But how had she come by such clothes in these times of extreme shortages, and who had she really been?
‘You lived in your imagination,’ he said. ‘You were a creature of it. You must have been.’
‘Her name was Mireille de Sinéty, Louis.’
‘Ah! Hermann. You took your time.’
‘It’s nearly five a.m. The photographer and fingerprint artist is waiting. The flics have brought a van with two of the sisters to guard her virtue.’
‘Bon. I’m staying with this one. I’m not letting her out of my sight until I’m satisfied we have a record of the trinkets she wears and where they are located. Each item may have meaning.’
‘And you don’t trust others, not even the sisters?’
‘Avignon is like Lyon, a city of the hidden, Hermann. They play games here and we must never forget this. Petrarch wrote of it in his secret letters to Rome in 1346 or thereabouts, but it is Victor Hugo we have to thank for the statement, “In Paris one quarrels; in Avignon one kills.”’
The Latin temperament. ‘Any sign of a dog?’
‘Why?’ Louis had been startled by the question.
‘Because, mein lieber französischer Oberdetektiv, there could well have been one.’
A dog …‘Is there a priest with the sisters?’
‘The bishop himself, who else?’
‘Then he has had a long night and is very stubborn.’
‘I’ll show the photographer in first, shall I, Chief, and then the others when he’s finished?’
Their voices were rebounding from the walls and would be heard. ‘You do that. You tell His Eminence we will allow the Sacrament of the Death but his anointing the body with oil is definitely out until after Peretti has seen her, unless, of course, Extreme Unction has already been given and we have not been informed of it.’
‘To not anoint the body is a sacrilege, Inspector. What harm can it possibly do?’ came a voice, firm and determined, the traces of langue d ’oc as old and stubborn as the hills.
He stood alone, this Bishop of Avignon. He wasn’t tall but was as if cut from stone, the nose so fiercely prominent it would dominate his every expression. The dark brown, steely eyes were hooded and empty of all else beneath bushy iron-grey brows that feathered thickly to the sides. The forehead was blunt, a stern and unyielding prelate whose grimly set lips were turned down at their corners.
‘Bishop, why is there secrecy with this one?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘There is no such thing.’
‘Then please be good enough to tell us who found her and when?’
‘Salvatore awaits your pleasure in the guardroom near the entrance. He’ll tell you what you need to know. Now if you don’t mind, I must give this poor child the release you spoke of. Her soul has already been forced to wait too long.’
The bishop removed a black woollen overcoat and a grey scarf, and thrust these at Hermann. Dressed simply as a humble priest in a black cassock, he found his kit and opened its little leather case as he knelt beside the victim.
St-Cyr brought the lantern close, recording distress in the bishop’s questioning gaze at the affront of such an intrusion, the slight trembling, too, of short, thickset fingers whose nails were closely trimmed.
‘Inspector, have you no conscience? This is a matter between Mireille and her God.’
Not ‘Mademoiselle de Sinéty’, or even simply, ‘the mademoiselle’, but Mireille. ‘Murder is never private, mon père. God is as aware of this as He is of her needs.’
‘How dare you?’
He wore no ecclesiastical rings, this bishop, not even a wrist-watch. The Cross he used was of black iron. ‘My child,’ he said, turning to the victim, ‘God forgives your sins as He forgives the one who did this and the one who intrudes upon our sacred moment.’
He closed her eyes but couldn’t stop his fingers from lingering. Tender … did he think this of the touch of her skin? wondered St-Cyr. Seen from above, the bishop’s hair was thick and grey, cut short and unruly below and around a tonsure which hid neither blemish nor birthmark but was in need of a razor.
Bishop Henri-Baptiste Rivaille anointed her body with the oil, made certain her soul was consigned to Heaven. He would take an hour at least to do it if necessary! he swore to himself. The rings were there on her fingers, the decade with its ten projecting knobs so that she could privately say an Ave as she touched each of them and then a Pater Noster at the bezel. Had she done so in her darkest moment? he wondered.
A gimmel ring was there too — a pair of circlets and bezels that interlocked when worn together as now, but which could be separated so that each half of a couple could wear one as a sign of true affection, but would the Sûretè who was watching him so closely understand its meaning?
The fleurs-de-lis of twin brooches were on either side of her wounded neck and mounted high on her chest to clasp the mantle she wore beneath her over-cloak. The brooches were of champlevé, with polished cabochons of ruby, emerald and sapphire which were set in collets or mounted à jour with claws to let the light shine through them.
On a gold chain, fastened to her girdle, there was a pendant box, of two foiled crystals mounted in silver gilt, and Rivaille knew he mustn’t let his eyes dwell on the box, knew precisely what it contained.
A jasper ring drew him as he continued, his lips so familiar with the sacrament that his eyes and mind could search undisturbed for the slightest detail of her person.
The dark red jasper was banded with silvery-grey magnetite and he knew it was a type of loadstone and associated with earthly love, the stone worn so as to attract another.
But would the one from the Sûreté discover this?
Her kirtle was of Venetian silk, the colour of the finest La Mancha saffron. Her belt was of the softest suede but he mustn’t examine it too closely, mustn’t tremble at the sight of it.
From high on her left hip a trail of gold and silver, of precious and semiprecious stones fell to lead buttons and pearls but began with her own sign. And he knew then beyond question that she had defied God and the Church and had left a rebus among the enseignes and talismans, the cabochons and zodiacal signs. But would the detectives be able to decipher it?
Making the sign of the Cross over her, he gave a sigh whose sadness he hoped would not be misinterpreted. He touched her hair, her lovely hair …‘My work here is done, Inspector. The sisters are to stay with her until she is released for burial.’
‘They may have a long wait,’ said St-Cyr.
‘That does not matter. This one was special.’
* The works of Thomas Mann and 841 others, including those of all British authors except for the classics. Spy novels were considered a particular threat, as were histories and novels of WW1.
2
In the guardroom just inside the entrance to the Palais, the smell of roasting garlic was mingled with that of smoking kerosene. Bent over the lantern, the concierge had pushed up the globe to warm a tiny repast but was still unaware of company. ‘Putain de bordel,’ he hissed at the lantern. ‘Behave yourself!’
The skewered garlic was withdrawn, smoke continuing to pour through the lantern’s vents. Brushing away the soot as best he could, he cut the clove in half and took to rubbing it into a twenty-five-gram slice of the National bread.
With great deliberation he finally gave up and began to finely slice the garlic with an ancient, wooden-handled knife. The bread would be grey and full of sweepings best not eaten but when one is hungry enough to eat lunch a good six hours before noon, what could be said?