Mayhem (31 page)

The weasel began hesitantly to lower his arms. ‘Perhaps … Yes … yes, that is entirely possible.'

‘Which one?' snapped Kohler.

The arms shot back up. The weasel glanced at his buddy and nodded. The walrus took the oyster. ‘Both Brother Michael and Brother Sebastian, they have been seen often with Brother Jérome, the one always arguing like the sister, always giving the lecture, you understand, the other talking quietly but earnestly. Very earnestly.'

‘Down by the river,' said the weasel with venom. ‘Bathing, monsieur. The Brother Sebastian and the Brother Jérome.'

‘And afterwards?' asked Kohler blandly.

‘Afterwards, the long walk back up to the monastery after dusk.'

St-Cyr watched the mourners intently. The countess laid a rosary over Jérome's hands. Was she forgiving the boy his transgressions against the Domaine Thériault? Was it merely an act of kindness, or acknowledgement of his real father?

The gesture didn't go unnoticed by the abbot and everyone else. Just what the devil was going on?

The rosary didn't look expensive. Rather commonplace perhaps. An odd thing then for the countess to have done.

She moved on to Yvette's casket and, lifting the veil, bent over the girl. A last kiss on the brow, the lingering touch of a hand on a shoulder. The abbot was still watching her.

She passed on to comfort the parents. Riel Noel had shunned his ‘son' but had dwelt long with Yvette. He'd all but shunned his wife as well, failing even to comfort her at a time like this. Could one never forgive?

The countess took them each by the hand and wrapped her arms about them to share their grief and tell them she was with them no matter what.

It was the act of one who had the interests of all her people at heart, but the abbot viewed it distastefully as one would a good performance.

Mademoiselle Arcuri and her son stood beside Jérome's casket, the boy under the comforting hands of his mother. They both crossed themselves. They lingered. The chanteuse couldn't seem to take her eyes off the rosary the countess had placed in the casket.

René Yvon-Paul glanced uncertainly up at his mother. Maman … St-Cyr could hear him whisper. Maman, what is the matter?

The abbot watched her like a hawk. Storm clouds brewing? The mirage glanced quickly at him, at the rosary and back again, all through the darkness of her veil.

René Yvon-Paul led his mother to Yvette's casket. No kissing, no touching. Mademoiselle Arcuri just looked stoically down at the girl for the longest time then suddenly back to Jérome, to the abbot and along the waiting line to Ackermann. Hatred … was there hatred in her heart or fear?

The general didn't move a muscle. She turned suddenly away and, with her son at her heels, went quickly down the aisle and out into the fresh air.

Ah now, what was this? Had she signed her own death certificate with that look? Would Ackermann have to kill her?

The abbot had taken in the exchange of glances but had his mood lightened with it?

Ah no, not at all. If anything the storm clouds had got worse.

The Mayor of Vouvray, the Préfet of Police … several other dignitaries paid their last respects before Ackermann had his chance. He and his two cohorts gave one look, perfectly timed, and then the Nazi salute over each of the caskets. The crashing of their jackboots startled everyone and offended the parish priest.

The abbot's turn came at last. What secrets were there in his soul? Guiding his little flock couldn't be easy. Brother against brother at times, and always the ‘visitations', the dreams. Naked bathers in the river and spies in the bushes.

The time he spent over Brother Jérome was longer than that taken by Mademoiselle Arcuri but his gaze, like hers, was not focused on the boy's face but on the hands.

It was as if the abbot struggled with himself, the titans of Good and Evil waging war.

But he left it in the end – set temptation aside and left the second rosary there, even though Jérome's own beads were draped about the boy's hands.

Brother Sebastian, the beekeeper, broke down and went all to pieces, so much so that it took the combined efforts of the abbot and Brother Michael to remove him.

Yvette got no attention from them at all, but then, in the midst of everything, the abbot rushed back to quickly kiss the girl's hands and give her his final blessing.

St-Cyr knew what he had to do, and when the line was thin and the church all but empty, he waited tensely.

A last mourner departed. The priest gave the couple his blessing. A final few droplets of Holy Water, a final kiss …

The undertaker and his assistants moved in. The bells began to toll … No time now to question the ringer of them. Ah damn, these stairs, he said to himself.

And rushing through the church, said, ‘A moment, my friends. St-Cyr of the Sûreté.' He flashed his badge and while they were busy with it, he dipped a hand into Jérome's casket and lifted the countess's beads.

‘So young,' he said. ‘Such a tragedy, isn't that so? Me, I just wanted to pay my last respects.'

Like crows, they waited anxiously to remove the carrion. But they didn't believe one damn word of what he'd said.

Except for that bit about the Sûreté.

The smell of wet clay, the damp, boxwood odour every old graveyard seemed to have, came to St-Cyr. The wounds in the earth had been closed. A last pat of the shovel had been given some fifteen minutes ago, a heaping of silk lilies to be plucked away by the wind or some thieving hand. The SS wreaths and bouquets had already begun to feel the cold.

Alain Jérome Noel and Yvette Marie Noel lay side by side. The mourners had all gone. Like scattered cattle about a saltlick they've amply tasted, the onlookers were straggling away in search of grass. There'd be much to talk of, much to whisper. Rumour would chase rumour until the clods of time had covered everything and only vague memories remained.

But what had actually happened?

‘Hermann, I'm afraid.'

‘Me, too,' said the Bavarian, concentrating on the clay, the precious
perruches
of Vouvray that was spread over such a wide area an abbot could bring the matter to their attention. ‘I never did like the sight of fresh graves, Louis. I've seen too many of them.'

‘You still think Ackermann means to kill you?'

‘The duel? Yes … yes, I think he means it.'

‘You're a good shot.'

‘With a flintlock pistol?'

‘They'll be newer guns than that. Cap-and-ball, and beautifully tooled. They have a little soft leather pad you wad down on the charge before you ram the ball home.'

‘I wish you wouldn't, Louis. If I kill him I'll be dead anyway.'

‘Then perhaps I'd better stall him, eh?'

Stall? ‘It… it would help a little, yes?'

‘And Mademoiselle Arcuri, my friend? What of our chanteuse, our Russian, our mirage?'

‘I think we'd better get to her before someone else does.'

‘Then I must crash the party and you must find the maze and its tower. Enter by the exit, Hermann, and please, be on your guard at all times.'

‘Like ice. Let's meet at the river later in the afternoon.'

‘The bathing place?'

‘Yes … yes, that'll do fine. We'll bare our souls there just as others have bared their … well, you know what I mean.'

Even at a time like this Hermann could try to make light of things. ‘Dusk comes early, my friend. Let's say 4 p.m. give or take fifteen minutes, to be on the safe side.'

‘Any contingencies?'

Good … that was good. ‘Yes. If for some reason I don't happen to make it, take one of the punts and make your way down to the mill. I'll try to join you there after dark but please, if I call out, don't answer at first just in case I've been followed.'

‘By then the protocols will be over and Ackermann and his seconds will be out for blood.'

‘But whose, Hermann? That is the question.'

Kohler drove him to the gates of the Domaine Thériault. He'd have to hide the car somewhere.

‘The walk will give me time to think, Hermann. The countess won't short-change the mourners. Tradition must be maintained. It's my belief the countess is a stickler for it.'

‘Among other things?'

‘Yes, among other things.'

‘Then, it's good luck, my friend.' Hermann stretched out a hand.

‘And you also, my old one. We'll talk things over later.'

‘Let's hope we have the chance.'

‘Let us hope Charles Maurice Thériault is not involved in the local Resistance.'

‘The head of it perhaps.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘I'll be watching your back, Louis.'

‘As I'll be watching yours.'

The Grand Salon of the Thériaults was magnificent. Done over in the 1780s by Italian artisans, its pale blue marble floor and walls gave base and background to tall, gilded Corinthian columns, draped gold damask, exquisite tapestries, pieces of sculpture, paintings, four magnificent gilt-and-crystal chandeliers and mirrors … such mirrors as St-Cyr hadn't seen outside Versailles. They curved in fluted gold leaf and gilded carvings. Grapes, vines, leaves and birds that reached to the ceiling high above where ornate neoclassical mouldings enclosed superb frescoes. Such thunder! – Christ the Fisherman dividing the loaves and the fishes (had He merely asked some of the fishermen to share their lunches with the others?). Mary and her child in the centre …

Mirrors curved in the tall French doors that led, on either side of the fireplace at the far end of the hall, to the main dining-room. They were in wall niches at regular intervals around the inner part of the hall.

The Salon Thériault was at once a place to show off the family's wealth and to entertain royalty. A place for the grand
bals masqués
of bygone days, a place for funeral receptions.

As he moved into the room and tried to lose himself in the crowd, St-Cyr picked out Riel Noel and his brother. Their wives were mute and standing a little to one side. He found the Mayor of Vouvray, the Préfet, the local Kommandant, the parish priest who floated easily among his flock only to leave by a side door. Another of the mirrors … It must really have been something to have been at one of those balls. Little liaisons in back rooms or on some darkened staircase no one else would ever find.

Other landowners, other growers – everyone who was anyone in Vouvray had come yet the salon could have held twice as many with room to spare. Coffee, tea and wine were being served by waiters in black with befitting dignity and solemnity. Small sweet cakes, poppyseed biscuits with goose liver pâté, cheeses – there were several of these – little bits of refreshment but not too much. Ah no, it wasn't a time for such a thing. Death must be fed small crumbs just as war must lend a hand to fasting.

‘A glass of your
demi-sec
if you please, and one of your small cakes.'

The waiter, short, rotund and in his late fifties, couldn't help but blurt, ‘You are not one of the mourners, monsieur.'

‘A friend, that is all. Please go about your business and do not announce my arrival to the countess.'

The crowd closed about the man. There was no question but that he'd gone to find the countess. Damn!

St-Cyr swallowed the cake – honey and crushed almonds. He made for the Reverend Father and the two brothers. He'd pounce while time allowed.

The three men were in a cluster of their own, well positioned at the other side of the hall in front of one of the mirrors. Gilt, gold vines and black habits. Thoughts of Christ and thoughts of murder. Stir the hornets' nest, ah yes. Antagonize the suspect into reacting because all reactions, even the most seemingly insignificant, could prove useful.

‘My friends, a fine funeral.' St-Cyr lifted his glass in a toast. The wolfish grin would displease, as it had. ‘Reverend Father, a few questions …'

The abbot glowered darkly. ‘Brother Sebastian is forbidden to speak.' How could the Sûreté question people at a time like this?

So it was of Brother Sebastian that the questions were to have been asked. As before, as now, eh, Reverend Father?

St-Cyr was disappointed in the abbot's lack of finesse and put it down to strain. ‘Another of your vows of silence, Reverend Father?'

The man was insufferable! May God have mercy on him! ‘You may ask of either myself or Brother Michael, Inspector, but not of Brother Sebastian.'

Whose grief was still all too evident.

‘Then perhaps, my friend, you would be kind enough to tell me if Brother Sebastian has lost anything?' The
demi-sec
was excellent – neat on the tongue, clean and not too sweet.

The abbot raised a hand to silence Brother Michael. ‘We cannot lose what we do not possess, Inspector. Material things are beyond our simple hopes and desires.'

But not the lands Thériault, eh? Their uppermost vineyard? St-Cyr left it unsaid for now and turned his gaze to Brother Sebastian whose head was unfortunately bowed.

The bald crown with its fringe of brown hair had been weathered to the parchment of old vellum, yet the man was still comparatively young. A beekeeper.

‘A strand of simple beads, Brother Sebastian. Not ruby, not even agate or ebony – those of a simple monk. Remember, please, Brother, that though you have had the vow of silence imposed on you, God will curse you if the truth is not told with your eyes or a nod. These beads,' demanded St-Cyr. ‘Look at them! Are they not your own?'

A hand brushed his. ‘They are
not
, Inspector. It is the rosary that I, as the Countess Thériault, gave to Brother Jérome when he first entered the monastery. I was merely returning it when I placed it in his casket and I think it despicable of you to have taken it!'

Had they been alone, she would have struck him. As it was, St-Cyr ignored the woman and held the rosary under the bowed head of the beekeeper. ‘Are these not your own, Brother?' he demanded.