‘That cowrie shell, mon vieux. Was Caroline planning to return it to Corporal Duclos with an apology, and if so, was she the thief or given it by the same so as to get him to agree to take that note to the Kommandant?’
‘Given it by Jennifer who would have told Weber who Caroline was to have met and when and where. We’ll have to ask her.’
‘But first, Madame Chevreul and Léa Monnier. Since the house visits have been somewhat delayed, let’s hope the brother is still with them.’
Three birds with one stone and a locked room too. ‘Ach, I almost forgot. I found something.’
Not until the pipe was packed and the furnace going did St-Cyr heave a contented sigh and say, ‘Merci, mon vieux, I knew I could count on you.’
‘As can Becky.’
There was choking, coughing, wheezing as the passport and papers were set before him-tears, too. ‘I couldn’t leave them, Louis. We might never have got another chance.’
Alone, worried about Weber, for if true, Hermann and he couldn’t withstand another run-in with the SS, St-Cyr drew on his pipe. Before him were the windows of Madame Chevreul’s reception room. Already the ground fog, that bane of Vittel’s existence, had returned to sweep slowly in and up over the snow-covered ground and all but hide the tree trunks and pavilions. Bien sûr, there was still a view-magnificent if earlier in the day. The Chalet des Ânes could still be seen. Caroline Lacy had headed for it at 1530 hours Friday, Nora Arnarson had been over by the perimeter fence. .
‘Something,’ he muttered softly to himself. ‘We are missing something so simple, it’s right before us.’
Off in the distance, against the wire and seen, then not seen, the lone figure of that girl prowled the edge of her cage like a trapped cougar.
‘She must know this park better than anyone yet claims not to have found the hiding place but has admitted to suspecting Jennifer Hamilton and of not only tracking that girl and Caroline Lacy into this hotel but also of asking others where the couple have been and to whom they’ve spoken.
‘Has said of the relationship between the two that at first she felt it was out of character of Jennifer and then opportunistic because Caroline’s family were very wealthy and yet. . and yet she lies. She confesses only when confronted with the hard and inescapable truth. Is still hiding something.
‘Will be twenty-six years old on Wednesday. Isn’t married. Doesn’t even have a fiancé anymore.
‘Why not?
‘Claims to have seen Brother Étienne on Friday but claims not to have waved. When asked who was with him, answered, “Caroline, I think.”
‘“Becky?” he had asked, Nora answering, “Was she? I didn’t notice.”’
Had mentioned the very ground fog and the poor visibility, that the tree trunks had been in the way, and then had said, “How was I to have seen anything?”
And knowing that, had she then gone to the chalet to confront Caroline Lacy?
Few if any would have seen her. Caroline must have entered the chalet at close on 1600 hours, would either have found someone waiting for her or would have waited herself for that person.
Had somehow acquired that cowrie shell.
The time of death, though calculated to be 1600 hours, could well have been somewhat later. A time for confrontation? Argument?
Nora Arnarson would have had no problem getting in there, but what had she found? Caroline simply waiting to be met or already dead?
It would have been all but dark inside, a light needed, a candle, a flashlight? But these last had been confiscated on arrival at the camp and were illegal.
A match, then, a simple match. But if so, the burned stub had been pocketed. Hadn’t she since taken care to dispose of just such a thing?
Like a wraith, the trapper had lost herself and though he searched and searched, she could not be found. But had Madame Chevreul watched the proceedings from her windows late on Friday afternoon as he was now, and where, please, had Becky Torrence really been, Becky who had gone out there early yesterday morning to find Caroline’s body and yet had said nothing of it until forced to by Hermann?
The aroma of smouldering rosemary, the incense, felt St-Cyr, of medieval monks that had perfumed the otherwise saturated air of their abbeys, filled the bedroom, instantly clearing the mind with its flavourful sharpness and competing with the lingering eau de cologne. Léa Monnier had just been attended to. With evident propriety, Brother Étienne hurriedly tugged the grey Blitzmädel dress and flannel slip down over the last of that backside to swollen ankles, cracked toenails, and bunions.
Madame Chevreul, her timing all but perfect, had opened the door, only a glimpse of the patient’s state of undress having been offered.
‘Chief Inspector, how good of you to have been patient. Léa, dearest, perhaps a few of your delightful canapés de raifort à l’anglaise and a glass of Brother Étienne’s magnificent elderberry wine to polish off the inspector’s lunch of cold pork and beans and SPAM.
‘Really, Inspector, we would have heated it for you had we but known.
‘Léa, dearest. . ’
A dark look was given this sûreté, a beet-red fist wrapping itself around a corked brown medicine bottle, the admonition breathed.
‘Couillon, you didn’t arrest the little one. How many times must I tell you it was her?’
Becky Torrence. ‘Léa, Léa, I won’t have this. Please don’t be vulgar. The chief inspector is a guest, n’est-ce pas? Be the eminently polite and capable woman I know.
‘Inspector, you must forgive her upbringing. Léa has been in terrible pain all morning, last night as well.’
Washing his hands in a large cut-glass bowl, the same as was used in the séances, no doubt, and uncertain if he should say anything in the presence of the sûreté, the brother did. ‘Madame Monnier, please have whomever rubs you down use a glove. No cuts or scrapes in your skin or theirs, you understand, otherwise it will enter the bloodstream and we do not want that.’
The hands were dried, a doubtful glance given before taking hold of Madame Chevreul by a forearm, as one would an old and dear friend.
‘I must emphasize its danger, Élizabeth. Oh for sure it will work like a charm. Our brother, the abbot, swears by it and blesses the day it was first administered, but I must urge extreme caution. Only a little at any one time, and rubbed in only until the numbness is felt. The skin will tingle. There will be that welcome sensation of warmth, but all in moderation and with great care, as emphasized.’
The Art Deco and other jewellery that Léa Monnier had worn when first encountered caught the light, setting off the fair hair, dark-blue eyes, and perfectly made-up cheeks and lips of this medium whose powder-blue woollen suit and soft grey silk blouse were magnificent.
Earrings matched the bracelet and one of the rings. The high heels were of dark-blue patent leather and worth an absolute fortune in themselves.
‘Isn’t he wonderful, Inspector?’ she said, having noted with pleasure his scrutiny. ‘Léa suffers terribly from sciatica and lumbago.’
‘Gout, too,’ grunted the woman defiantly.
‘Hence the horseradish canapés?’ he asked, gesturing with pipe in hand: thin slices of buttered black bread with chives and mustard to which had been added a topping of finely grated horseradish.
‘The goutweed poultices are better,’ grunted Léa.
‘And a tincture of juniper, Inspector,’ hastily added the brother to avoid further unpleasantness. ‘A teaspoonful thrice daily, with a little water.’
‘Juniperus communis?’