Ah Nom de Dieu, she demanded of herself. What had Victor said to them in that jail with Johann there and the others? Had he said something stupid?
‘On the day of the murder, madame, did the Préfet pay you a visit?’
Again there was that empty look from the Bavarian. His big hands with the strong, blunt fingers of a peasant or a machinist, were seldom still but now rested on the arms of his chair, gripping them as if about to launch himself at her.
Gestapo … she said. Don’t forget it for one moment. Never mind what Victor said about him to the contrary. Never mind what anyone says.
‘He came to visit us, yes,’ she said quietly. Would Herr Kohler notice how pale she had become? Had he seen her glancing apprehensively across the room to the door and the hall that led to the kitchen and Angélique? Were the child and St-Cyr still there or had they gone into Yvon’s study or up to the attic?
‘At what time did Préfet Kerjean get here, please?’
Could he always be so formal when needed? ‘At about one o’clock, I think. Yes, it was during lunch — we seldom eat dinner any more. He couldn’t stay — urgent business, he said. I … I offered tea, I think, or a glass of the Muscadet — yes, I think there was still some left over, I …’
‘Why not simply tell me?’
‘He … he asked if I knew where Yvon was digging and I … said I didn’t know. My husband seldom tells us, Inspector. Victor or his assistant, the Sous-Préfet le Troadec, bring him home if they think it necessary and they’ve been passing by one of his sites. Yvon really is not well. Though it is my constant hope that the three of us might obtain laissez-passers to leave the Forbidden Zone and return to Paris, I doubt very much if the Kommandant of this district would listen. He would only think we might tell others about the comings and goings of the submarines. Yvon won’t have it either, of course, and in this patriarchal society Vichy has thrust upon us, the husband has the final say. Préfet Kerjean has been trying to help me. That is all there is and ever was to our relationship. He’s a good man, and very kind. He wouldn’t have killed that shopkeeper and neither would my husband.’
Kohler gave her a curt nod but didn’t take his eyes from her. ‘Then Kerjean was at the clay pits too, is that it?’ he asked.
‘I … I didn’t say that! Now listen, you …’
‘But you as much as did say it, madame. Was he there? You must answer truthfully.’
‘Am I to be charged?’ She felt her cheeks colouring rapidly and knew he would see this.
‘Under French law the accused is guilty until proven innocent. The Kapitän zur See Kaestner is the one who has been charged.’
‘But my turn will come?’
Verdammt! what was it with her? ‘Perhaps. Now answer the question.’
Angélique will have told the other one everything, she sadly reminded herself. It was all so hopeless. A shopkeeper… Who would ever have thought that wretched little man could cause such pain?
‘I don’t know, Inspector. I wasn’t there.’
‘Then why did you say he couldn’t have killed le Trocquer?’
She wrung her hands in despair and shrugged. ‘I don’t know why I said it. There, does that satisfy you?’
Anger made her very beautiful but it also heightened the aloofness of the Parisienne.
‘Kerjean claims the Captain was having sex with you against your will.’
Ah no … ‘He what?’ She blanched and felt her eyes rapidly misting.
Kohler told her what had happened. Unable to look at him, she found the tiled floor no better, though she had always loved its warm and earthy colours and the small irregularities that gave character.
Her voice was harsh. ‘Herr Kaestner would perhaps like to engage in such an activity with me, Inspector, but I have to tell you for me I could never contemplate it. I love my husband. I have always loved Yvon even when my dearest friend was alive, though nothing has ever yet happened between us or with anyone else. Nothing, do you understand? And you can tell that to the child! Please do,’ she tossed a hand. ‘You have my permission many times over!’
Was she lying? wondered Kohler. She appeared as if betrayed by things beyond her control — the child perhaps.
‘I had best get Angélique to bed, Inspector. That girl, she would stay up all night if I let her. Usually she does anyway. Reading by candlelight or by one of those primitive lamps Yvon lets her have, though we really can’t spare the oil. It’s so scarce. She prowls about searching for answers to life’s mysteries. The moon, the stars, her rabbit … she used to talk to it, the … the pigeons too. Ah damn! Damn this place! Damn those wretched stones!’
Unable now to stop herself, she buried her face in her hands and shut her eyes before the fire. He watched — she knew he did. He wouldn’t say a thing. He wouldn’t even sigh.
Sex … sex with Johann in that railway shed? She knew this was what he might be thinking.
‘The lights …?’ he said suddenly.
Ah grâce à Dieu! ‘The bombing. Every night now the Ger … they turn the electricity off so as to prevent fires and make certain no lights are seen.’
The sound of breaking waves was everywhere up here. The attic, high above the study, was crowded with things they could not see but only sense. For whatever reason of her own, the child had switched off the torch before their final entry from the staircase and was now depending on the night outside to light their way.
‘It is over here, Monsieur the Chief Inspector. It is at the spyglass window. Give me your hand, please.’
Her fingers were cool and sure. His shoulders brushed against things — piled-high suitcases perhaps, or steamer trunks, an armoire whose doors were open — was there a mirror on the inside of one of the doors? A lamp, he said to himself, dark sheets or curtains draped over something as a sort of door perhaps, into another part of the attic, a rocking horse — was it really that?
He heard it.
The window was perhaps a half-metre in diameter and of very old glass with bubbles in some places, she told him. ‘Big ones, little ones, some squished out, but still it is a good window and does not interfere too much. At night I open it anyway, or go outside to the sundial.’
They came at last to stand under the roof beams and she placed his hand on the cold brass tube. ‘With my telescope you can see the craters that give the moon its face. You can see Mars and Jupiter and the rings around Saturn. You can see many things both far and near.’
‘The beach?’
Ah, good. He had remembered the painting in the living-room. ‘Yes. The submarines too, of course, but only until they go below the surface which is much closer inshore now because the British aeroplanes always come to their Playground like hungry bumblebees.’
‘They know when each submarine leaves or returns?’
‘The time exactly! This I confide in you with the utmost secrecy. I’ve even watched them fight! I have.’
‘What are you trying to tell me?’ he sighed.
Was it so difficult for him? ‘Only that sometimes when the sardiniers are gathered out there perhaps ten kilometres offshore where it is still too shallow to dive, the submarines slip among them to hide and you cannot see their conning towers among the faded burnt-red sails.’
He’d best be firm. ‘You should not be watching such things, mademoiselle. It’s dangerous. The Germans might come and …’
‘And arrest us?’