4

Château Thériault, Clos de l’Oiseau de la Brume lay at the end of the gigantic plane trees whose greenish-grey and pistachio-brown spatulated branches reached eerily up into the fog.

As Kohler eased the Citroën down the lane, he looked off to the right and away from the river. Vines began on the lower slopes, the fog giving but glimpses. Perhaps forty hectares in all so far.

Some people had all the luck. This was money – very old money.

Moundlike shapes of box, yew and hawthorn stood sentinel nearest the arched stone entrance which was set in the base of one of the towers. Flanking stone walls held crenellated battlements. Where once there’d been a drawbridge, there was now a stone bridge.

There were no flags that he could see – a dovecot, yes, there was one of those. Towers upon towers but hidden by their shroud. The gate had three conical roofs, with slotted embrasures below them. Ivy climbed the walls.

Immediately inside the gate there was a house. Beyond the house, the central courtyard opened up in lawns and formal gardens, mothballed fountains and statues that were shrouded in the ever-present mist.

The place was huge, a bugger to heat. The five towers stood around, and between these there were defensive walls only at the opposing gates. Otherwise the château went from tower to tower. Cut stone, beautiful slate, copper eaves and lots of tall French windows – barns and stables to his left at the back, now the garages perhaps, so self-contained but all part of the enclosing pentagon.

Five greyhounds stood in a cluster. A tall woman in a dark blue overcoat with turned-up high collar held the leashes. The help had all gathered humbly about her for the morning’s instructions. Well, what the hell …

Still some distance from them, Kohler got out of the car to wait. The dogs fidgeted. She spoke quietly to them. One by one the help ducked their heads, clutching their berets in respect – clogs on some, blue denim jackets, overalls and bulky turtleneck sweaters, the fog drifting. As each man paid his respects and received his orders, she seemed to exist only for him and he left without so much as a glance towards the visitor.

Kohler knew he wasn’t just witnessing a daily ritual but the iron and benevolent rule such a place as this would demand.

She let the dogs go and he stood there not knowing whether to get back into the car as they came at him. Such graceful things …

‘Sasha!’ One word, that was all. The lead dog. Its name echoed from the towers as the dogs stopped.

Each one held its position, watching him, and he had the thought then that Sasha would have torn the heart out of any of them if they’d moved, and that the woman would have approved.

As she came across the courtyard, she gathered in the leashes and he saw that she wore black leather riding boots.

‘To what do I owe this visit?’ she asked.

Kohler took in the regal bearing, the dusky eyes, pale complexion, high forehead, thin, smooth, delicate, oval face – beauty, Gott in Himmel, this one had been a smashing thing. Now in her early sixties, she retained haunting traces of that beauty. Russian … was she of Russian descent? he wondered, thinking of the cigarette case.

She moved with grace and ease yet as if resigned to life. There was about her an aura of sadness that puzzled him. The shoulders were thin, the frame that of a willow wand, the open dark navy overcoat revealing several strands of amber beads and a needlepoint sweater of maroon and gold brocade. Very ornate, perhaps quite fashionable, and worth a small fortune. But … and of this he was certain … not exactly the sort of thing one would wear to get the work going on the farm.

‘I believe I asked you a question, monsieur. To what do I owe this visit?’

Had she been expecting company of another sort? That why the dress-up?

Was that the trace of a Russian accent?

The hair was raven – long and flowing loosely over the thin shoulders. Not a touch of grey and brushed to beat the Jesus.

‘Kohler, Countess. Gestapo, Paris Central. I’ve come in connection with a murder case. Actually,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘it’s two murder cases and likely to involve a third if we’re not careful.’

At once the woman pulled rank and showed her irritability. ‘I know nothing of such things.’

‘But you might be able to help, Countess?’

The eyes were very striking.

‘Must I? You people … I’ve the quotas to see to, Inspector – you are an inspector, aren’t you, or do they give you ranks?’

‘Inspector will do just fine.’

She began to unleash the dogs, restraining each until it shot away to zoom around the courtyard, ranging far and near. ‘I only hope my grandson has had the good sense to lock up his rabbit. If he hasn’t, it’ll teach him a good lesson.’

One by one the dogs raced out through the far portal. Kohler and the woman began to walk that way.

‘My husband was killed in the last war, Inspector, and now my only son in this one. What more can I say but that I think all wars are lousy.’

‘Was your son the husband of Gabrielle Arcuri?’

The eyes found him again. ‘I think you know this, Inspector, so why ask it? She’s not here. Gabrielle and I …’ The woman shrugged. ‘We do not understand each other. We’re both fighting our loss but in different ways.’

‘We have reason to believe Mademoiselle Arcuri’s in grave danger.’

‘We?’ asked the woman.

‘Gestapo Central. The Sturmbannführer Boemelburg, my chief.’

‘Then you do have ranks. What’s yours – just so that I know with whom I’m dealing?’

‘Captain, Countess – a Hauptsturmführer.’

‘Captain … ah yes. My son had such a rank. It has a nice ring to it – conjuring images of dashing young men in uniform, isn’t that so? Do you prefer war to fighting crime?’

Was she trying to provoke him to hide the fact she’d been expecting someone else, was still looking for that visitor? ‘Crime doesn’t stop just because there’s a war, Countess.’

She gave him a brief smile as if to say, Touché. ‘I would have thought in your case, Inspector, the two were one and the same. Tell me something, Herr Hauptsturmführer Kohler, do you enjoy interrogating the French? Which are more fun? The men or the women? The young or the old? The Resistance …? Oh, we’ve some of them about here, too, and that’s why Gabrielle wouldn’t dare to come here.’

Kohler drew out his cigarettes and offered them. Surprisingly, the countess accepted one, and when he thumbed the lighter for her, she held his hand and let him feel how cold and calm were her fingers.

The dark eyes looked questioningly at him. She tossed her head and drew in gratefully, filling her lungs then blowing smoke up into the fog. She’d fix him. They’d visit the pigs.

‘Are you married, Captain?’ she asked, indicating they were to leave the courtyard by the back gate.

‘Very much so,’ snorted Kohler. ‘My Gerda keeps house in Wasserburg.’

‘That’s near Munich, on the River Inn?’

Was she toying with him? ‘Yes, yes, it’s on the Inn. Her father’s farm. She’s happier there. We’ve two boys in the Army, both in Russia, I suppose.’

‘You don’t keep in touch?’ she asked, smiling knowingly. She had his measure now.

‘The mails are not what they should be, Countess. I have to move about a good deal.’

Roasting the Gestapo – one ought to enjoy it! ‘Such a lame answer, Captain? Ah, Mon Dieu, be honest, eh? It’s a sort of holiday, an extended vacation? Yes, me I can imagine that is how it must be for you and lots of others. The clubs and cabarets, the girls, ah yes, and then touring about our beloved France in one of the Sûreté’s cars. King of everything. One of the master race. Have you a mistress, or are Gestapo inspectors allowed such things?’

‘We’re kept rather busy,’ said Kohler drily. ‘Apart from the odd prostitute to calm the loins, Countess, they don’t really give us much time off. Usually twice a month if we’re lucky.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he preferred French whores to German ones. He’d like the young ones, that’s for sure. Men like this always did. Most men too.

So, she would say nothing more of it. She would lead him on a little walk and stall for time. Perhaps the general would arrive and put a stop to him. Perhaps.

Beyond the walls, the grounds opened into a park-like setting whose focus was the maze. But they didn’t head for it. Instead, they went off to the right along a road, the land dipping down to barren trees and scattered farmsteads, pig-pens, chickens, ducks, geese and guinea hens, a flock of goats.

Kohler was impressed. The sow was huge. They must have received special dispensation from the local Kommandant to raise as many pigs as they wished. The woman had friends in high places then. Normally only one pig was allowed. There’d been no sign of her having had to billet any officers either.

She put a boot right in the shit and he was forced to follow. As she closed the gate behind them, the sow snorted angrily and lifted its dripping snout from the slops.

The woman called out, ‘Judith, be nice to our Gestapo visitor, eh, my sweet? He likes you. You can pat her, Inspector. Tickle her behind the ears.’

Crossing the pen, they ducked as they entered a thatch-roofed shed, only to find the young ones still crowded inside. Perhaps forty or fifty of them. ‘Countess …’

‘Yes?’

‘Could we go somewhere else? A private talk …?’ he asked.

Had he had enough already? ‘Me, I thought being German, you’d like to see them.’

‘So, okay, I like pigs. Now maybe you’ll tell me what the game is?’

‘Game? But what is this, Captain Kohler? Each morning I must make my rounds. If you want to ask questions, then ask them but don’t take up my time.’

At least twenty piglets were at his shoes and trouser cuffs. There were no runny noses. Kohler stooped and gathered one under each arm.

Grinning, he said, ‘They need to be castrated, Countess. At home we bite them off.’

‘Here we are more civilized,’ she retorted. ‘So, what is it you want to ask?’

Kohler set the squealing piglets down. ‘First, the identity of this boy.’ He dragged out the photographs. Her breath steamed in the rank air. There was nothing quite like pig manure to clear the nostrils and the brain. All about them there was the squealing, butting, nudging turmoil.

The yearlings were kept in separate pens that gave on to the far yard. One boar had mounted a young sow. Grunts and squeals …

The woman’s dark eyes flashed professionally over the copulation before focusing on the photograph. ‘I don’t know him. He’s not from around here.’

Naked as the day he’d been born and such a pretty boy.

The Bavarian manoeuvred himself so that her back was to one of the pens and there was no easy escape.

‘Take another look – this one, eh?’ He handed her one of Thibault’s shots of the body.

For just a split second there was hesitation – he’d swear to it – then she shook her head, ignored the rutting that went on and on behind her. ‘I’ve never seen him. Perhaps the local Préfet of Police, Monsieur Hector Poulin, could help you, Inspector.’

Nothing in the eyes. How could a woman like this have become such a competent liar? ‘What about your daughter-in-law’s maid, Yvette Noel?’

‘A silly girl. Me, I’m sorry to hear she was killed but… I did not know her well. Gabrielle seldom brought her here.’

Kohler drew himself up. Her forehead was at eye-level. The piglets kept at his ankles. Was it the salt they liked? ‘And I didn’t say she’d been murdered, Countess.’

‘But you said …? Two murders? I have thought…’

The performance wasn’t quite good enough. ‘Why not level with me, Countess? It’ll save us both time and it just might save your daughter-in-law’s life.’

Merde! What was she to do? ‘A coffee, I think, and a marc. Look, I’ll tell you what I can but it isn’t much.’

He took her by the arm, was surprised at how readily she accepted the gesture.

He hasn’t seen the boy, she told herself. He doesn’t know Gabrielle is here.

Kohler, his hat and coat hanging in a closet somewhere, stood waiting in what the countess had called her Green Room. Though it was huge, high-ceilinged and draughty, there was about the room a sense of intimacy. Curtains made of seven-teenth-century French embroidery in creams, soft yellows, beiges and greens gave vegetable hangings that matched the coverings on the armchairs that had once belonged to the Duke of Tallyrand.

She’d said he could sit in them. She’d asked him to wait a few moments – now more than a half-hour. Three cigarettes! And why had she made him feel nervous?

A magnificent Bouelle armoire, in ornate gold and mirrored jet, matched the desk. An ivory humidor held pre-war cigars. It was all he could do to desist but he had the thought then that the woman would be watching for just such a thing.

The carpet, an Aubusson perhaps, was of flowers and vines. Bits of sculpture were everywhere, lending a slightly Roman touch.

From any of the windows he had a full view of the courtyard and he wondered if this had been intended. The Citroën looked decidedly out of place. The dogs still hadn’t come back and he wondered then, as he had off and on since she’d released them, if she’d done so deliberately.

The innkeeper where they’d stayed last night could easily have given the château a ring. The dogs had probably treed poor Louis. The morning wasn’t turning out as it should.

The Countess Jeanne-Marie (pronounced Jianne) Thériault was more than just a power to be reckoned with. She had them by the cold hard plums and she’d let him know it. Why else the cooler of her little salon? Why else the chance to go through her writing desk if he should choose – which he would, she’d assume.

Why else unless she’d known the desk had contained nothing incriminating?

Glancing towards the door she had left open, he had the thought then that perhaps she had been watching him all along. These old places … peepholes where you least expected them. Arsenic in your soup, belladonna in the cakes. No love between brothers, sisters and heirs … Lots and lots of places to hide a fugitive.

He left the desk alone and walked on. The coffee and brandy were taking one hell of a time.

She chose her entrance with a timing that was impressive. He’d only just seen the general’s staff car drive in under the stone arch, when there she was, standing in the doorway with a tray – huge and glittering – coffee-pot, cups and saucers, a bottle of Armagnac and crystal glasses …

‘You must forgive my keeping you waiting, Captain Kohler. Business …’ Again a shrug but now an apologetic smile, quite pretty too … ‘When one lives alone, there is never enough time.’

Kohler took the tray from her and set it on the verd-antique coffee table whose top rested on four golden cherubs. How nice …

She’d given the hair more brushing but still wore it loose, had composed herself if ever one such as this needed to. The needlework turned out to be the ornate and beautifully worked front panel of her dress. The amber beads made sharp little noises as she indicated he was to sit. ‘So, these murders, Captain. Tell me about them, please. Leave nothing out.’

The stall then, until the general arrived. The use of his rank instead of Inspector. A put-down, or to set the stage for a later confrontation with the higher rank of the general?

He had the idea there were carefully arranged rings of defence around the Château Thériault and that she had a network of informants only too loyal to her.

But he liked the way she poured their coffee. Absolute control – hesitation, glances, dropped dusky eyelids, slight touches of slender fingers. Was the woman flirting with him? Gott in Himmel…

‘Please, I must insist, Captain Kohler. All the details.’

As she sat back in her armchair, she crossed her long legs and he liked that too. Still gunpowder in the old barrel, eh? A woman who had liked to have her lovers and probably still did.

He set his coffee aside and laid out all the photographs for her. ‘That willow the boy’s lying under must be down by the river, Countess. Whoever took the photographs knew him only too well. When we examined the body, he was fully clothed as you can see, but dressed as if from one of the seminaries. A boy of some means, I think, Countess. The clothes were good.’

‘He had entered the priesthood – there’s a Benedictine monastery not far from here. Brother … Brother Jérome had enrolled as a novice but if you ask me, Captain, he had no inclination whatsoever towards the priesthood.’

‘Just a dodge then, from the military call-up?’

Was that genuine sadness in those dark and dusky eyes?

The nod was almost imperceptible. ‘My son had no patience with him and refused to speak to him when he heard of it.’

Quite obviously the general had been told by someone to cool his heels.

‘Was his wife’s maid in love with the boy?’

‘Yvette Noel was his sister, Captain Kohler. The family are not wealthy – they’ve been employees of the Domaine Thériault for some ninety-seven years, this coming spring. Riel Noel is my Chef de Culture, the keeper of our vines. His brother, Morgan, is our wine master and oenologist, so you can see, I hope, that the matter is of a delicate nature and that I had, of course, to search my heart before answering your questions.’

Gott in Himmel, she was fantastic! Louis should have been witness to this. ‘I quite understand, Countess,’ he said humbly.

Reaching for his coffee, he took a sip – glanced over the rogue’s gallery of naked shots of the boy, the young David with his pecker asleep in the sunshine of the Loire or of Fontainebleau Woods.

‘Jérome Noel …?’ he asked, just to get it right.

‘Alain Jérome Noel. The Alain was taken from my husband’s name as a gesture of sympathy and honour.’

‘How old was the boy?’

The sad eyes lifted, the fingers traced the line of her right thigh to which the material clung. ‘Twenty-four. He looks much younger and that was a part of the trouble, I think. He was young for his age. And silly.’

‘Like the maid?’ he asked.

He had remembered. ‘Yes … yes, like his sister, Yvette.’

Kohler affected the seriousness of a high-court judge. ‘With all due respect, Countess, that’s not the impression my partner got of your daughter-in-law’s maid.’

‘Your partner …?’

Gott in Himmel, she was good! Genuine surprise … questions in the look she still gave him. ‘We always work in pairs – on criminal investigations. It’s safer that way. My partner and I deal with common theft, bank robberies, arson and murder mostly.’

Again she said, ‘Your partner …?’

‘Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale.’

Lost in thought, she said, ‘The owner of the car.’

‘I’ve only borrowed it for the duration. Actually, it isn’t St-Cyr’s. He had the use of it and a driver before the Armistice but manpower being scarce, we’ve had to dispense with the driver.’

‘And where is this partner of yours now?’

Kohler found himself secretly relishing the moment. Had they really got the better of the woman? ‘He’s in Paris, on another case, Countess. The manpower thing.’

He gave a futile shrug; she, a pleasant little smile. ‘Have you any suspects, Captain?’

Was she being coy? He found the use of his rank a pain in the ass. ‘Two as a matter of fact, but I’d rather not say who they are at the moment.’

‘Two but … ah, I see. Yvette’s killer might possibly also have killed her brother. Is that what you mean?’

No mention of the Resistance. ‘Something like that, yes. You see, Countess, it can’t have been the sister, can it?’

Her coffee was cold and there was no place to dump it. ‘Then who?’ she asked but couldn’t find the will to look at him – she knew she must! He had no proof! Just supposition. A shot in the dark. The police were all the same!

‘Who indeed, Countess?’ Nothing yet about the diamonds, nothing about monogrammed cigarette cases from Russia and bottles of perfume in beaded silk purses or condoms in their little silk sleeves.

‘He was a silly boy, a foolish boy. So foolish. Gabrielle …’

‘Gabrielle what, Countess?’

‘Nothing. It … it doesn’t matter now in any case. Nothing matters. It’s finished – finished for the two of them, Inspector, and me, I have somehow to pick up the pieces for the family.’

‘Is your daughter-in-law really in danger from the Resistance or was Yvette’s murder merely made to look that way?’

‘I… I don’t know. I wish to God I did!’

Kohler poured the brandy and handed her a glass. Their fingers touched, again that same icy calm and yet those dark eyes … had they touches of violet in them?

‘You must excuse me, Inspector. I’ve kept the General Hans Ackermann waiting far too long. I can spare you no more time this morning but if you wish, I will be only too glad to see you again.’

In hell. ‘That’s decent of you, Countess. Please give the general my regards. We’re old friends.’

St-Cyr poled the punt through the last of the reeds then let it glide out into the backwater pond. The greystone mill and silent water wheel reeked of Balzac’s novel, The Lily of the Valley. The tall, steeply pitched cedar roof had dormer windows in the loft, skylights and lots of moss.

Again he was surprised he and Kohler hadn’t seen the mill from the other side of the river but the well-treed island had been behind the one with the ruins and almost a part of the far shore. Their attention had been distracted.

Giving the boat a final shove, he steered it up to the wharf and in beside the punt he was certain Gabrielle Arcuri had taken.

Had it not been for the boy’s rabbit, the dogs would have torn him to pieces. The rabbit had drawn them off and he had retraced his steps through the maze and back to the river only to find one of the punts missing.

The island with the ruins had yielded nothing. Balzac’s mill would be different.

Quietly he pulled the punt along the wharf and leaned out over the water to secure it. Then he climbed on to the wharf and made his way alongside the water wheel.

Ivy grew about the heavy wooden door. He took a moment – she’d know of his presence. She’d be listening for him.

Nudging the door open, he stepped inside the mill, stepped into the gloom. It was as if a hundred years ago. Dust lay everywhere. The husks of wheat littered everything but once a flour mill, always one. The smell of the grain never really disappeared. It reminded one of brewer’s mash.

Sunlight streamed down the far stairwell, touching each heavy pine step and the honey-amber of its sturdy railing. The machinery, the leather belts, pulley wheels, shafts and giant grindstones, lay still and silent.

As he crossed the floor, St-Cyr eased the Lebel in its holster.

The stairwell angled up to the first floor before jogging abruptly to the second. ‘Mademoiselle Arcuri, my name is Jean-Louis St-Cyr of the Sûreté Nationale. I have reason to believe your life is in great danger.’

It sounded so melodramatic. The mill gave back the censure of its stony silence.

One foot and then another. Step by step – more machinery on the first floor, more of it on the one above. Gearboxes and bearings, subsidiary pulleys, shafts and wheels, even a small woodworking shop, complete with lathes and shavings on the floor.

He raised his bushy eyebrows to the timbers above and knuckle-dusted the moustache. So, she would hide on him. Okay, mademoiselle.

Crossing the floor, he opened the hoist door to check the pond below. There was no sign of her leaving the place. Good!

A last set of stairs led up into the loft, into the stronger sunlight. He had started up them, was reaching for another grip of the railing and looking into the sun when she levelled both barrels of a shotgun at him and said, ‘That’s far enough.’

Ah, Mon Dieu, to be caught like this! Thank God Hermann wasn’t around. ‘Mademoiselle, please, there is no need for that.’

Still he couldn’t get a good look at her – that blasted sun. She’d chosen her place well.

She pulled back the hammers of the fowling piece, first one and then the other. ‘Remove the revolver, “Inspector”, and leave it on the steps.’

This was a chanteuse, a mirage? A woman with the voice of an angel and a body fit only for the gods?

Gabrielle Arcuri motioned him to step away from the stairwell. ‘Back,’ she said but not in panic. ‘Over there, by that window. Yes … yes, that one.’

She went down the steps to retrieve the revolver, had returned before he could move.

The gun she tucked into the waistband of the brown whipcord jodhpurs she wore.

There was an open hacking jacket, a knotted paisley silk scarf, soft yellow mohair pullover, no lipstick, no make-up of any kind but … and he was surprised at this … the thick, shoulder-length hair was not blonde as he’d thought at the club, but the soft shade of a fine brandy. Tied back in a pony tail with a bit of dark brown velvet ribbon.

The eyes were, of course, violet but such a shade … Ah, Mon Dieu … the face, bone structure, aquiline nose, lovely smooth brow and ears – even the lips – those of the son.

She said, ‘So, okay, you’ve found me. Now what? I didn’t kill her – I’d never have done that. Yvette was too close to me.’

‘That’s what they all say, mademoiselle, but me, I think it was the Resistance.’

‘Those bastards? Pah! What do they know? Little black coffins in the mail? The trick of cowards, isn’t that so?’

Perhaps five metres and some leather belting separated them, the belts angling upwards. He’d like to get that shotgun away from her.

‘If you think to impress me with your hatred of the Resistance, mademoiselle, then forget it. I’m not one of the Gestapo’s informers. I’m not a collaborator.’

The look he gave was one of flint. Steady … so steady. A dangerous thing to have said to the wrong person. So, he’d gambled, made up his mind about her quickly. This she liked. It pleased her immensely to be so flattered.

The brandy eyebrows arched. The lovely eyes seemed to grow as she studied him. One thing was certain. She wasn’t as young as he’d thought, was perhaps in her late thirties or even her early forties.

But, a woman who took great care of herself. ‘Did you meet my son?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘A clever boy. He had me completely fooled.’

The smile she gave was instantaneous – a brief insight, one so soft and yet … ah, what could he say? Complex? Filled with sadness too?

‘René,’ she said. ‘His name’s René Yvon-Paul and he’s a Thériault through and through so, monsieur, what do we do? I didn’t kill Yvette and I didn’t kill Jérome either.’

‘Did Yvette kill him?’

‘Yvette? Are you crazy? Ah, Mon Dieu, you cops are all the same. Yvette, in the name of Jesus, why? She was his sister, idiot! She loved him and forgave him time and again. He drove her crazy.’

‘Why not put the shotgun down? Those old hammers …’ St-Cyr gave a shrug … ‘Use the revolver if you like. It matches the one I found in your bureau.’

‘Merde! Ah no. What right had you to …’

It was no use. In a way she was glad the hiding was over.

Thumbing the hammers into place, she leaned the shotgun against the wall by the stairs. ‘There’s a thermos of coffee, some bread and cheese in my rucksack. Look, I’ll tell you what I can but it won’t help much, and as for the Resistance being after me, all I can say is that it’s crazy of them. I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of and neither had Yvette.’

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, And neither have I yet they’re interested in me, but he let the matter go and picked up the rucksack. ‘Then who killed her?’ he asked.

She was either flustered by the question or a very good actress. ‘I … I don’t know. I wish I did, but I honestly don’t.’

He took out the thermos and handed it to her. ‘Then perhaps you’d tell me how it is that your purse was found at the scene of the boy’s murder?’

‘My purse … but …?’

He could see that the news was genuinely unexpected and distressing yet she knew exactly which purse he had meant. ‘That purse … I hardly ever use it, Inspector. It’s a prop – it goes with my outfit. I usually leave it in the dressing-room at the club.’

‘Empty?’

‘But of course,’ she snorted. ‘I don’t exactly like getting up there in front of all those men. Their grins, the catcalls when some of them see me for the first time… Would you, Inspector, if you were me and married to a man you loved very much?’

‘Then you were framed?’ said St-Cyr, speaking his thoughts aloud. ‘And my partner and I have been completely fooled.’

‘Have you got a cigarette?’ she asked, watching him so closely he dropped his eyes to pat his pockets and fish out a crumpled packet.

As he lit her cigarette, her eyes found his. Pools of violet innocence, a cross for any man to bear. He hoped Kohler would have better luck but somehow doubted it.

‘Are you married, Inspector?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I’m married.’

‘Happily?’

Was there laughter in her eyes, or the swiftness of cruelty? ‘Exactly how much do you know about me, Mademoiselle Arcuri?’

She unscrewed the thermos and filled the cap, which she handed to him. ‘Enough to know, Inspector, that your wife has run off.’

St-Cyr laid the cheese and bread on the knapsack and used his penknife to cut them. ‘I should ask, how is it that you know this, Mademoiselle Arcuri, but,’ he gave another shrug, ‘me, I don’t think you’d tell me the truth.’

‘Try me.’

She had such a nice smile, warm and sensitive and very quick. But was it understanding? Ah, how could one hope for such a thing?

‘The General Hans Ackermann?’ he said.

‘The Hero of Rovno and Berdichev, the Knight of Krivoy Rog. He telephoned us last night. We’ve been expecting you.’

‘Is the general a friend?’

It was her turn to shrug but she did so with complete innocence. ‘Of a sort, yes. One needs such friends these days, Inspector. Look, it’s nothing sexual so don’t get the wrong idea. My husband’s dead – he was killed at Sedan in 1940 but me, I’m still married to him and intend to stay that way.’

The coffee was good, not ersatz, and laced with cognac. The cheese was a chèvre crottin, a small circle that had been dusted with dill and chives. Very dry and strong in flavour. Real goat’s cheese, three, maybe four weeks in the ageing.

The bread was crusty and, with the cheese, a meal. If only there’d been some of the château’s wine. He’d have liked to try it.

So she would stay married to a dead man? For love or money or some other reason? ‘Mademoiselle …’

‘Why not try calling me by my name? It’s easier.’

‘Gabrielle …’

‘That’s better. You’ve a son and I’ve one, Inspector, not much older than yours if what the general says is true.’

He passed her the coffee, turning the cap so that she might drink from the clean side. ‘Lovers kiss and think nothing of it, Inspector, but I appreciate the gesture. A singer has to.’

‘Mademoiselle … Look, I want to help.’

‘Don’t all cops?’

‘Why not tell me exactly what happened? As you see it. Leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant it might seem.’

‘Have you been an inspector long?’

‘The past seventeen years.’

‘And before that?’

‘A cop on the beat – Montparnasse and Montmartre. Whores and their pimps, bank robbers and their banks.’

‘A chief inspector. And the war?’ she asked suddenly. ‘The first one.’ She had to find out everything she could about him.

‘Signals Corps, as a sergeant. I was wounded twice. Once in the thigh, and once in the shoulder. My left side seems to be the vulnerable one.’

He could laugh at himself, a good sign. ‘Then you’ll understand how we feel about the Germans, Inspector. The sooner they’re gone, the better.’

‘Yet General Ackermann is a friend?’

‘He’s also a relative. A distant cousin of my mother-in-law.’

The bushy eyebrows lifted. The coffee was replenished. ‘I didn’t go to Fontainebleau with Yvette, Inspector. When she came back, she was in tears, tearing her hair, wanting to pray and yet so afraid of doing so. She knew the police would accuse her of the murder. She was convinced of this but … but when she found Jérome, he was already dead.’

St-Cyr asked the obvious. ‘How did she know where to find him?’

Mademoiselle Arcuri looked away. ‘She found the bicycle first, at the side of the road, and then the body. She tried to “wake him up”. She turned his head so that he’d be comfortable – you can imagine what it must have been like for her. Panic, terror – her brother, for God’s sake! She even placed his arms at his sides – tried to tidy him. Look, I didn’t kill him, Inspector. I swear I didn’t and neither did she.’

There was the shrug of the unconvinced and then the woeful eyes of the same. ‘If not you or she, then who?’

‘One of the monks, I think.’

‘One of the monks?’

Was it so incredible a thought? ‘Jérome hated the seminary. He was always getting into trouble – that’s why Yvette had to ask for time off and why I let her go home to look after things. If you ask me, Inspector, I think he spied on the other monks and when he threatened to expose them, one of them killed him.’

‘In Fontainebleau Woods?’

‘Yes. Isn’t that a good place for murders? I’m always reading about them in the papers.’

Never mind the necessity for a car – they went on bicycles perhaps. Never mind that there were plenty of closer and far better places, or that there’d been a diary in her purse, a record of liaisons and little tête-à-têtes.

St-Cyr finished the coffee and wrapped up the last of the cheese. ‘For now we will let it be, Mademoiselle Arcuri. Your revolver is safe from prying Gestapo eyes but I would like the return of mine. And if I were you, I’d put that shotgun safely away.’

‘You’re angry with me.’

Was that a pout? ‘A little, yes. Me, I had thought we might be square with one another since neither of us particularly likes the Germans.’

‘But your partner’s a German?’

‘War throws the strangest people together. Don’t be fooled by him. He’s far cleverer than he lets on. It’s a way with him. Munich and then Berlin, now Paris Central. A damned good cop.’

And a warning? she wondered. ‘I didn’t kill Jérome, Inspector, and I wouldn’t have killed Yvette. I chased after her, yes, but when I got there, she … she’d already been killed.’

No mention of the diary yet or of how she had known where to look. ‘So now it’s a time for some thought, eh? And a few tears. You can reach me at the Sûreté, number 11, the rue de Saussaies.’

Must he be so tough about it, so obviously disappointed in her? ‘Look, if it means anything, Inspector, I hope your wife comes back.’

‘So do I.’

Dwarfed by the courtyard and the enclosing walls of the château, Kohler stood waiting beside the car. He would leave the keys in the blasted ignition! A lousy habit the General Ackermann had been quick to take advantage of.

And waiting on generals – any of them – had always been a bind.

He glanced at his watch only to see that the time – now 11.18 a.m. – had advanced a mere three minutes since the last look.

Ackermann was letting him cool his heels. Perhaps he and the countess were having a good laugh about it. More likely the general had simply said, My dear, please allow me to deal with this.

Ah yes, you son-of-a-bitch!

Surprisingly there was no flagpole in the centre of the courtyard. If there had been, he’d have stood under it just for old times’ sake. Parade grounds and all that garbage!

When Ackermann, less his greatcoat, gloves and cap, stormed out of the château, the bastard walked so swiftly he threw the fear of God into one, and wasn’t it a marvel how generals could walk?

‘Your marching orders have been moved up, Kohler. If I were you, I’d return to Paris and pack your bags.’

He’d been on the phone to Boemelburg and to Berlin. Kohler knew he ought to shut up but this Prussian flame thrower with the hard eyes, this hero of whatever, had got under his skin.

‘General, neither you nor Herr Himmler will stop us from finding out who murdered that boy. I may be Gestapo, but long before that I was a cop. I always have been and I always will be.’

Slim, tall, straight at attention – a ramrod – Ackermann longed for his gloves. He’d have struck this bastard gumshoe across the face for such insolence! ‘Pretty speeches will do you no good, Kohler. Your revised orders are being signed by the Führer himself.’

Oh-oh. ‘Spare me the invincibility of our illustrious Führer, General. When von Schaumburg hears what I have to say, not even the Führer will put a stop to our investigation.’

Ackermann sized him up. ‘How dare you …?’

The scars were twisted, the half-eaten nostril flared. There were furrows and gouges in the withered cheek.

‘I dare, General, because that’s my business. Now go and mesh heads with your lady friend but remember, please, she’s a suspect and so are you.’

Ackermann swung. Kohler’s hand flashed out to grab the withered wrist. ‘You incompetent lout!’ shrieked Ackermann. ‘I’ll see you’re dealt with!’

The Bavarian released the wrist. ‘I’m going, General, but I’ll be back, and when the questions start coming, I’ll expect your fullest co-operation or else.’

‘Get out of here.’

Kohler nodded. ‘As soon as you give me the keys.’

Ackermann sucked in a breath. ‘Try looking in that drain. I’m sure you’ll find the keys if you do.’

No one can turn on his heels quite like a Prussian. Kohler swore under his breath. The general reached the drive which ran in front of the main entrance. A servant, a butler – a broken-down retainer, God knows what the French called them – came out with his coat and things.

The countess came to say goodbye. As they shook hands, she glanced across the grounds towards him.

Then the general left sedately, the Daimler purring past the Citroën, and the lady started towards him.

‘You mustn’t mind the general, Captain Kohler. Our Hans is not himself these days.’

The keys were in the palm of her outstretched hand.

Lamely Kohler shrugged. ‘I never did get on with generals, Countess. That one’s only worse than most.’

‘Louis, did the general do it?’

‘I don’t know, Hermann.’

‘He’s showing all the signs but making such a mess of it.’

‘Murderers often do.’

‘Not when you’ve had tanks and flame throwers at your command. No, my friend, Ackermann is deliberately being stupid so as to take the heat off someone else.’

‘The countess?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Not our chanteuse, our mirage?’

Kohler finished his cigarette and flicked the butt out of the car window towards the ChâTeau Thériault that lay above the woods on the other side of the river. ‘You’ve not fallen for the woman, have you, Louis?’

‘Me, ah no, of course not. Traces of sympathy, yes, Hermann. I’d like to think her innocent. But no, such feelings won’t interfere with the course of justice.’

‘Let’s go and have a word with the monks. It’ll fill out the reports and give Pharand and Boemelburg something to chew on.’

‘I wish I knew who wrote that little diary and who had the meetings. I’m not at all certain they are one and the same, Hermann. I didn’t get a chance to ask Mademoiselle Arcuri, but she denied leaving her purse, so someone else must have planted it.’

‘Or she’s lying, Louis, and those violet bedroom eyes have got to your brains which have sunk to your balls.’

St-Cyr heaved a sigh. By all accounts, it had been quite a morning. ‘In another time but not in another place, me, I would have to agree with you, Hermann, but are we seeing the truth or is she but the mirage she is forced to play out?’

Kohler switched on the ignition. As he eased the car on to the road, he said, ‘When we get back to Paris, I’m going to have to settle things with von Schaumburg. It’s our only chance.’

‘You don’t need to apologize, Hermann. I quite understand.’

‘Good, because the fur is going to fly!’

The road to the Abbey of St Gregory the Great seemed to take for ever. It wound up into the tufa hills behind the terraced village of Vouvray, before angling off to the west. Each ridge led down into another valley. It was all the same. Second gear half the time. Goats, barren trees, distant watchful, isolated, cowled monks who exuded only suspicion as they worked the soil or tended their flocks.

Then an old stone bridge fit only for a cart and horse. Narrow – Jesus, it was pinched.

The arches beneath the bridge leapt from a ragged gorge.

Kohler drew the car to a stop. The engine ticked as he hunched over the steering wheel, looking across the bridge and up the winding Roman road to the abbey.

Beehives lay beneath the naked branches of an orchard. Rows and rows of vines reminded him of the military graves in Belgium.

‘Louis, this place … It gives me the creeps. Gott in Himmel, were the monks afraid of something?’

‘They built to last, Hermann, and in the twelfth century, they had plenty to fear.’

The place was stark – right on a hilltop. A massive turret of bleached stone, whose portals stared out and down at all visitors, was surmounted by a cake of low-roofed stone buildings and capped by a square bell tower that could only be described as brutal.

‘Then those monks knew what they were doing,’ said Kohler, easing his crotch. A pinched testicle again. Son-of-a-bitch! ‘Ah, this underwear of mine, Louis! It’s like a novice whore’s first touch.’

The door burst open. He winced as he eased himself out of the car. ‘That left ball of mine, it’s never been right since the war. Swelled up ten times its proper size – did I ever tell you, Louis? An infection … a cold in the balls from all that mud.’

‘A thousand times,’ said St-Cyr.

‘Like a Corsican lemon. Hard as a walnut,’ went on Kohler. ‘One squirt, Louis. God but it …’

The tall black wooden cross above the bell tower drew their attention. ‘We’re being watched,’ said St-Cyr. ‘The Benedictines’ bush telegraph is at work.’

‘Shall we leave the shooters?’

‘It’s not necessary. They’ll expect them. Please remember my car keys, though.’

Kohler tugged at his trousers to ease the underwear down. ‘Never mind the bullshit, Louis. I won’t forget them again. You can bet your last sou on that.’

‘Good!’ St-Cyr looked up at the rustic signboard that stood beside the bridge. ‘They raise mushrooms, make goats’ cheese, sell the wine they produce and the honey. Perhaps we can stock up, eh?’

‘Personally, I can’t see us lugging a couple of sacks of clinking bottles down that road. Come on, let’s get on with it. We’re lucky it isn’t raining, that’s all I can say.’

The abbey was perhaps a kilometre from where they had been forced to leave the car. From time to time they paused to look back. Monks pruned the vines. The last of the harvest was in. Some tilled the soil, others tightened the wires along which the vines had been trained, or replaced the stout wooden posts. No idleness, of course. Five … perhaps six or even seven hours of manual labour a day. Cold bare hands, raw splits in the knuckles. Cold rooms. No heat but God’s and vesper candles.

The road wound beneath the tower. As yet the gate was out of sight.

Then there was the Loire in the distance below them across innumerable rows of vines and shelving terraces.

‘Château Thériault, Louis. Gabrielle Arcuri could have told you how close this place was to it.’

‘It’s not in her nature to have warned us, Hermann. After all, we’re not exactly on the same side, eh?’

The low stone walls of the abbey’s vineyards ran downhill towards those of the Domaine Thériault. Woods, stony patches of pasture, a stream, two apple orchards, a road … all these things they took in.

‘Would she be a friend of the abbot, I wonder?’ commented Kohler. ‘If so, Louis, we’ll never pull that woman in if we have to and neither will the Resistance.’

Everywhere they looked there were potential hiding places and routes of escape.

St-Cyr yanked on the heavy iron chain. A distant bell thudded in cloistered warrens. An eternity passed before the bolts clashed and at last the iron-studded door was eased open.

A silent rock of ages with bright, mischievous eyes, stooped shoulders and a toothless grin motioned them in as if in secret.

The House-guest Brother.

‘It’s a day for silence, messieurs. Our humble apologies but none are allowed to speak until after the service at midnight.’

His eyes lit up at the prospect of such a late service. Kohler simply lost patience. ‘Gestapo, you ancient fart! Take us to the abbot and I’ll show you the worth of your “vow” of silence! We’re on a murder case.’

The mischievousness disappeared. Brother Andrew calmly studied this German as if such a thing had never been seen before. Without another word, he beckoned them to follow. He even left the door wide open. Perhaps it was too heavy.

An easy exit? wondered St-Cyr, glancing sternly at Kohler before saying, ‘Hermann, I think you’d better leave this to me.’

‘My patience is gone, Louis. Half those bastards in the fields are of military age, and most of that half are in their twenties.’

‘Why else would France have lost the war? If not at the breast then at the prayers, eh? A nation of shits, Hermann. I don’t like it any better than you.’

All this, of course, the monk overheard.

Columned cloisters led to others and others. Open portals let in all weathers and the wind up here sighed as their steps echoed.

They passed a scriptorium where monks diligently copied centuries-old writings or made fervent little notes to themselves on scraps of paper – odd bits of old envelopes, the backs of letters from home.

They crossed the main dining hall beneath arched beams and carved stones. The heavy, dark oak tables and their benches were the original ones. Kohler would swear to it.

Great black iron rings on heavy chains held candles that hung from the ceiling but how the hell could they possibly light the things? They were way up there among the gods.

Down a narrow passage, now thoroughly lost, they came to a black oak door upon which a fierce and much-bearded Adam held the gnarled club of a branch in one fist and a shield in the other. Some poor bugger’s head was clutched by the hair. Now what the hell … had that been in the Good Book?

The corridor resounded to the banging the monk gave the door. A slot shot into place – black letters on white wood: BUSY.

Nothing else.

The monk indicated two narrow benches. You must wait, he motioned, touching his lips in the gesture of silence.

Kohler stepped past him and tried the door. ‘It’s bolted. He’s busy,’ whispered Brother Andrew. ‘I must leave you now, messieurs. May God forgive me for speaking on this holy of holy days.’

His departing figure fluttered down the draughty passage. Sandals and bare feet … Jesus Christ! ‘They’ve got us right where they want us, Louis. So, why the cold shoulder, eh?’

‘Because of this, I think, Hermann. Did you not notice them?’

Kohler looked at the fist-sized boulder St-Cyr placed in his hand. ‘Flint,’ he heard himself saying. ‘A brownish, off-white, cream-coloured flint.’

The Bavarian lifted questioning eyes to his partner.

St-Cyr fished out his pipe. Hermann needed a little time – one must not appear too intelligent.

He lit up, got the furnace going, then ran his eyes over the Adam and Eve. Such differences the progress of civilization had made in the perception of those two. They were very savage, very Germanic-looking. At war with the world.

‘The boulder that killed the boy, Hermann. I should have seen it. It was stupid of me not to have.’

‘A hunk of flint like this?’ asked the Bavarian incredulously.

The Frenchman nodded. ‘At the time, I thought nothing of it – river transport, glaciers – gravel from somewhere. It comes from many places when it’s spread along a road. But I have to admit, Fontainebleau Woods is blessed with much dark brown and grey sandstone. That boulder came from here.’

The rheumy, sad dog’s eyes lifted in their pouches. ‘Louis, just what the hell have we got ourselves into this time?’

St-Cyr savoured the moment. Crime never ceased to fascinate him. ‘We have a real murder on our hands, Hermann. What was once apparently so simple has now become a quite different matter.’

‘Then you no longer think we had it pegged?’

‘Far from it. No, my friend, we are almost certainly going to be forced to strip back the layers of the fungus, teasing out each slender thread until we have unravelled the whole thing.’

Louis loved nothing better than a good case but … ‘I only hope von Schaumburg will listen.’ Glotz … there was also the problem of Brother Glotz to contend with, and Boemelburg, of course.

‘Von Schaumburg will listen, Hermann. It’s the Resistance that bothers me.’

‘They won’t have sent you a little black coffin, Louis.’

‘Me, I’m afraid that is just what they’ve done.’

‘The flint is what gives our wine its noble flavour, messieurs,’ said the Reverend Father, gazing sadly at the boulder the French detective had plunked down in the middle of his desk.

St-Cyr knew the business of the boulder was still very much a gamble but a little emphasis wouldn’t hurt, and as for the vows of silence, the boulder had shattered them. ‘It’s what led us to your abbey, Reverend Father. That and my humble knowledge of the Vouvray, that greatest of the Loire wines, next to the Anjou of course.’

The Anjou … pah! ‘Our silicious clay, Inspector – the perruches – produces a delicate wine, very light, you understand, but exceedingly noble, whereas the aubuis, our other clay, has much limestone in it. The fruity flavour of its grape is therefore very piquant and the wine a good keeper. We do not blend them. The one cancels the other, but I suppose you know all this?’

The abbot searched the faces of the two men. He must be careful. God grant him the grace and wisdom to deal with the matter. So much was at stake. The boulder had come from the perruches on the hillside below the abbey but had the one which had killed the boy also come from there?

‘Brother Michael was the Novice Jérome’s mentor. You will. want to talk to him, Inspectors, and I must release him from his vow of silence.’

The heave of his robust shoulders was one of, You see what a man of the cloth has to do? ‘Our Lady Scholastica, messieurs. The brothers are always having their little visitations. Ever since this past summer, in the heat of August. First one dreams of her and then another. All plead for a day’s silence and me, I can see that it can do no harm to allow them a certain penance.’

You wise old owl, thought Kohler, snorting inwardly. Who was it they saw bathing in the river? The Arcuri woman or her maid? ‘Our Lady Scholastica …’ A hiked-up habit, eh? Come on now, Reverend Father.

The abbot’s gaze was clear. ‘We will find Brother Michael in the caves, messieurs. If you would be good enough to follow me, I will, of course, have to take you there myself. No one else can release Brother Michael from his vow. He’s very strict, that one. He refuses even to communicate by gestures or written words on such days. Me, I am concerned he might fall ill at such a time but … ah, God will never refuse grace. He had much patience with Brother Jérome, you understand. Infinite patience. They argued of course. What more can I say? The wine, you understand. The shipments to Paris and elsewhere. The Germans … Forgive me, Inspector Kohler. Once released, you see what the tongue does. Midnight is still a long way off.’

He lifted tired, brown, worried eyes from the boulder, then thought better of leaving the thing so openly on the desk.

Pocketing the boulder somewhere in the coarse black habit, he came round the desk, was all graciousness now. ‘We will have a glass of our wine in the cellars, eh? In honour of your little visit, and perhaps if it is to your taste, a bottle or two to take away with you.’

One thing was certain, they’d never get to talk to Brother Michael alone.

A corridor led to stone steps and these, down to the start of a long tunnel which ran under the hill for some distance.

‘Voilà, our caves, messieurs,’ said the abbot. He was obviously pleased with the effect, though he must have shown the place thousands of times.

The ‘caves’ were huge and lit by infrequent electric lights. Rows and rows of barrels lay on their sides. Beyond the barrels there were other caves that held racks of bottles. Here and there in the feeble light silent monks patiently turned bottle after bottle.

‘It’s done each day,’ confided St-Cyr.

They could hear the patient drip of water and against this, the shuffling sandals of the monks and the hush each bottle made as it was turned in the rack. It was like no other sound Kohler had heard.

Brother Michael was in the fermentation room, holding a glass of the white before a lighted candle, grim, taciturn, grizzled – well up in his sixties, a man of little patience when it came to the youth of today.

The black beret was clapped on the wide grey head. Hairs sprouted from beneath it. No monk’s tonsure for this one. No habit either. A man of less than medium height, he wore blue denim from head to ankle and sensible black boots.

The lips were turned down in grim contemplation of the wine. Sad grey eyes, bags under them, a full, hooked nose, so typically French, warts and moles and jowls … Kohler could just imagine him discussing the doubts of the flesh with that young boy. Had Brother Jérome’s pecker been stiff? he wondered. Had the good Brother Michael not caught the younger man at a little self-gratification?

Ah now …

‘Brother Michael, hear me,’ said the abbot, making the sign of the Cross.

The eyes fled anxiously from the glass to take them in. ‘Our Lady Scholastica frees you from your vow of silence, Brother,’ went on the abbot.

Still there was no sound from the man. Hurt-filled eyes now flicked from one to the other of them. ‘But I had a dream, Reverend Father …?’

‘It’s all right, Brother Michael. Our Lord will understand. Now don’t take on. A glass of your wine for our guests and then a private word, I think. Yes, that would suit God’s way and that of our Holy Rule.’

The wine was drawn from a barrel in yet another of the caverns. Brother Michael waited tensely for their reactions. St-Cyr wafted in the bouquet before letting the wine pass his lips.

It was a moelleux, of Sauterne sweetness and robust fruity flavour. Clean and crisp on the palate.

He nodded curtly. ‘It’s magnificent, Brother Michael. Me, I would like to purchase a dozen bottles if it were not for the rationing.’

Brother Michael heaved his shoulders. ‘It’s all sold in any case. Goering of the Luftwaffe sent his buyer. We will of course keep some for ourselves, but not much.’

‘Brother Michael …’ began St-Cyr.

‘Please allow me,’ interrupted the abbot. ‘Brother Michael, these gentlemen have come to see you on a matter of great delicacy. It appears, Brother, that the rock which killed our beloved Brother Jérome came from our district. Perhaps from as much as seven … perhaps eight, or would it be twelve kilometres over which the perruches would be found with its boulders?’

Brother Michael didn’t bat an eye. ‘Twenty-eight kilometres, Reverend Father. Much of the Domaine Thériault, our own, and downstream, I believe, as far as Rochercorbon there is such a silicious clay. Those boulders …’ He clucked his tongue. ‘They cause much trouble with the plough.’

St-Cyr again tried to step into things but the abbot smiled benignly. Apparently the vow of silence could only be broken one way. ‘They wish to know your opinions of Brother Jérome, Brother Michael. Please, I know how distressing this must be for you, but,’ the abbot clasped his hands in the sign of prayer, ‘God’s grace is infinitely understanding.’

The monk clucked his tongue and ground his false teeth. ‘The boy had no sense of vocation, Reverend Father. Always going off to see his sister. Doubts … plagued by doubts. Paris … when we shipped wine to Paris, he hid in our truck, our beloved gazogène. Brother Emanuel discovered him. He was not at the appointed place on the return journey.’

A fussy man once unleashed. The abbot, far from discouraging him, said, ‘And, Brother, what else? Theft, I believe.’

‘Yes … Yes, God forbid – we have nothing of our own here, but some will covet little things, Reverend Father. You know I’ve urged the birch many times. A small gold figurine the Brother Lucien found in the fields. Seven centuries of mould and worth something, I am certain.’

He paused to blink and blow his nose. He was obviously greatly distressed. ‘Brother Jérome sold the figurine in Paris, Reverend Father. He said he had to have money for prostitutes, Father. I have prayed for his soul ever since.’

‘Did anyone visit him here?’ attempted St-Cyr.

Kohler merely watched the proceedings, likening the pair of them to a couple of carnival shysters.

‘Visit?’ exclaimed Brother Michael, darting eyes at the abbot for reassurance. ‘Yes … yes of course he had visitors. Always that sister of his, always the long walks and talks, the cajoling, the pleading. Always picnics by the river. Swimming …’ He knew he’d said too much. God forgive him. ‘Brother Jérome was unclean, messieurs. Soiled.’

‘Now, Brother …’ began the abbot.

‘Our vows of chastity are sacred, Reverend Father.’

‘You have no proof, Brother Michael. This business of prostitutes in Paris was never proven. There wasn’t a shred of evidence. The boy was merely telling you to mind your own business. You must search your soul on this matter, Brother. I command that you do so.’

‘He made allegations of an improper nature against Brother Sebastian, our beekeeper, Reverend Father. I didn’t wish to trouble you with the matter until I had had the opportunity to investigate. He borrowed my bicycle far too many times,’ went on the wine maker. ‘I’d like to have it back. These old legs of mine…’

Again St-Cyr stepped in, this time with more success. ‘The Préfet of Barbizon will see that it is returned to you, but tell me, Brother Michael, to ride so far …? Would someone not have given him a lift?’

‘Plenty of times. The countess in her car. Others, too, perhaps.’ He gave a shrug and turned away.

Was the interview to be concluded on such a note of innuendo? ‘A moment, Brother,’ said St-Cyr desperately. ‘The General Hans Ackermann perhaps? He visits the château, I believe?’

‘The general …?’ Brother Michael flung a look at the abbot who calmly said:

‘A distant cousin, I believe, Brother Michael.’

‘Me, I don’t know about such things. I only know Brother Jérome was absent far too many times.’

St-Cyr gave them another moment then gambled. ‘Did he sign his will, Brother Michael?’

‘His will? No … No, he …’ Dear God forgive him. ‘No, he … he refused. When … when I went to look for it in his box in the scriptorium, it … it was missing, Reverend Father. I would have told you but …’

‘You should have told me, Brother Michael. I’ll see you before chapel. In my office! Gentlemen, your interview is concluded. Follow the arrows and they will lead you out to our road. Good day.’

‘What was that all about?’ asked Kohler when they’d gone some distance.

St-Cyr tossed his hands in a gesture to the gods of gambling on a shoestring. ‘As a Benedictine novice, Hermann, Brother Jérome was required to renounce all worldly goods and give himself to Christ and his God.’

‘So, what’s the problem?’

‘Ah, the problem, my friend. The problem … Before taking their final vows each novice signs over his worldly goods to the monastery. He makes out a will and it’s as if he has already died.’

‘But he couldn’t have had anything in any case? His father’s the Chef de Culture at the Domaine Thériault. The countess told me the family had worked for them for the past ninety-seven years. If that isn’t indentured slavery, I don’t know what is!’

‘It’s what the countess didn’t tell you that puzzles me, Hermann. Why, for instance, should the Benedictines accept such an unworthy candidate – true, he was escaping his military service like so many others and true, money – a donation – may have changed hands, but still …? And why was he such a pretty boy, as is the son of Mademoiselle Arcuri? No, my friend, there’s more to this than meets the eye. These old families …’ St-Cyr clucked his tongue and shook his head. ‘Sometimes life is so simple, Hermann, we don’t see the obvious.’

‘Perhaps it’s time we paid our respects to the grieving family?’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

Visitations were being held at both of Vouvray’s funeral homes but it was to the larger of them that they went.

The countess was waiting for them and, as she got out of her car, St-Cyr nudged the Bavarian and said, ‘She’s decided to save us time, Hermann. Better this than a confrontation with the grief-stricken parents.’

He was impressed. When the chips were down the countess hadn’t hesitated. That’s what it took to run such a place. Decisions, decisions, always things to decide.

‘Let the parents have their grief in private with their friends and relations. Jérome was fathered by my husband. Look, I don’t know who told him of it but he had some crazy idea that it would entitle him to a share of the Domaine Thériault and the monks believed him.’

‘But the Domaine belongs to your grandson on your death?’ exclaimed St-Cyr.

‘Yes, of course René Yvon-Paul inherits everything unless Gabrielle should marry before he comes of age.’

‘How many people know of this?’ demanded St-Cyr. No time for pleasantries or introductions. A stunning woman …

‘Too many. Now, please, I’ve told you what I can. Leave them in peace, for God’s sake. They’ve suffered enough. Both of their children … No bodies to bury as yet…’

She turned away so swiftly, on impulse St-Cyr reached out to comfort her.

A silk handkerchief was found in her purse. He helped her to her car. ‘We’ll be in touch, Countess. For now it goes without saying, no one is to leave the district and we’ll pop into the préfecture to make them aware of it.’

This one was kinder than the Bavarian. Though sudden, her tears had convinced him that at least she was sincere.

‘Give my regards to Mademoiselle Arcuri, Countess. I’m sure we’ll all have much more to say when we meet again.’

She managed a weak and grateful smile. ‘I knew you’d understand. Gabrielle was quite taken with you, Inspector. She liked your honesty. She said you were very considerate for one so diligent.’