J. Janes - Madrigal

‘Just keep going. Don’t stop until you get to the end.’

‘A fire here in 1413 destroyed the magnificent frescoes with which Giovanetti decorated the walls. The ceiling also.’

‘I’m not interested in the past, not yet.’

Had the detective cared nothing for the palace’s history he’d been given? Nothing for the painstaking details of the restorations whose work had ceased because of the Occupation? ‘We are now once again in the “old palace” Inspector. By “old” I mean the Palais of Bénédict the Twelfth, which was built between 1334 and 1342 and well illustrates the austerity of the Cistercians, whereas in the “new palace” there are the pointed arches of the Renaissance Gothic, the splendid frescoes and magnificence of Clément the Sixth, who was a Bénédictine and therefore far more worldly.’

‘He built his palace on to the other one between 1342 and 1352. Keep talking.’

Their voices easily filled the hall — superb acoustics, an ideal setting for a concert … The grey overcoat and black beret of the grand mutilé receded, the concierge lopsidedly rocking as his weight fell on the prosthesis that had replaced his right fore-leg.

When he reached a canopied fireplace at the far end of the hall, Biron, dwarfed by the size of the room, held the lantern above himself as he turned to face the Inspector who had remained at the other end. ‘It is forty-eight metres long by ten and a quarter wide but is not nearly so wide as la chambre de la grande audience. ’

The Great Audience Chamber was on the ground floor of the new palace, recalled Kohler, and, to let Biron know he’d been paying attention, said, ‘That one’s length is about the same as this but the width is nearly fifty-two metres and it has fantastic arches in the ceiling. Can you sing?’

‘With the voice of an étourneau? ’ A starling. ‘Inspector, what is it you really want of me?’

‘Answers, mon fin . Answers.’

It would have to be said. ‘The madrigal singers use this chamber as their practice hall.’

‘For auditions too?’ hazarded Kohler, the rich baritone of his voice filling the hall and startling the concierge who uneasily muttered, ‘Those also but … but none was scheduled. I would have been informed.’

‘So she wasn’t here to audition and yet was dressed like that?’

No answer was forthcoming. ‘Who judges the auditions?’

Biron hesitated. ‘The singing master, Monsieur Simondi and …’

‘The bishop?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who else?’

Ah merde alors ! ‘One other. Always there are three, and always the third person’s identity is kept secret so as to make the audition entirely fair.’

‘Kept secret by whom?’

‘The bishop and Monsieur Simondi. Well before each audition they always discuss this and then … then agree upon who to ask.’

‘If she had come here for an audition …’

‘She couldn’t have.’

‘But if she had …’

‘She didn’t ! I’m always informed of them beforehand. The candles, the black-out curtains over the windows, the chairs …’

Finally they were getting somewhere. ‘Where would the chairs have been placed?’

Must the Inspector pry into everything? ‘Two metres from the wall nearest yourself. The singer then enters from the doorway in the far left corner here behind me and comes to stand an equal distance from this wall. Here the floor is marked with a cross for just such a purpose.’

She’d have been all keyed up. ‘Would she have recognized the third judge if there had been an audition?’

Biron gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Avignon is a large town, Inspector. Some who fled here during the Defeat have been allowed to remain. The contestant might realize the judge was new to us citizens but wouldn’t likely know who he was.’

‘Or her — could it have been a woman?’

Ah damn this one and his questions! ‘Sometimes but … but not often and then only after a first refusal.’

‘Stay there. I might need you to.’ Switching on his torch, Kohler shone it along the wall but, search as he did, he couldn’t find the chairs.

‘Inspector, they are kept in the stairwell to my right. This area by the fireplace was once a pantry and separated from the hall to hide the dressoir upon which the Pontiff’s meals, brought from the Kitchens Tower to my left, were placed so that after rewarming them at the fire, they could be properly served on the finest pewter and then taken to his table and to those of his distinguished guests, the lords and ladies of the …’

‘Ja, ja , skip the details, will you?’ Was Biron always such a windbag? If so, it was no wonder the troops threw stones at the statues and yelled their lungs out during his guided tours. ‘Get the chairs. Bring them out here and set them up.’

‘Of course. But please forgive the wounds I received at the hand of my own grenade. They will cause me to drag the chairs across the floor.’

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.’