well over four hundred retainers, cooks, scullions, guards and porters – thirty chaplains alone and all of their servants – would have occupied the Palais, in addition to the guests and the family of the pontiff. The spongers.

‘There are pantries and storerooms in this tower,' said Biron. ‘Other kitchens below us, all of whose flues go up and into the central chimney, which is unique for these parts and for such times.'

Again Kohler used his torch. The mistral played fitfully with the flame of the lantern. The downdraught carried a trail of smoke towards the open entrance where tall wooden doors would once have stood.

‘The Revolution destroyed them,' said Biron of the doors. ‘The pots, pans and stone or clay crocks – everything was smashed, burned or stolen. One can but regret the loss, the pages of history which are gone from us for ever, the …'

‘Just cut the travelogue, eh?, and show me where they dumped the bodies of the Royalists that were imprisoned and then murdered in 1791.'

The
Glacière Massacre
of that October. ‘The Latrines Tower is just through here. On each floor of the Palais, latrines gave relief and refuge to servant, dignitary, guard and pontiff alike. Rainwater and kitchen slops joined the waste, and the refuse fell to a large pit that had been sunk into the rocks far below. A drain then carried this waste to the Sorgue which soon joined the Rhône.'

The torchlight didn't shine down the shaft nearly far enough. Biron went on about how, during a siege, invaders had entered the drain, waded across the cesspool and then had climbed into the Palais to surprise the guards.

‘What happened to the bodies of the Royalists?'

‘Quicklime was dumped on top of them. When the stench became too great, they were removed through an opening.'

‘Is that opening still there?'

‘An iron grille keeps all but the smallest of animals from entering.'

‘Then you'd better show it to me, hadn't you, especially as some son of a bitch must have tidied up and dumped her things down there.'

Ah
merde
, did this one miss nothing? ‘We will need a hammer and cold chisel.'

‘Then get them. Bring help if necessary.'

Though an hour had passed, the body of Mireille de Sinéty had still not been cut into. ‘I thought you were going to question the sisters?' asked Peretti, not looking up from her hair.

‘I lied,' murmured St-Cyr. ‘Avignon has already tainted me.'

Nothing more was said. Peretti was in his late fifties. The face was angular and often sad, for he'd seen death many times, both in such places and on the field of battle. But the hands that could break bones if necessary could also be gentle. Something was teased from her hair and carefully mounted on to a microscope slide. Without pausing, he pulled the instrument from its case and set to work.

St-Cyr turned back to the trinkets which had been carefully arranged on a nearby pallet. The girl had carried no papers, but to walk the streets without them was to invite arrest, interrogation and possible deportation to one of the camps. Had her killer relieved her of them? he wondered, cursing the Renaissance's lack of pockets. Had she parked them on a ledge or tucked them into a crack?