Even at a time like this Hermann could try to make light of things. ‘Dusk comes early, my friend. Let’s say 4 p.m. give or take fifteen minutes, to be on the safe side.’
‘Any contingencies?’
Good … that was good. ‘Yes. If for some reason I don’t happen to make it, take one of the punts and make your way down to the mill. I’ll try to join you there after dark but please, if I call out, don’t answer at first just in case I’ve been followed.’
‘By then the protocols will be over and Ackermann and his seconds will be out for blood.’
‘But whose, Hermann? That is the question.’
Kohler drove him to the gates of the Domaine Theriault. He’d have to hide the car somewhere.
‘The walk will give me time to think, Hermann. The countess won’t short-change the mourners. Tradition must be maintained. It’s my belief the countess is a stickler for it.’
‘Among other things?’
‘Yes, among other things.’
‘Then, it’s good luck, my friend.’ Hermann stretched out a hand.
‘And you also, my old one. We’ll talk things over later.’
‘Let’s hope we have the chance.’
‘Let us hope Charles Maurice Theriault is not involved in the local Resistance.’
‘The head of it perhaps.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I’ll be watching your back, Louis.’
‘As I’ll be watching yours.’
The Grand Salon of the Theriaults was magnificent. Done over in the 1780s by Italian artisans, its pale blue marble floor and walls gave base and background to tall, gilded Corinthian columns, draped gold damask, exquisite tapestries, pieces of sculpture, paintings, four magnificent gilt-and-crystal chandeliers and mirrors … such mirrors as St-Cyr hadn’t seen outside Versailles. They curved in fluted gold leaf and gilded carvings. Grapes, vines, leaves and birds that reached to the ceiling high above where ornate neoclassical mouldings enclosed superb frescoes. Such thunder! – Christ the Fisherman dividing the loaves and the fishes (had He merely asked some of the fishermen to share their lunches with the others?). Mary and her child in the centre …
Mirrors curved in the tall French doors that led, on either side of the fireplace at the far end of the hall, to the main dining-room. They were in wall niches at regular intervals around the inner part of the hall.
The Salon Theriault was at once a place to show off the family’s wealth and to entertain royalty. A place for the grand bals masques of bygone days, a place for funeral receptions.
As he moved into the room and tried to lose himself in the crowd, St-Cyr picked out Riel Noel and his brother. Their wives were mute and standing a little to one side. He found the Mayor of Vouvray, the Prefet, the local Kommandant, the parish priest who floated easily among his flock only to leave by a side door. Another of the mirrors … It must really have been something to have been at one of those balls. Little liaisons in back rooms or on some darkened staircase no one else would ever find.
Other landowners, other growers – everyone who was anyone in Vouvray had come yet the salon could have held twice as many with room to spare. Coffee, tea and wine were being served by waiters in black with befitting dignity and solemnity. Small sweet cakes, poppyseed biscuits with goose liver pate, cheeses – there were several of these – little bits of refreshment but not too much. Ah no, it wasn’t a time for such a thing. Death must be fed small crumbs just as war must lend a hand to fasting.
‘A glass of your demi-sec if you please, and one of your small cakes.’
The waiter, short, rotund and in his late fifties, couldn’t help but blurt, ‘You are not one of the mourners, monsieur.’
‘A friend, that is all. Please go about your business and do not announce my arrival to the countess.’
The crowd closed about the man. There was no question but that he’d gone to find the countess. Damn!
St-Cyr swallowed the cake – honey and crushed almonds. He made for the Reverend Father and the two brothers. He’d pounce while time allowed.
The three men were in a cluster of their own, well positioned at the other side of the hall in front of one of the mirrors. Gilt, gold vines and black habits. Thoughts of Christ and thoughts of murder. Stir the hornets’ nest, ah yes. Antagonize the suspect into reacting because all reactions, even the most seemingly insignificant, could prove useful.
‘My friends, a fine funeral.’ St-Cyr lifted his glass in a toast. The wolfish grin would displease, as it had. ‘Reverend Father, a few questions …’
The abbot glowered darkly. ‘Brother Sebastian is forbidden to speak.’ How could the Surete question people at a time like this?
So it was of Brother Sebastian that the questions were to have been asked. As before, as now, eh, Reverend Father?
St-Cyr was disappointed in the abbot’s lack of finesse and put it down to strain. ‘Another of your vows of silence, Reverend Father?’
The man was insufferable! May God have mercy on him! ‘You may ask of either myself or Brother Michael, Inspector, but not of Brother Sebastian.’
Whose grief was still all too evident.
‘Then perhaps, my friend, you would be kind enough to tell me if Brother Sebastian has lost anything?’ The demi-sec was excellent – neat on the tongue, clean and not too sweet.
The abbot raised a hand to silence Brother Michael. ‘We cannot lose what we do not possess, Inspector. Material things are beyond our simple hopes and desires.’
But not the lands Theriault, eh? Their uppermost vineyard? St-Cyr left it unsaid for now and turned his gaze to Brother Sebastian whose head was unfortunately bowed.
The bald crown with its fringe of brown hair had been weathered to the parchment of old vellum, yet the man was still comparatively young. A beekeeper.
‘A strand of simple beads, Brother Sebastian. Not ruby, not even agate or ebony – those of a simple monk. Remember, please, Brother, that though you have had the vow of silence imposed on you, God will curse you if the truth is not told with your eyes or a nod. These beads,’ demanded St-Cyr. ‘Look at them! Are they not your own?’
A hand brushed his. ‘They are not, Inspector. It is the rosary that I, as the Countess Theriault, gave to Brother Jerome when he first entered the monastery. I was merely returning it when I placed it in his casket and I think it despicable of you to have taken it!’
Had they been alone, she would have struck him. As it was, St-Cyr ignored the woman and held the rosary under the bowed head of the beekeeper. ‘Are these not your own, Brother?’ he demanded.
‘Inspector, please, I must insist.’
‘As I must, Countess, if we are to prevent another murder. Look at them, Brother Sebastian. Look, damn you!’
The beekeeper lifted his head as if prepared to meet his God. Pain, sorrow – grief and anguish – all were in those storm-grey eyes but was there also rebellion, jealousy and murder? ‘Brother Sebastian, if this is your rosary, nod your head.’
The monk tore his gaze away and threw himself into the enfolding arms of Brother Michael. ‘There, there, Georges, it’s all right. Everyone knows that as Brother Jerome’s tutor in the arts of beekeeping you were very close to the boy.’
Those who couldn’t have failed to notice what had gone on watched as Brother Michael led the beekeeper from the hall, but the two left by the mirrored door the parish priest had used and that was a most curious thing.
‘Well, are you satisfied?’ demanded the countess. ‘Have you no sense of decency? I thought I told you …’
The veil had been lifted. Anger – rage perhaps – lay just beneath the thin veneer of iron-willed control.
The dark eyes softened, pleading for understanding. ‘This is no place for you to question my people, and they are mine, Inspector, all of them.’
‘It is the very place, Countess.’
‘May God forgive you then,’ said the Reverend Father angrily.
‘Inspector, please, I beg you. They’re good people. Let them have their grief in peace. Afterwards, if you insist, I will ask those who are most concerned to remain. Reverend Father, would you be so kind …?’