The cote-hardie had sleeves that came only to above the elbows and were piped with gold brocade. At the hem, it was cut jaggedly so that upwardly-narrowing wedges of the saffron underdress would show through to a height of about thirty centimetres.
The shoes were as no others Kohler had seen except in museum collections. They had no heels, no laces either, and were like modestly pointed slippers of fine black kid, and they fitted perfectly, as did the rest of her costume.
‘It isn’t right, Louis. It’s too weird for me. Her belt-’
‘The girdle, yes.’
Of exceedingly fine suede, the belt was studded with silver and gold, with brooches and pins of emerald, lapis lazuli, amber and moonstone. And this comet’s tail of trinkets began high on the left hip, falling to well below the right hip, in the fashion of the times.
‘There are tiny silver bells,’ managed Kohler, forcing himself to ignore the wound. ‘There are little silver and gold buttons. There’s a-’
‘The “buttons” are enseignes — signs. But among them there are also talismans which were to ward off evil and disease. The bells were to frighten away the devil.’
‘The purse wasn’t taken.’
‘Her aumônière sarrasine. It probably contains the alms she would willingly have handed to the beggars in the streets had she lived back then.’
Everything was as it once must have been. The purse was richly embroidered with silver thread …
‘The wound is from the left to the right,’ muttered Jean-Louis and, losing himself in that moment, said, ‘Excuse me, mademoiselle, but I must bring the light closer now just for a little.’
Concern and sympathy moistened Louis’s brown eyes. The Sûreté used a pair of tweezers to gently prise the edge of the cloak away from where it had become stuck. ‘Strength,’ he grimaced. ‘The one who did this has slaughtered sheep, Hermann. A ruthless cut and done continuously. One motion … and held against the assailant, her back suddenly arched. Something wide, something curved. Ah merde, could it be? Please look for the cork from an old wine bottle. It’s just a thought.’
Please leave me to talk to her.
Rigor would have set in from perhaps two to four hours afterwards, thought St-Cyr, but if she had been running through this empty place, her muscles would have been under extensive exertion and it could then have come on immediately.
The wretched frost of one of the coldest winters on record would prolong it.
Rigor there was. The fingers which clasped her little treasure would have to be broken.
‘There’s a wine cork, Louis. Maybe he flung it aside and didn’t give a damn if we found it.’
‘I’m not so sure it was a he, are you?’
‘Not really, but with a wound like that …’
‘There are bits of dried lavender on the floor, Hermann. Whoever did this also forgot to remove them.’
‘Lavender?’
‘Not from her person. Also winter grass and thyme.’
‘A shepherd?’
‘Or one who has to daily gather feed for rabbits and chickens.’
‘A sickle, then, with a cork to protect its tip when not in use,’ sighed Kohler. Louis had made a point of doing comparative studies of wounds in his early days as a detective. ‘Dead how long, Chief?’
‘At least twenty-four hours. The coroner can, perhaps, be more positive about it and the weapon. We’ll have to ask for Peretti. I want none of the préfet’s interfering, none of the bishop’s and certainly none of the Kommandant’s.’
Killed Monday night, the twenty-fifth. ‘Then you’d better speak to them,’ came the faltering words. ‘We’ve company.’
The Sûreté didn’t even take his eyes from the victim. ‘Please escort them to the entrance, Hermann. We will question each of them individually as necessary.’
‘A moment,’ said someone — the Kommandant, by the atrocious accent.
‘No moments, Herr Oberst,’ said St-Cyr. ‘This is a matter for the Sûreté and the Kripo. If in doubt, please consult Gestapo Boemelburg and Maître Pharand. You will find both at 11 rue des Saussaies in Paris.’
Formerly the Headquarters of the Sûreté Nationale and now that of the Gestapo in France and of the Sûreté. ‘It was myself who asked specifically for you both.’
‘Then please leave us to do what you asked.’
‘Verdammt! How dare you?’
There was a sigh and then, still not pausing in his work, the admonition of, ‘Herr Oberst, you of all people must be accustomed to delegating authority and to placing trust in those so chosen. Are you then also mindful of Orlando Gibbons, the English madrigal composer of the late sixteenth century and the first quarter of the seventeenth?’
‘Don’t talk nonsense.’
‘Fortunately, before leaving Paris I was able to find something on madrigals, since that word was mentioned in Gestapo Boemelburg’s directive to us. The book hadn’t been banned and burned by the List Otto.* I’ll give it to you then, shall I, in deutsch, this little quotation I discovered on the train? and will ask you to listen to the question it forces us to consider, since the three of you are so anxious about this killing you would wait for us to arrive and would stay up more than half the night.
‘“The silver swan, who living had no note. / When death approached unlocked her silent throat:” did she have something to say, Herr Oberst, and is that why she was killed?’
There was no answer.
‘Now please leave, as I have asked. Find Peretti, Hermann. Maître de Passe, get me your best photographer and fingerprint artist, and we’ll want the Palais sealed and placed off-limits to everyone but those we wish to consult.’
They didn’t like it. They huffed and farted about but obeyed. And when he had them at the ancient door and under its Gothic arch, Kohler said, ‘He’s like that. Get used to it. We’re here to find out who did it, and we will, no matter what.’
Alone with her at last, St-Cyr apologized for the disturbance. ‘Murder invariably attracts the concerned and the curious,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘But sometimes the killer is among the first to appear and is most anxious to assist for reasons of his or her own. Tell me why you are here, dressed as you are? Did you come to meet someone?’
Her eyes, though glazed, were of the softest shade of amber. They couldn’t blink or appear to be evasive, of course, yet he swore the question had upset her.
Ancient keys of beautifully but simply worked iron hung from her belt. There’d be those for the linen boxes — closets and armoires were all but unheard of in those days — others for the pantry and storehouses. Keys for the money box, too. Keys for this and that. In total there were eight of them, and one was both longer by five centimetres than the longest of the others, and stouter. But these were the keys to a house or villa, not a Palais, and the original lock could no longer be in place here in any case.
Had she had a key to the present entrance, or had someone left the door open for her?
‘And if the former, then who gave it to you?’ he asked. ‘A lover? Were you to meet in the Palais, and if so, why? To sing?’ he hazarded.
Madrigals were part songs, the popular music of the day, and she … what would her voice have been? ‘A contralto?’ he asked. ‘A soprano?’ Had it been a lover who had killed her? A boy, a young man, a former shepherd, former altar boy, a baritone now, a tenor or bass among the madrigal singers?
‘You were dressed for your part,’ he said. ‘There were four, five or six of you in the group. Together you sang so well the préfet, the Kommandant and the bishop must have known of you and had their reasons for coming.’