‘No father?’
‘He lost his nerve when he lost everything in the Great Depression. He killed himself. A hunting “accident” which left the mother and child in near destitution. We did what we could in the years before the war. We Avignonnais are not above helping the less fortunate. You’ve seen this. In the late autumn of 1940 I was able to buy a small farm that might suit, and the mother agreed to lease it for, I must add, a pittance. So little, Ispettore, my associates and I don’t even bother to record the rent since it is never collected.’
A saint and a group of them. ‘Take me through that evening, Maître. You and Bishop Rivaille dined with the Kommandant. I gather Frau von Mahler joined you at dinner.’
Merda, what had that woman revealed? ‘Ispettore, I’ve already told your partner that when the Kommandant refused to be the third judge, I telephoned Albert Renaud who agreed, and that Henri-Baptiste and I then picked him up in the car.’
‘The bishop’s Bugatti Royale.’
‘Sì. Henri-Baptiste loves to drive it, but for reasons of prudence, chooses not to do so himself in daylight.’
‘That way he can’t be blamed for having the privilege of an SP sticker few others could obtain.’
‘Scusate, Ispettore, but such things as the Service Public sticker and the car I myself enjoy also are judged essential by the Occupier, are they not?’
‘Of course.’
‘Ispettore …’
‘A moment, mon ami.’ The Sûreté flipped through the pages of his little black notebook. ‘Ah yes, here we are. Brother Matthieu gave Mireille de Sinéty his key to the Palais …’
‘I gave her mine.’
‘But Mademoiselle Bissert assured me the girl had been given it by the brother.’
‘She was mistaken. She couldn’t have known in any case.’
‘Then what you claim agrees with what Xavier told me, that Mireille had told him you had given her your key. The only puzzle is …’
‘Ah porca vacca, what now?’ Damned cop!
‘The girl wondered if the third judge would be your wife, Maître, since Frau von Mahler had told her the Kommandant would be certain to refuse your request at dinner.’
So they were back to that. ‘And?’
‘You denied your wife the absinthe she had to have and you did so for five days prior to last Monday. Five days, Maître!’
And perfect for murder, the one task she was to fulfil — was this what he was thinking? ‘All right, I had hoped my Marceline would pull herself together long enough to be with us as the third judge, but this wasn’t possible.’
Why hadn’t Kohler been brought to the library? wondered Simondi. Had he managed to get to Marceline? ‘Ispettfore, my wife was very fond of the girl. While such feelings wouldn’t have influenced her judgement — she was once very musical — it might have helped a little with the rough edges. Il portamento, the deportment; the stage presence also. I wanted Mireille to join my singers. Dio mio, why wouldn’t I have? She was my right hand.’
Lies … were they all lies? ‘She would have fitted in well as mistress of this villa, wouldn’t she?’
‘Che cosa dite — what are you saying?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? One of the finest, if not the finest of the remaining livrées. A beautiful young girl who understood and appreciated everything here and the madrigals as well. Things your wife has apparently come to hate.’
No response was forthcoming. ‘Did that girl come here often, Maître, to search through these old books and manuscripts, the letters you mentioned — letters concerning her family’s past perhaps? She did needlework for your wife who gave her things from Hédiard’s …’
A page of that infernal notebook was sought.
‘Yes, here it is. Your wife was generous, but …’
‘But what, damn you?’
Six Early Renaissance folding chairs were arranged on either side of the table. Simondi sat in the only armchair at the head of it. The table itself was one of the first perhaps to have replaced the trestle design of those early days when most furniture had to be portable. Ivory reliquary boxes held goodly supplies of cigarettes, small cigars and matches.
Lighting his pipe, St-Cyr said, ‘Your library, Maître. It has all the appearances of being a medieval boardroom gone modern.’
‘I asked you a question, Inspector. Surely I’m due an answer.’
‘Ah bon! Mais certainement. In spite of a rationing system that has never worked and gives increasingly inadequate nourishment, Mireille de Sinéty refused to even sample the delicacies that wife of yours gave her in payment, no doubt, for services rendered.’
‘And?’
There was a nod. ‘And in spite of knowing others could well use and appreciate the food, she hid the items.’
‘The girl was embarrassed. She didn’t want others thinking she was privileged.’
‘Maître, let’s cut to the quick of it. Your wife was, I believe, insanely jealous of that girl and terrified of the threat she posed.’
A former dancer, a drunkard. ‘Marceline understands me, Inspector.’
‘I’m sure she does, but Mireille de Sinéty would have been perfect for you and for this house. Perfect, Maître, in every way if given time but she knew too much, had too many questions about you and the bishop and the Church, and you couldn’t have that, could you?’
Merda! Why had Kohler not been brought to the library?
I could give him a moment, thought St-Cyr, and then ask it of him. Yes, that would be best. ‘Why not tell me what really happened after the audition, Maître? We’ll only find out. You know it as well as I do.’
St-Cyr and Kohler … bastardi both of them. ‘The girl failed, that’s what happened. This time far worse than ever before. She was nervous. The lines from Marenzio’s Petrarchan madrigal which begins with “Solo e pensoso i più deserti campi” — Alone, thought-sick, I pace where none has before — were muddled; those from Caccini’s Amarilli mia bella — Amarilis my beautiful one — were not even in tune and lacked vitality. These were very simple pieces for her to sing, Ispettore, but her voice quavered and broke. A Primo Soprano can never afford to break or sing out of tune.’
‘A Primo Soprano … but Genèvieve Ravier is your First Soprano.’
To breathe a sigh of relief would not be wise, not yet. ‘And you didn’t know, did you, Ispettore, that Genèvieve was to be replaced?’
‘But Xavier is losing his voice. You needed another soprano.’
A reproving finger would be wagged at this Sûreté who thought he had all the answers. ‘Both were to be replaced. Why else do you think I would take the trouble to write parts in for a mezzo-soprano last summer? It’s an entirely different system of music and not easy, let me tell you. One has to think completely as they did in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Genévieve was to go. Adrienne was to join us and so, too, I had sincerely hoped, as had Bishop Rivaille and Albert Renaud, would Mireille. We didn’t kill either of those girls. We had every reason not to and everything to lose if they were taken from us.’