He reminded himself that Glotz was the brother of the wife of one of Himmler’s brothers and that he was none too pleased at the moment.
The weasel’s eyes still hadn’t moved. The thin lips parted as a mind reader’s might.
‘The Countess Theriault would not have killed Jerome with a rock, monsieur. A gun such as the one you’re holding perhaps, if her cousin could be convinced to loan it to her, of course, but not a rock.’
‘Unless she’d wanted it to look like Jerome had accidentally fallen off that bike,’ said Kohler, giving his thoughts aloud. ‘Could one of the monks have done it?’
The weasel began hesitantly to lower his arms. ‘Perhaps … Yes … yes, that is entirely possible.’
‘Which one?’ snapped Kohler.
The arms shot back up. The weasel glanced at his buddy and nodded. The walrus took the oyster. ‘Both Brother Michael and Brother Sebastian, they have been seen often with Brother Jerome, the one always arguing like the sister, always giving the lecture, you understand, the other talking quietly but earnestly. Very earnestly.’
‘Down by the river,’ said the weasel with venom. ‘Bathing, monsieur. The Brother Sebastian and the Brother Jerome.’
‘And afterwards?’ asked Kohler blandly.
‘Afterwards, the long walk back up to the monastery after dusk.’
St-Cyr watched the mourners intently. The countess laid a rosary over Jerome’s hands. Was she forgiving the boy his transgressions against the Domaine Theriault? Was it merely an act of kindness, or acknowledgement of his real father?
The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by the abbot and everyone else. Just what the devil was going on?
The rosary didn’t look expensive. Rather commonplace perhaps. An odd thing then for the countess to have done.
She moved on to Yvette’s casket and, lifting the veil, bent over the girl. A last kiss on the brow, the lingering touch of a hand on a shoulder. The abbot was still watching her.
She passed on to comfort the parents. Riel Noel had shunned his ‘son’ but had dwelt long with Yvette. He’d all but shunned his wife as well, failing even to comfort her at a time like this. Could one never forgive?
The countess took them each by the hand and wrapped her arms about them to share their grief and tell them she was with them no matter what.
It was the act of one who had the interests of all her people at heart, but the abbot viewed it distastefully as one would a good performance.
Mademoiselle Arcuri and her son stood beside Jerome’s casket, the boy under the comforting hands of his mother. They both crossed themselves. They lingered. The chanteuse couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the rosary the countess had placed in the casket.
Rene Yvon-Paul glanced uncertainly up at his mother. Maman … St-Cyr could hear him whisper. Maman, what is the matter?
The abbot watched her like a hawk. Storm clouds brewing? The mirage glanced quickly at him, at the rosary and back again, all through the darkness of her veil.
Rene Yvon-Paul led his mother to Yvette’s casket. No kissing, no touching. Mademoiselle Arcuri just looked stoically down at the girl for the longest time then suddenly back to Jerome, to the abbot and along the waiting line to Ackermann. Hatred … was there hatred in her heart or fear?
The general didn’t move a muscle. She turned suddenly away and, with her son at her heels, went quickly down the aisle and out into the fresh air.
Ah now, what was this? Had she signed her own death certificate with that look? Would Ackermann have to kill her?
The abbot had taken in the exchange of glances but had his mood lightened with it?
Ah no, not at all. If anything the storm clouds had got worse.
The Mayor of Vouvray, the Prefet of Police … several other dignitaries paid their last respects before Ackermann had his chance. He and his two cohorts gave one look, perfectly timed, and then the Nazi salute over each of the caskets. The crashing of their jackboots startled everyone and offended the parish priest.
The abbot’s turn came at last. What secrets were there in his soul? Guiding his little flock couldn’t be easy. Brother against brother at times, and always the ‘visitations’, the dreams. Naked bathers in the river and spies in the bushes.
The time he spent over Brother Jerome was longer than that taken by Mademoiselle Arcuri but his gaze, like hers, was not focused on the boy’s face but on the hands.
It was as if the abbot struggled with himself, the titans of Good and Evil waging war.
But he left it in the end – set temptation aside and left the second rosary there, even though Jerome’s own beads were draped about the boy’s hands.
Brother Sebastian, the beekeeper, broke down and went all to pieces, so much so that it took the combined efforts of the abbot and Brother Michael to remove him.
Yvette got no attention from them at all, but then, in the midst of everything, the abbot rushed back to quickly kiss the girl’s hands and give her his final blessing.
St-Cyr knew what he had to do, and when the line was thin and the church all but empty, he waited tensely.
A last mourner departed. The priest gave the couple his blessing. A final few droplets of Holy Water, a final kiss …
The undertaker and his assistants moved in. The bells began to toll … No time now to question the ringer of them. Ah damn, these stairs, he said to himself.
And rushing through the church, said, ‘A moment, my friends. St-Cyr of the Surete.’ He flashed his badge and while they were busy with it, he dipped a hand into Jerome’s casket and lifted the countess’s beads.
‘So young,’ he said. ‘Such a tragedy, isn’t that so? Me, I just wanted to pay my last respects.’
Like crows, they waited anxiously to remove the carrion. But they didn’t believe one damn word of what he’d said.
Except for that bit about the Surete.
The smell of wet clay, the damp, boxwood odour every old graveyard seemed to have, came to St-Cyr. The wounds in the earth had been closed. A last pat of the shovel had been given some fifteen minutes ago, a heaping of silk lilies to be plucked away by the wind or some thieving hand. The SS wreaths and bouquets had already begun to feel the cold.
Alain Jerome Noel and Yvette Marie Noel lay side by side. The mourners had all gone. Like scattered cattle about a saltlick they’ve amply tasted, the onlookers were straggling away in search of grass. There’d be much to talk of, much to whisper. Rumour would chase rumour until the clods of time had covered everything and only vague memories remained.
But what had actually happened?
‘Hermann, I’m afraid.’
‘Me, too,’ said the Bavarian, concentrating on the clay, the precious perruches of Vouvray that was spread over such a wide area an abbot could bring the matter to their attention. ‘I never did like the sight of fresh graves, Louis. I’ve seen too many of them.’
‘You still think Ackermann means to kill you?’
‘The duel? Yes … yes, I think he means it.’
‘You’re a good shot.’
‘With a flintlock pistol?’
‘They’ll be newer guns than that. Cap-and-ball, and beautifully tooled. They have a little soft leather pad you wad down on the charge before you ram the ball home.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t, Louis. If I kill him I’ll be dead anyway.’
‘Then perhaps I’d better stall him, eh?’
Stall? ‘It… it would help a little, yes?’
‘And Mademoiselle Arcuri, my friend? What of our chanteuse, our Russian, our mirage?’
‘I think we’d better get to her before someone else does.’
‘Then I must crash the party and you must find the maze and its tower. Enter by the exit, Hermann, and please, be on your guard at all times.’
‘Like ice. Let’s meet at the river later in the afternoon.’
‘The bathing place?’
‘Yes … yes, that’ll do fine. We’ll bare our souls there just as others have bared their … well, you know what I mean.’