Fred Vargas - Wash This Blood Clean from My Hand

‘I’m going to tell you a story, Danglard. I warn you, it’s a long one. It lasted fourteen years. It began when I was ten, it exploded when I was eighteen, and went on simmering until I was thirty-two. Don’t forget, by the way, that people sometimes fall asleep when I’m talking to them.’

‘No chance of that today,’ said Danglard. ‘But is there a chance of a little drink? I’m feeling a bit shaken after all that.’

‘There’s some gin, behind the olive oil, in the top cupboard in the kitchen.’

Danglard came back looking happier, with a glass and the heavy earthenware bottle. He helped himself, then went to put the bottle back.

‘See,’ he said. ‘I’m starting. Just one glass at a time.’

‘That stuff’s 44 per cent proof.’

‘It’s the thought that counts.’

‘Oh well, that’s different then.’

‘Yes, it’s different. And is that any of your business?’

‘All right, I’m poking my nose in, like you did. Even when they’re over, accidents leave their traces.’

‘Very true,’ said Danglard.

Adamsberg let his deputy take a few sips.

‘In my village in the Pyrenees,’ he began, ‘there was this old man. When we were kids we called him “the Lord and Master”. Grown-ups called him by his name and title: Judge Fulgence. He lived alone in Le Manoir , a big house surrounded by trees and walls. He didn’t socialise with anyone, he didn’t talk to anyone, he hated us boys and we were scared stiff of him. We would gang up to look out for him at night, when he went into the forest to take his dogs for a walk, two great big alsatians. How can I describe him to you, Danglard? I was just a kid of ten or twelve at the time. He seemed old to us, very tall, white hair brushed back, the best cared-for hands in the village, and the most elegant clothes ever seen there. As if the man were coming back from the opera every night, according to our parish priest – and priests are supposed to be indulgent on principle. Judge Fulgence always wore a white shirt, an expensive tie, a dark suit, and a grey or black woollen cape, short or long, depending on the season.’

‘A dandy then, a poser?’

‘No, Danglard. A very cold fish. When he walked into the village square, old men sitting on benches would greet him with respect, in a murmur that ran round the edge of the square, and every conversation stopped. It was more than respect, it was fascination, almost cowardice. Judge Fulgence left behind him a trail of slaves, never bothering to spare them a glance, like a ship ploughing on and leaving a wake behind it. You would have thought he was still dispensing justice in the olden days, sitting on a stone bench with the poor peasants crawling at his feet. But above all, people were afraid of him. Old and young, everyone was afraid. And nobody knew exactly why. My mother forbade us to go near the Manor, so of course we dared each other to get as close as we could. We tried some new trick every week, to see if we had balls, I suppose. The worst part, was that although he was getting on, Judge Fulgence was a man of striking beauty. Old women would whisper, hoping that heaven wasn’t listening, that he had the beauty of the devil.’

‘Perhaps that’s just the imagination of a twelve-year-old?’

With his good arm, Adamsberg felt among the files and pulled out two black and white photographs. He leaned forward and threw them on to Danglard’s knee.

‘Take a look, mon vieux , and tell me if that’s just the imagination of a child.’

Danglard studied the photographs of the judge, one three-quarters profile, the other full profile. He whistled softly.

‘Impressive, isn’t he? Film star looks?’ said Adamsberg.

‘Yes, very,’ said Danglard, putting the photographs back.

‘But no woman in sight. A loner. That’s how he was. But the way we kids were, we couldn’t leave him alone. Saturday nights, we’d dare each other to do something. Pull stones out of his walls, write graffiti on his gate, or chuck rubbish into his garden, jam jars, dead toads, birds. That’s how children are in the country, Danglard, and that’s the way I was too. In our gang there were boys who would put a lighted cigarette in the mouth of a toad, and after two or three breaths it would explode, like a firework, guts all over the place. I just used to watch. Am I boring you?’

‘No,’ said Danglard, swallowing a tiny sip of gin, trying to make it last with a mournful look, as if he had no money for more.

Adamsberg wasn’t concerned on that score, since he had observed Danglard fill the glass to the brim in the first place.

‘No, no,’ said Danglard. ‘Go on.’

‘Nobody knew anything about his past or his family. We only knew, and this was like a warning bang on the gong, that he had once been a judge. Such a powerful judge that his influence still ran in the land. Jeannot, one of the most daring boys in our gang-’

‘Sorry, can I just ask,’ said Danglard with a concerned look. ‘The toad, did it really explode, or was that just a figure of speech?’

‘It really exploded. It would puff up to the size of a melon and then suddenly, bang, it exploded. Where was I?’

‘You’d got to Jeannot.’

‘Yes, so Jeannot, bit of a daredevil, we all looked up to him, climbed right over the wall of the Manor. And when he got among the trees, he chucked a stone through a window of the Lord and Master’s house. Well, the upshot of that was, Jeannot got hauled in front of a court in Tarbes. When his trial came up, he still had the scars from where the alsatians had almost torn him to pieces. The magistrate gave him six months in an approved school. Just for a stone, thrown by a kid of eleven. That was how powerful Judge Fulgence was. His arm was so long that he could just bend the entire judicial system any way he liked with a wave of his hand.’

‘But how did the toad manage to smoke the cigarette?’

‘Danglard, are you listening to me at all? I’m telling you about a man sent by the devil, and you’re fussing about the blasted toad.’

‘Yes, of course I’m listening, but I was curious about the toad smoking.’

‘Well, it just did. If you put a lighted cigarette in its mouth, the toad would begin to swallow smoke, not like a chap leaning nonchalantly up against a bar, no. Like a toad, puffing and puffing without stopping. Puff, puff, puff, and then bang, it exploded.’

Adamsberg waved his good arm in the air to illustrate the toad’s entrails flying about. Danglard followed the curve with his eyes and shook his head as if he was registering something of great importance. Then he apologised again.

‘Carry on,’ he said, taking another mouthful of gin. ‘So, Judge Fulgence was powerful. Was Fulgence his first name or his surname?’

‘His surname. Honoré Guillaume Fulgence.’

‘It’s an odd name, Fulgence. It comes from the Latin fulgur , thunderbolt, or lightning strike. I suppose it suited him down to the ground.’

‘I think that’s what our old priest used to say. In our house we were non-believers, but I spent a lot of time in the priest’s house. First of all because there was sheep’s cheese and honey to eat there, which is very good to eat combined. And then he had masses of leatherbound books. Most of them were religious, of course, with big illuminated pictures, red and gold. I just loved those pictures. I copied dozens of them. There wasn’t much else to copy in our village.’

‘Was everyone old in your village?’

‘That’s what it seems like when you’re little.’

‘But why, when they gave him a cigarette, did the toad start puffing at it, puff, puff, till it burst?’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, I don’t know, Danglard,’ said Adamsberg raising his arms in the air.