The Grand Tinel filled and echoed with the sound of them and the echoes themselves were used to chase after or run before a part or two or three, the sound superb in every way … but murder … Murder …
Genèvieve Ravier sat central to them and at the back, with the warm tone of a lute cradled in her sky blue, silken lap. Christiane Bissert sat below her and to the right, the outspread knee of the one touching the green velvet shoulder of the other in comfort … would it be in comfort or as a warning, a threat? he wondered, entranced by it all.
Guy Rochon, the tenor, was to the Alto’s left and also just below Genèvieve. Then came Norman Galiteau with shawm in hand, and opposite him, Marius Spaggiari, and finally, Xavier.
All looked so innocent. The madrigal came to an abrupt and racing conclusion. ‘Disperse,’ cried out Simondi, as if they had to do this, had to show this Sûreté what would be lost if one or all of them were found guilty.
They took up positions widely spaced about the hall and from each other …‘Orlando di Lasso’s, Bonjour: et puis, quelles nouvelles,’ called out the singing master. Good morning. So now, what news have we?
A madrigal about a pretty maid who drew water from a well followed, their voices coming from each and every part of the hall. Echoing, ringing with bell-like tone, chasing as the maid would chase, first one and then another of the village boys, racing in joyous abandon, all united, all as one … One …
‘Quando ritrova,’ sang out Simondi. ‘It’s from the masterpieces of Constanzo Festa, Ispettore.’
A song about a shepherdess in a meadow, at a murder inquiry! A sickle … Another faucille? wondered St-Cyr, suddenly sickened by the thought of his throat being cut … Cut!
At the opposite end of the hall, and where the judges would have been seated on the night of the murder, Simondi sat to one side of Rivaille, Albert Renaud to the other. And the business suits those two wore were not at odds with the white-and-gold robes of the bishop who aspired to have the Papacy returned to Avignon in this ‘new and even brighter Renaissance’.
Grim-faced, and wearing the ruby ring only and on the third finger of the right hand as it would have been worn back then when given in marriage to God or to a woman, Rivaille gazed coldly at one of the singers … Which one? wondered St-Cyr.
The Kommandant had still not joined them, nor had his wife and Hermann … Hermann. Only Marie-Madeleine was with him, a worry to be sure, for he couldn’t guarantee her safety here.
It was not good. No it wasn’t.
Nino wandered in and out of the window alcoves and far in behind their black-out curtains. She searched for and followed one scent while Xavier patently tried to ignore his former friend.
Ten candelabra, each with five candles, had been placed at intervals about the hall. Fifty candles had had to be extinguished before Mireille de Sinéty could be killed.
‘Gesualdo’s Moro lasso,’ sang out Simondi, his voice firmly in command. ‘Ispettore, in 1590 Gesualdo arranged for the murders of his wife and her lover, but he was one of the finest composers of his time and far in advance of most. Flamboyant, daring, a man of the world and of varied tastes and many, many love affairs, a master of the contrapuntal whose music still lives while the dead wife quickly slipped into obscurity.’
Like your own might well have done? wondered St-Cyr, frantically looking about the hall for Hermann. Where the hell was Hermann?
The singers sang the madrigal and then, at a curt nod from Rivaille, an instantly subdued and suddenly tearful Christiane Bissert stepped dutifully forward. She looked so fragile now, so lost and afraid. Setting her recorder carefully down on the floor beside her, and kneeling, she crossed herself while facing her judges and then, her lips moving in silent prayer, bowed her head and, with hands clasped devoutly, awaited their sentence.
‘There is your murderess, Inspector,’ said Rivaille scathingly. ‘Let it not be said that the Church ever failed to uphold justice and truth. She is mighty, as God is mighty. Let no man question it. This court is now adjourned.’
‘A moment, Bishop. Forgive a humble Sûreté, but …’
‘Don’t be a fool! Haven’t we provided you with the answer you so demanded and at great cost? That girl was here and has confessed! What more could you possibly want?’
‘The absolute truth, Bishop. A few small questions. Nothing …’
‘Don’t you dare taunt me with that rubbish you people from Paris pack around with you! Here we do things in our own way.’
‘The maître’s wife, Bishop? Might it not please the court to tell me where she was on the night of the murder and why, please, she’s not with us as specifically requested?’
The bastard!
‘Ispettore,’ began Simondi, gesturing apologetically. ‘My Marceline couldn’t have been here, either then, or now. She wasn’t well. Both you and Herr Kohler, and the members of this court, my singers also, know how ashamed I am of her repeatedly disgracing herself in front of others. I do what I can, isn’t that so? but …’ He shrugged. ‘What is a loving husband to do with such a one?’
Kill her, was that it, eh? The hypocrite! To lie like that and to think one could get away with it!
Marie-Madeleine had now gone to join Christiane on her knees, but with her back to the judges at the far end of the hall and all but hiding the girl from them. Looking pale and badly shaken and ready to bolt and run, Genèvieve Ravier stood next to the curtained entrance of the Saint John’s Tower.
The hall grew quiet except for Nino’s constant comings and goings. Not a one among them could fail to realize the dog was retracing the final steps of Mireille de Sinéty. Nino would pause to lift her head and look at the judges as if to say, Aren’t you going to follow me like you did on that night?
Silently Rivaille cursed Xavier for not having killed the hound and so did Simondi and Renaud, but where, really, was Hermann and why, please, had de Passe not come? De Passe … Ah merde …
The match was struck but broke and all Frau von Mahler could think about was the acrid smoke it gave. In panic, she dropped her torch, couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t even cry out.
Another match was found and she heard the grating sound it made on the sandpaper of the packet. Sparks flew up. Flame burst suddenly — hot, so very hot it became a roaring inferno in her mind. Showers of sparks landed in her hair, on her clothes, down her back … her skin … her skin …
The match went out and for a long, long time she couldn’t move yet knew she must. She must.
Another match was struck. This time the flame wavered in his hand and she saw the faces of the past leap out at her from the wall behind him. The faces of women in soft, pale blue and chalky-pink gowns. Some were staring impassively at her, others at each other or looking away. Some wore a bit of white lace over their plaited golden tresses, others did not or had their hair completely covered. Some were old, most were young and with these last, their lips were not wide in smiles of grins but compressed in judgement — judgement — their eyebrows plucked into perfect arches to frame the eyes. The eyes …
Tentatively she felt her own eyebrows, exploring where they’d once been before hesitantly covering her mouth to stop herself from being sick.