He smiled slightly, ironically. “Actually, he was in Mademoiselle Lovelady’s hotel room until almost midnight.” His words felt like a punch in the gut. He studied my reaction. “You seem surprised.”
“I…Yes. I’m surprised. But as I said, whatever personal relationship they might have had — or might not have had — it’s none of my business.”
“I disagree, Dr. Brockton. Normally, no. But now — with Monsieur Beauvoir hanging there in the chapel — I think it is very much your business. You are involved, in some way, with a murder. You are swept up in the tide of events. You do not have the luxury of detachment.”
His words were confirmed by a sinking feeling in my gut. Somehow, for reasons I could not begin to fathom, I had turned a fateful corner in the labyrinthine streets of Avignon, and I wasn’t at all sure I could find my way out of the maze again.
“Excuse me? Dr. Brockton?” His voice sounded faraway; I felt as if I were swimming up from deep water to reach it, and I had the impression he’d called my name more than once.
“I’m sorry. Yes?”
“Dr. Brockton, where were you last night?”
“Me?” I stared at him in astonishment. He nodded. “I was in my hotel room.”
“The same hotel as mademoiselle?”
“No. A different one. A little inn near the ramparts. It’s called Lumani.”
“Ah, oui, Lumani. You found a beautiful place to stay.”
“Actually, Stefan found it for me. I think he knows the owners. Knew the owners.”
“Docteur, were you angry with Monsieur Beauvoir?”
“Why on earth would I be angry with him?”
“Perhaps you were jealous of his attentions to your assistant.”
“Oh, please,” I said. “I wasn’t. But even if I was, I certainly wouldn’t kill anyone over something like that. Besides, I didn’t even know that he went to see Miranda last night until you told me just now.”
“Perhaps you were angry that he tricked you into coming to Avignon. That was very manipulative, non?”
“It was, and I didn’t like it. But once I found out the reason for the trick, I understood.”
“And what, exactly, was the reason for this trick?”
“Didn’t Miranda explain it to you?”
“She did give me her explanation. Now I’m asking for your explanation.”
“She and Stefan had uncovered some very old bones in the Palace of the Popes,” I said. “The ossuary — the bone box — was engraved with an inscription that might cause big news.” He said nothing; simply waited. “The inscription claimed that the ossuary contained the bones of Jesus Christ. If that inscription proves to be true, this is the most sensational find of the past two thousand years.”
He stopped writing. “But how can you prove whether they are real or fake? You can’t use DNA testing, I think. Because you don’t have DNA from Jesus to compare.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “But some people would argue with you. Some people think you could get DNA from the bloodstains on the Shroud of Turin. I don’t think so; I don’t think the Shroud is authentic — I think it’s a clever medieval forgery — and I don’t think the stains on it are really blood.” I decided to see if Inspector Descartes had any sense of humor. “On the other hand, if the Holy Sponge is authentic, it might contain traces of Holy Spittle, along with some DNA.”
“The Holy Sponge? Please, what is this Holy Sponge?”
I explained.
“Incroyable,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“What would really help,” I went on, “would be dental records: X-rays of the Holy Teeth.”
The inspector stared at me as if I were insane, then — when he realized I was joking — he laughed. “I like that,” he said. “Oui, X-rays of the Holy Teeth would be very helpful.”
“Oh!” My joke had reminded me of something serious. “We sent two of the teeth to a laboratory for carbon-14 dating, to see how old they are. We should get the results any day now. I’m guessing the teeth are only seven hundred years old, but if the lab says they’re two thousand years old, the bones suddenly become much more interesting.”
“What bones?”
“What do you mean, ‘what bones’? The bones I’ve just been talking about, Inspector.”
He repeated the question. “What bones?” He held out his upturned hands. His empty hands. Now I understood his meaning. “Where are these special bones?”
“I have no idea, Inspector. But I think if you find the bones, you’ll find the killer. What’s the French expression that means ‘Look for the woman’? Cherchez la femme?” He nodded. “How would you say ‘Look for the skeleton’?”
“Cherchez le squelette.” The word sounded almost like “skillet.” “Of course we will search for the skeleton. But I don’t understand, Docteur. Why all the secrecy? Why not just tell the world that you found these bones and explain that you need to do more tests to know if they are Jesus?”
“You want the truth?”
“Of course I want the truth. I always only want the truth.” For a moment I feared that I’d angered him, but he didn’t look mad; only intense. “Come.” He stood abruptly, beckoning to me to follow him. He led me into the chapel, where the forensic technicians seemed to be looking for the controls of the electrical winch that had hoisted Stefan into the air. Descartes studied the suspended body; then his gaze shifted to the fresco on the wall behind it, the wall above the altar. The painting showed a rosy-cheeked cherub hovering in the sky, beaming, as if delighted by the body hanging a few feet away. The detective shook his head slightly. “I don’t believe in angels or miracles or Holy Sponges, Docteur. But I do believe in the truth. La vérité.” A weary look clouded his eyes, and I wondered if he was thinking about the dead art-forger again. “I just have difficulty to find it sometimes.”
“How would you say it, Inspector—‘Cherchez la vérité’?”
He smiled slightly. “Oui. Exactement. So yes, please, tell me the truth about why Monsieur Beauvoir was so secretive.”
“This is just my opinion,” I stressed, “but I think Stefan wanted to keep it a secret because he was afraid someone else would take credit for the find; someone else would get the glory — some bureaucrat at the palace or the Ministry of Culture or wherever. I think he wanted all the glory for himself. Stefan wanted to be the one in the spotlight.”
I heard the whine of an electric motor. Overhead, the beam twitched and Stefan’s body jerked as the cable spool began to turn. As the wire unwound, the beam descended, slowly spinning in the glare of the theater lights.
Stefan had gotten his wish. He had taken center stage, and he was in the spotlight.
CHAPTER 22
Miranda was quiet on the walk back to her hotel, which was fine by me.
She looked tired and sad. I felt tired and sad, too; also confused and unsettled. I was shocked and puzzled by Stefan’s murder, but I wasn’t traumatized by it; he was a colleague, true, but I’d barely known him, so finding his body had been almost like stumbling upon a murdered stranger. No, my confusion and distress had more to do with Miranda. Was there something going on between her and Stefan after all? Had she lied to me about that? If she had, what else had she lied to me about? And was Descartes right — had his murder, and our involvement, made Miranda’s private life my business?