J. Janes - Madrigal

‘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.