Martin Walker: The Devil's Cave

Bruno Courreges seldom felt happier about the community he served as Chief of Police than when standing at the rear of the ancient stone church of St Denis, listening to rehearsals of the town choir. Unlike the formal ceremonies at Mass when they dressed in neat white surplices, the choir practised in their normal dress, usually gathering directly after work. But Father Sentout’s daring decision that the choir should reach beyond its usual repertoire to attempt Bach’s St Matthew Passion had required some additional rehearsals early in the morning. Farmers stood alongside schoolteachers and accountants, waitresses and shopkeepers. These were people Bruno knew, wearing clothes he recognized, and usually singing hymns that were familiar; perhaps the only memory of his church orphanage that still gave him pleasure.

On this Saturday morning two weeks before Easter, the twenty-four choristers were mostly in casual clothes and the front pews of the church were filled with coats and shopping baskets they would take to the town’s market, about to get under way in the street outside. As he entered the twelfth-century church, Bruno heard the first notes that led into the chorus of ‘Behold Him as a Lamb’. The noises of the street seemed to ebb away behind him as Florence’s pure soprano voice filled the nave. He knew there should be two choirs and two orchestras, but St Denis made do with its trusty organ and the enthusiasm of its singers plus, of course, the determination of Father Sentout, whose love of choral music was matched only by his devotion to the pleasures of the table and the fortunes of the local rugby team. It made him, Bruno thought, an entirely suitable pastor for this small town in the gastronomic and sporting heartland of France.

The early morning sun lifted above the ridge to the east of St Denis and flooded the top of the stained-glass window. Shafts of blue, gold and red lanced into the body of the church. Father Sentout’s black soutane stood out against the roseate glow that now suffused the choir. Bruno’s eye was drawn irresistibly to Florence, dressed in white with a bright red scarf at her throat. Her head was raised as she sang alone, knowing the music too well to need to look at her score. Her fair hair was lit by the sunlight into something almost like a halo.

It had been one of his better moves, Bruno thought, to have found Florence the job of science teacher at the local college . The post brought with it a subsidized apartment in the college grounds, more than big enough for a divorced young woman and her infant twins. She was a fine addition to the life of the town and particularly to the choir. Father Sentout might not have dared attempt the St Matthew Passion without her. For the first time, she seemed to notice Bruno standing in the nave. Her face softened into a smile and she nodded to acknowledge his presence. Other choristers raised their hands in greeting. Bruno felt the familiar trembling at his waist as his mobile phone began to vibrate. Reluctantly, he slipped outside to take the call.

‘Bruno, it’s Marie,’ he heard. She ran the Hotel de la Gare beside the railway station, now unmanned to cut costs on rural lines in order to finance the massive investment in high-speed trains. ‘I’ve been asked to pass on a message. Julien Devenon says there’s a naked woman in a boat drifting down the river. He says he saw her from the railway bridge as he walked along the line.’

Her voice sounded strained. Bruno thought of Julien, just entering puberty, transfixed by the sight of a naked woman. But this was troubling. Despite the spring sunshine, this was no time for sunbathing; not even for the Dutch, German and Scandinavian tourists who seemed to discard their clothes at the slightest opportunity.

‘He gets the train to his lycee in Perigueux,’ Marie added. She paused and her voice took on a deeper note. ‘He thought she was dead.’

‘Is Julien still there?’ Bruno pictured the boy’s eager face as he trotted out for rugby practice.

‘No, he had to catch his train. He would have called himself but his dad had confiscated his phone.’

There would be a story behind that, Bruno thought.

‘So when did he see this boat? Was it just in the last few minutes?’ Bruno tried to calculate how long a boat drifting downstream might take to reach the great stone bridge at St Denis, probably the nearest place he’d be able to intercept it and bring it ashore.

‘He said he ran to tell me and the train was just leaving with him as I called you. So maybe three minutes ago, not much more.’

Bruno ended the conversation and darted up the Rue de Paris, dodging between the market stalls and unloading trucks. He brushed aside the outstretched hands and proffered cheeks of the men and women he usually greeted twice each week on market days. He ducked under bales of cloth, dodged trolleys laden with fresh vegetables and skirted men carrying giant wheels of cheese on their heads as he made for the town square and the bridge. Just as he reached it his phone vibrated again and this time it was Pierrot, the town’s most dedicated fisherman.

‘You’re not going to believe what I’ve just seen in the river,’ he began.

‘A naked woman in a boat. I heard already. Where are you exactly?’

‘By the campsite, where the bank is high. There’s a bend in the river there and the trout-’

‘How fast is the river moving this boat?’ Bruno interrupted.

‘Five minutes and it will be at the bridge, maybe a bit more,’ Pierrot said. ‘It’s pretty waterlogged. One of those old flat-bottomed boats, haven’t seen one for years. Thing is, Bruno, she’s lying on her back, naked as a worm, arms outstretched. I think she’s dead.’

‘We’ll find out. Thanks, Pierrot,’ said Bruno, closing his phone as he reached the stone bridge. He looked upstream, blinking against the dazzle of the sun on water. There was no sign of a boat so he had a little time. He punched the auto-dial for the medical centre into his phone and asked for Fabiola.

‘She’s not on today,’ said Juliette at the reception desk. ‘Something about a private patient, which I never heard of before. I’ll put you through to Dr Gelletreau. He’s on call today.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Bruno, talking as he walked briskly back to the church, ducking and weaving through the obstacle course of market stalls. ‘I don’t have time to talk. Just tell the doctor to get to the stone bridge where it looks like we might have a dead body floating downstream. I’ll meet him there.’

He needed Antoine, with a canoe, and Antoine was in the choir. He slipped in through the small portal that was cut into the huge wooden doors, and was rocked by the sheer volume the choir was now generating, one half singing ‘See him!’ and the other half replying ‘Whom?’

Just before Florence could soar into the solo, ‘O Lamb of God Most Holy’, Bruno strode forward to tap Father Sentout on the shoulder. The choir stopped raggedly, uncertain, but the organ notes swept on and Father Sentout opened his eyes, blinking in surprise at the sight of Bruno.

‘I’m sorry, Father, it’s an emergency,’ said Bruno, his voice loud to carry over the organ. ‘There could be a life at stake. I need Antoine most urgently.’

The organ music stopped with a dying wheeze from the pipes.

‘You want my Jesus?’ the priest asked, uncertainly.

Bruno swallowed hard, trying to comprehend the meaning of the question. Then he remembered that Antoine was singing the role of Jesus.

‘He’s a waterman and there’s a body floating down the river,’ Bruno said, speaking to the choir as much as to Father Sentout. ‘A woman, in a boat.’