8

The observation hive was walled with glass and one standard frame in width and thickness, by perhaps two in height, and everything the bees did in there could be seen. Maraldi, the Italian astronomer, had, in 1687, recalled St-Cyr, seen observation hives in the Paris gardens of Louis XIV’s Royal Observatory. De Bonnevies had kept up the tradition and had used this one to help train his students.

It was not difficult to locate the queen, and to find brood cells that held eggs or larvae, nor to differentiate the larger drone cells from those of the workers and to watch as the larvae were fed by the ‘nurse’ bees – fed royal jelly perhaps – while others capped cells and still others foraged afar for nectar, pollen and the resin with which to make propolis, and still others guarded the entrance against robbers and other predators.

‘A maze of cells,’ he said as the girl was brought to him by one of her guards, ‘but the mites can’t be seen, can they, without a microscope?’

Ashen, she didn’t say a thing, only suffered his scrutiny. ‘Your mother tried to keep me from finding a name in that directory of your father’s, mademoiselle; you tried to keep me from looking through his microscope.’

‘I was afraid. You were the police. I needed time.’

‘Yet you first accused your mother of poisoning him, and then one of the Society, and now … why now have publicly stated that Monsieur de Saussine is the murderer, the …’

The Inspector flipped open his little black book, startling her.

‘The “assassin”, mademoiselle. How is it that you are so certain now that Monsieur de Saussine poisoned your father?’

It would do no good to lie. To hide what had to be hidden, one must give as much of the truth as possible. ‘I meant, merely, that he was responsible for the deaths of so many of our bees, and for what was happening, the crisis my father tried to stop.’

‘Mademoiselle, you knew very well what your father intended to say in that address, yet when interviewed in his study you denied this.’

‘I did, and I am sorry for it. Will that satisfy you?’

Not even a perturbed sigh was given, the Chief Inspector simply took out his pipe and tobacco pouch as if preparing to stay for ever, should the interview be extended and the police van be delayed. ‘Acarapis woodi, Inspector. Until this Occupation of ours, the acarine mite had not been a big problem in France, or Belgium, or Holland and the Reich, for that matter. Indeed, we did not even suspect it had shown up in numbers in Russia, not until Herr Schlacht began to bring in so many hives. With some, the bees were still alive and these escaped and would most certainly have tried to join other hives, if not in Paris, then en route, or formed their own colonies.’

She paused, and as he lit his pipe, the Inspector looked steadily at her, a hard man when it came to the answers he wanted. ‘It’s … it’s always difficult to positively identify acarine infestation, Inspector. During the honey flow so many bees are being born, it’s sometimes impossible to detect those that are unwell, especially if carrying the mite, but in winter when brood laying ceases, there are only the older bees. Several die off, and one wonders. More die off and you know you have a problem, but what is its origin, you ask. Only by using the microscope, by dissection and staining, too, sometimes, can you determine it is the mite. Mme Roulleau and others began to have problems last year in the early fall but by then papa had already identified the cause, so what they showed him simply reinforced his belief that the disease was rapidly spreading.

‘The mite can only be transferred by contact from bee to bee, Inspector. It lodges on the body hairs of the young bees and from there makes its way into the tracheae, where the female lays her eggs and the mites multiply until perhaps there are as many as a hundred and the bee, now a full adult, is first weakened and then dies.’

As she spoke, the girl would often catch sight of a forager returning to the observation hive, and when one landed on his coat sleeve, she reached out to let it crawl into her hand before blowing it towards the hive.

‘The disease is terrible, Inspector. It was first identified in 1919 by J. Rennie, in England, but had begun on the Isle of Wight in 1904 and has caused severe losses ever since. But as I’ve said, we did not have a major problem here, though a watch was always kept and my father insisted this be done, even to training me, as a child, in how to deal with it.’

The sound of the bees came to them, so subdued were the other members of the Society who sat some distance from them, the mother standing behind them, the priest near her but still being shunned by her.

‘The very young bees drift, Inspector. During their play flights, their orientation flights when they get to know their hive and its immediate surroundings, they often enter other hives, the drones especially since they, alone, are always welcome because the virgins need them. Bees also love to rob one another’s hives.’

‘So the mites are spread from hive to hive in any one apiary and the queens are also infected.’

‘Once started, it’s insidious. At times the bees become so weakened they can’t fly and will crawl around the entrance in desperation.’

‘And the treatment with nitrobenzene is the only way to get rid of them?’

‘The most effective way so far. One could kill all of the bees and destroy the hives, I suppose. The mites can’t live long without a live host.’

‘And the honey that is taken from those hives?’

‘Will be fine unless the bees have been infected with foul brood, chalk brood or other diseases which do get into the honey. In spite of the danger to his own hives, Monsieur de Saussine was selling it to other beekeepers. Papa tried to stop him. They often argued vehemently, and Monsieur Jourdan, the vice president, and Monsieur Richaux were against him also.’

‘Yet all three must have known the honey was contaminated?’

The girl glanced at her guard and shuddered, but was determined to reply.

‘Of course but … but when your winter stores have been depleted by the ever-increasing demands of others and you cannot buy sugar with which to make syrup so that the bees can feed on it, you do what you have to and buy what you can. We didn’t. We refused the excessive quota demands and made certain our little friends would always have what was needed to best tide them over the winter. Good, clean, disease-free pollen also, for that, too, is necessary at times.’

‘How many hives does de Saussine keep?’

‘Forty in out-apiaries about the city; thirty in each of two home apiaries – he fights the disease and fumigates also, but believes my father was overreacting. Monsieur Jourdan has only fifteen hives; Monsieur Richaux, about twenty.’

‘And de Saussine works for Herr Schlacht?’

‘Very much so, both as an adviser and in selling some of the honey, so you see, Inspector, my accuser deals on the black market himself!’

‘How much of the honey?’

‘A considerable amount. After all, he’s a beekeeper, isn’t he, and what could be more natural than for him to sell it to those he first provides with extra ration tickets?’

‘Which Herr Schlacht gives him?’

‘As a way of legitimatizing everything so that Monsieur de Saussine will not have to face arrest, should the authorities question his dealings.’

Had the girl finally agreed to tell them everything? wondered St-Cyr, or was she merely giving what she could in order to hide something else? ‘My partner and I are almost certain, mademoiselle, that the bottle of Amaretto sat unattended on your father’s desk for at least a few hours.’

‘From when he had returned from the Salpêtrière, until after the brothel, yes.’

‘Did you know the two he went with?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘A moment, then.’

The notebook was again consulted. Danielle felt her heart sink as the Inspector found what he was after and said tersely, ‘Georgette purchased a cigarette lighter from you.’

‘All right, I do know of them. I’m not proud of myself, Inspector, but … but I had to see who they were.’

‘Did Georgette and Josiane let you visit his cemetery room?’

‘Angèle-Marie was my aunt. I had a right to … to know what had happened to her.’

‘And what your father had been up to for all those years since he had returned from the war. Did you know of Héloïse Debré? Well, did you?’

‘And of Monsieur Leroux, the custodian? Yes! I … I visited the catacombs once. Only once to … to see what kind of a man would … would do such a thing when but a boy.’

‘On last Thursday afternoon, mademoiselle, were the gates to the apiary and garden left unlocked?’

‘They shouldn’t have been, but …’

The girl looked desperately across the aisle to where her mother gazed steadily back at her from behind the veil of mourning.

‘But maman could have unlocked them, yes.’

‘Using whose keys?’

‘Mine. I left them in my room.’

‘Unlocked for whom, then?’

‘For that one, perhaps.’

‘Father Michel?’

‘Oui.’

‘Mademoiselle, please explain yourself.’

‘Many times over the past few months Father Michel has watched us fumigating infected hives. He knew where my father kept the nitrobenzene, knew exactly how poisonous it was. He … he was receiving candles for his church, was benefiting from what was happening.’

‘The candles, yes.’

‘The mother church,’ she said harshly. ‘Any of them could have … have done it.’

‘Any priest, bishop, or cardinal?’

She bowed her head and, choking back a sob, said, ‘Please, I … I can’t give you more. I’m so afraid.’

‘Mademoiselle, did you return to the house on Thursday?’

‘In time to poison that bottle?’ she yelped.

‘Please just answer the question.’

‘Then no, I did not!’

‘The names, please, of those who can corroborate this?’

‘The guards on the controls. Ask them! I … I stayed overnight at … at the country house, as I told you earlier.’

‘Near Soisy-sur-Seine.’

‘Yes. I … I arrived late, and well after dark, as is my custom always, and I left in darkness before dawn.’

‘Then your half-brother, mademoiselle. Is it that you’re afraid he really has been released and that, to free the mother you both share and put a stop to Angèle-Marie’s return, he killed your father?’

‘My brother would have had to have known what was happening, n’est-ce pas? But, you’re right, of course. War hardens us all, doesn’t it, Inspector? It makes monsters out of house painters, butchers out of banana merchants, so why not killers out of sculptors?’

‘It also makes liars out of decent, law-abiding citizens, mademoiselle. For now that is all I want from you.

‘Herr Unterscharführer,’ he said in deutsch to the guard who had understood little, if anything, of what had been said, ‘you may escort this one back to her chair. Next …? Who’s next?’

The small glass jar of honey was twisted open by work-worn fingers that might, at one time, thought St-Cyr, have cared about manicures and lotions, but had long since set all such concerns aside.

‘Lifelong apiculturists, especially those such as myself, are nothing compared to Alexandre, Inspector,’ said Mme Roulleau. ‘To comprehend what has happened regarding his sister, it is necessary for you to understand this.’

A forefinger was dipped into the honey and held up. ‘Immediately les abeilles are attracted to the aroma and greedily rush to gorge themselves – it’s easier, since the honey is ripe and the whole process of making it cut short. They show no fear, neither do I, and this, too, they intuitively know, but …’

The rheumy, large and soft brown eyes, with their sagging pouches and scars, looked up at him. ‘But unlike others, Alexandre loved bees as a man sometimes loves a woman. Intensely, you understand. Fiercely, passionately, protectively and possessively.’

‘Angèle-Marie was the cross he had to bear for his love of all things about bees,’ coughed Captain Henri-Alphonse Vallée, clearing a chest that had obviously been gassed several times during the Great War. Quickly he brushed a fingertip over his moustache to tidy it. ‘Often he would have tears in his eyes when we discussed that sister of his, Inspector. At Verdun, on 21 February of ‘16, he broke down completely when la tempête de feu seemed like all the world had come crashing down upon us and death swept too close. He was badly wounded and begged me to look after her and to see that the wrong was righted. She was his little queen.’

The tempest of fire … The shelling … Das Trommelfeuer, Hermann had called it from his side of that terrible war. The drumfire.

‘He was her worker, Inspector. Never her drone,’ interjected Mme Roulleau with a curt nod to dismiss all such Sûreté suspicions.

‘But he was always conscious of who she should marry?’ he asked.

‘Ah oui. He wanted Angèle-Marie to have a good match. Position, enough money and all the rest. A foolish thought, of course, for life is seldom so kind.’

‘Others shamefully mated with her, Inspector, and because of this, Alexandre knew no peace and vowed he would punish them for the rest of his life. Many times I implored him to go to the police. He said too much time had elapsed and that, you will forgive me, the police seldom cared about young girls being deflowered against their will and would only accuse her of seducing her attackers.’

‘His queen had flown, and several drones had mated with her, Inspector. It’s what would have happened quite naturally among the bees, only the queen would have ripped out the parties sensibles of each of them on completion of their coupling.’

‘They’d have died,’ said Vallée, clearly uncomfortable at discussing such things.

‘And Danielle?’ asked St-Cyr. ‘Did he feel the same about her?’

Bees now covered Mme Roulleau’s finger, the woman watching them with keen interest. ‘Danielle,’ she softly said. ‘Danielle and Étienne.’

‘Alexandre feared those two were far too close,’ muttered Vallée fidgeting uncomfortably. ‘He always regretted that he’d had to give Étienne the family name. “That boy is useless,” he would often say, “yet Danielle, who should know better, will have nothing said against him.”‘

‘An artist, a sculptor … She posed for him, I gather.’

‘Posed?’ snorted Mme Roulleau. ‘As mannequins will before the artists who hire them. Toute nue and without even a feather!’

‘But as a child of three or four, and surely not since then?’

‘Not since this war and the Defeat took him away,’ huffed the woman. ‘But who am I to say what went on in that country house where the boy lived alone and she went regularly and often stayed for nights on end until Alexandre was forced to fetch her home?’

‘Étienneand he fought, of course,’ said Vallée. ‘The boy hated his stepfather. Ah! it was not good, Inspector. A girl of fifteen in 1939 …’

‘Alexandre was certain the boy had designs on her,’ swore Mme Roulleau. ‘Certain, too, that he did not want Danielle taking after her mother!’

‘Did he know of his wife’s attempts to have her son released?’ hazarded St-Cyr.

‘Know of them?’ seethed the woman. ‘He refused absolutely to let her do so.’

‘He despised that wife of his, Inspector. He knew she had begged this German, this Schlacht to intercede on her son’s behalf.’

‘And if the boy had returned?’

‘Alexandre would not have let him enter his house and …’

‘Captain, please continue. It’s important,’ urged St-Cyr.

Vallée looked to Madame Roulleau for guidance and saw her nod. ‘Inspector, Alexandre vowed he would go to the authorities and accuse the boy of being among the terrorists. He even swore he could find evidence enough to have him shot.’

‘What evidence, please?’

Afraid of speaking about such things, Vallée nervously glanced at the guards who were standing some distance from them. ‘My service revolver. Though I had asked him to do so for me, Alexandre never turned it in when we were demobilized. “I might need it some day,” he always claimed. “Leroux or one of the others might try to do something.”’

The custodian …

The Inspector did not ask where the revolver was hidden, but rather, thought Mme Roulleau, if Danielle would have access to it.

‘For this you must ask her,’ she said, and placing the opened jar among some primroses, patiently removed the bees from her finger, tut-tutting when they insisted on returning to it. ‘Or perhaps Madame de Bonnevies might know. A wife always has the keys to the house, Inspector, even if she claims not to, and Alexandre was often away on his rounds.’

‘He kept that study of his locked.’

‘Of course, but perhaps it was only locked to some and not to others?’ offered the woman. ‘Juliette de Goncourt was, and still is, très belle, très adorable, n’est-ce pas? One of the Saint-Honoré crowd, that also of the Sorbonne and things I know little of. But when it comes to a pregnancy out of wedlock, one shopkeeper’s daughter is the same as another, no matter the class of shop. The boy responsible refused to marry her and daily poor Monsieur de Goncourt would look at her growing belly and wince!’

‘It’s not the past that I want at the moment, mes amis, but the present. Could the mother of that boy have paid to have her illegitimate grandson freed?’

‘Mon Dieu, what is this, Inspector?’ exclaimed Mme Roulleau.

‘It’s just a thought.’

‘Then who, please, was the father of that bastard of hers?’

‘That sculptor, madame,’ chided Vallée uncomfortably. ‘The boy is talented. Even though Alexandre would never acknowledge this, I myself happened to see some of his work in a gallery before the Defeat and was much taken with it and surprised.’

‘Who, Inspector? Was it Henri-Christophe de Trouvelot? I’ve long considered this matter, though of course such circles were not mine to question.’

‘It’s confidential.’

‘And when you catch the killer?’ she hazarded.

‘Perhaps then Mme de Bonnevies will no longer care.’

‘But it is only to you that she gives a secret she has guarded all these years?’ muttered Madame Roulleau, concluding that she’d been right all along. Yes, right! ‘What reason, please, did she have for suddenly breaking a vow she had kept even from the Père Michel, her confessor?’

‘Has the boy been released, Inspector?’ asked Vallée. ‘If so, then God forgive me for saying it, but there is your poisoner.’

‘And Madame de Bonnevies must, if she doesn’t already know what the boy did, be thinking it,’ said Madame Roulleau.

‘And Danielle?’ asked St-Cyr.

‘Danielle?’ leapt the woman. ‘Oh for sure the girl would worry about such a thing, should the half-brother have come home, but she loved her father dearly and worked constantly with him. She would never have …’

‘Well, what is it?’ asked St-Cyr.

It made her sad to have to say it. ‘Alexandre would most certainly have told her what he intended to do if … if the boy was released. She’d have been terribly hurt – he was never one to let the feelings of others intrude once his mind was made up. But as for Danielle trying to stop him in such a way, ah no. No, I can’t believe it.’

But she would consider the matter, thought St-Cyr and said, ‘Then let us move on to Monsieur de Saussine and his associates.’

‘Who had every reason to kill him,’ hissed the woman, ‘and who knew exactly how to do it!’

‘Alexandre always considered M. de Saussine to be beneath him, Inspector,’ confided Vallée. ‘A student to whom he had devoted considerable energy, and had helped to become established, but a great disappointment. Not dedicated enough, he’d say. Too greedy.’

‘Too cavalier. Monsieur de Saussine had little interest in selective breeding to produce disease-resistant stocks, Inspector, and was more interested in selling his queens which he shipped to beekeepers in competition with Alexandre.’

‘Disease-free queens?’

‘Ah!’ clucked the woman. ‘How could they have been in times like these? AJexandre would never do such a thing, no matter the circumstance, and had sent notices out to warn others, even though Monsieur de Saussine threatened legal action.’

‘And Messieurs Jourdan and Richeaux?’

‘Are like most politicians, simply front men for others. The one has been placed in a position of power by his friends so as to be used by them. But always, as in a hive, there are parasites to guard against and battle.’

‘Alexandre knew M. de Saussine was a threat, Inspector, and feared he would convince Herr Schlacht to take serious measures against him.’

‘To clip his wings. To not let him speak out,’ said Mme Roulleau, ‘and to silence him for ever, perhaps.’

‘Inspector, is it true that Mme de Bonnevies was having an affair with this German?’ asked Vallée. ‘Alexandre was convinced that she was. I tried to urge caution. One of the Occupier, but he wouldn’t listen and swore he had followed her to a hotel near the omnibus yards and the freight yards of the Gare du Nord. “Many German servicemen go into that hotel,” he said, “and so does that wife of mine, though she always looks first to see if there are those who are waiting for her.”‘

‘And Herr Schlacht?’

It was Mme Roulleau who touched his arm to softly confide, ‘Monsieur Durand, over there, kept bees on his roof for Alexandre, who found his daughter Mariette a job as housemaid to the wife of this businessman. But that was before our troubles started.’

‘The girl followed Madame de Bonnevies to that hotel,’ said St-Cyr.

‘And then confided to her papa what she knew was happening,’ went on Mme Roulleau. ‘Mariette was very worried, Inspector, and insisted that Frau Schlacht was insanely jealous and very angry.’

‘This German woman wanted him to poison her husband, Inspector. He was to lace a bottle of Amaretto with the nitrobenzene but had adamantly refused in spite of her many threats.’

‘To have done so would have brought the Gestapo down on him, Danielle also, n’est-ce pas?’ said Madame Roulleau. ‘Mon Dieu, to poison one of the Occupier, at least the firing squad. That also for Juliette and her son, of course, though he didn’t care about them, only Danielle.’

She caught a breath. ‘That bottle of Amaretto was in his study, on his desk, wasn’t it?’ she sighed. ‘The doors would have been locked, the gates also, but were they really locked?’

‘Could M. de Saussine, or one of the other two, have had access to it?’

‘For this they would have to have known of it,’ muttered the woman, again lost in thought. ‘But then … why then, someone must have told one of them of it and, of course, Monsieur de Saussine could well have brought along his own nitrobenzene.’

‘Why not ask him and the other two, Inspector?’ advised Vallée. ‘Why not demand the statement, the procès-verbal they must sign and swear to?’

The furnace and boilerworks in the cellars of the School of Mines were gargantuan and warm … mein Gott, so cosy, thought Kohler. Coals glowed when the firebox door was opened – coals like he hadn’t seen since before the Great War.

Leaning the crutches against the bin where sacks of anthracite, no less, were piled, he pulled off his greatcoat and draped it over some of the hot-water pipes.

Neither Jurgen nor Hans had ever experienced a fire like this – at least, he didn’t think the boys would have. He warmed his hands and, when female steps hesitantly picked their way in from the Jardin du Luxembourg’s greenhouses, gingerly lighted a twig and brought its flame up to the cigarette he offered to Frau Käthe Hillebrand.

‘Inspector, what’s the meaning of this?’ she shrilled in deutsch, not liking things, for the SS major’s adjutant had brought her to the cellars in silence and then had departed.

‘A quiet word, that’s all. Why not sit down? The caretakers use that broken chair, but I’ve given it a wipe just for you.’

The Höherer SS Oberg must have been convinced of the usefulness of the meeting, Käthe warned herself, but why had Kohler left the door to the firebox open? Why had he switched off the electric light? ‘I’ll stand,’ she heard herself saying emptily. Flames licked upwards from around each glowing coal and clinker, but every now and then gases would erupt and the flames would rush to unite and race about the firebox. The smell of sulphur was in the air …

Unbidden, the woman’s fingers began to nervously pluck at the top button of the beige overcoat she wore. Light from the firebox flickered over her, making her lipstick glisten and burnishing the fair cheeks. Uncertain still, her blue eyes tentatively sought him out, and finally she took a hurried drag at the cigarette.

‘What the hell do you want with me that couldn’t have been asked in the greenhouse?’ she demanded. The boyish grin he gave only upset her more.

‘Look, if I’m to help that boss of yours, I’m going to have to know everything you can tell me.’

Oberg must have agreed. ‘All right, a private conversation. Just the two of us.’

‘I’ve been the blindest of fools, haven’t I? Herr Schlacht is up to his ears in mischief and wallowing in the shit.’

‘I … I’m only a part-time secretary for him. I’ve others I must look after.’

‘Others you’ve had sex with?’

‘Verdammt! What if I have? It’s got nothing to do with this business!’

‘But one that must have kept on for a good long time, otherwise, why would he have blamed you for losing his little pin?’

‘That was a mistake.’

‘Then why did the affair end, if it did?’

‘I was new. I was inexperienced. It … it just happened, that’s all.’

‘Maybe yes, maybe no, but how many of those gold wafers does he agree to let you send to Switzerland with that wife of his?’

‘Switzerland …? Bitte, I … I don’t know what you mean.’

A button came undone, and then another, and when he’d undone them all, Kohler took her coat, hat and gloves and, indicating the chair, said in best Gestapo form, ‘Get comfortable. It’ll be easier for you.’

The dress she wore was off-white, of cashmere like the scarf he had let her keep. Fine goods, thought Kohler appreciatively, but not suitable for a furnace room, and she knew it and was worried about this, if not about other things. Silk stockings, too, and high heels. Bracelets of gold, and a citrine brooch to match the superb stone on the middle finger of her left hand. No wedding ring, of course, he reminded himself and heard her tartly ask of his scrutiny, ‘Well, what is it?’

‘Lovely,’ he said and grinned as he turned to hang her coat on a nail, ‘but I told you to sit down, and I really do want an answer to that question I asked.’

‘From time to time Oskar lets me send the few wafers I can manage to buy from him. A small favour, in return for the one that I rendered,’ she said acidly.

‘And what, exactly, is that favour worth?’

There was no feeling in the look he gave, only an emptiness that made her tremble. ‘Five each quarter. Sometimes a few more; sometimes a few less.’

‘Then that wife of his is important to you and you wouldn’t want anything to happen to either of them.’

‘No … No, I wouldn’t.’

‘It’s big, what he’s doing, isn’t it, and I really have been blind?’

‘Candles aren’t the only thing he deals in.’

‘I didn’t think they were, but what he does for one, he does for all, right? He claims to buy the beeswax on the black market, even though his relatives steal much of it for him.’

‘There are prices and prices.’

‘And no accounting beyond what he writes himself and you type up for him – that’s another little service you offer, by the way, but never mind. The wax is “bought” many times over, even though he’s already acquired most of it. The candles are made and sold to that same black market and then … then, and this is where I’ve been so blind, they’re bought back at even higher prices.’

‘And are shipped to the Reich. Well, most of them. What he … he doesn’t sell to the churches here and … and to the catacombs and other places.’

‘But the ones that go to the Reich are at vastly inflated prices, so the profit is pretty good.’

She would sit down now, Käthe told herself. She would cross her legs and finish her cigarette while gazing openly up at this Hermann Kohler who had such a reputation with the ladies but was far from the brutal Gestapo he had tried to indicate.

‘As I’ve said, Inspector, Oskar isn’t just into candles. He makes a water-proofing compound as well.’

‘For the Wehrmacht – ja, I’ve heard all about it.’

‘Propolis is bought and made into varnish, and this is shipped at a modest profit which is donated to the SS, as a loyal member of the Förderndes Mitglied should.’

‘And the honey?’

‘Some of it is donated to the Secours National – the National Help – for the soup kitchens, where it is doled out to young children and nursing mothers.’

‘But not much of it, I’ll bet. And the rest?’

‘Is sold to beekeepers, to the black market, and also “bought” back from it and shipped to the Reich.’

‘Again at a very healthy profit.’

‘He’s a businessman and everything he does for the Palais d’Eiffel is done under that mandate, so what, please, is wrong with that?’

‘Nothing but the ten or twenty or fifty times profit the “creative” book-keeping allows.’

‘Nobody cares so long as the needs are met.’

‘And they’ll only become greater now, won’t they, with the defeat at Stalingrad?’

She shrugged and did so beautifully, thought Kohler. He’d take the cigarette from her now and would stub it out. ‘For my little tin,’ he said. ‘With us, nothing is wasted.’

‘Us?’ she asked.

‘My partner and me, and the two women I live with but seldom see.’

‘Look, I really must get going. Herr Schlacht—’

‘Wanted you to keep track of things here for him. De Bonnevies was a distinct threat – bitching about what was happening; going to the Kommandant von Gross-Paris with tales of robbed and butchered hives and diseased bees. Old Shatter Hand’s no fool, Frau Hillebrand. He’s not some dumb Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter like me.’

‘Oskar didn’t kill this beekeeper.’

‘I didn’t say he had but we both know he’s in deep trouble, and not just with von Schaumburg.’

‘Trouble …? What trouble, please?’

‘Rumours – whispers – that there are slackers behind the lines. People in cushy jobs who are helping themselves and getting too greedy while others do the fighting for them.’

Sickened by the thought that the good times were about to end, Käthe tried to stop her eyes from smarting. Herr Kohler found another cigarette and lit it for her, and though she took it from him and said softly, ‘Danke,’ her fingers trembled and she knew he had noticed this. ‘Are there really rumours the Führer might shut us down?’ Oberg would be furious; Oskar in a panic …

‘They’re not just rumours. They’re serious. Oberg’s just asked for my help.’

Ah Jesus, sweet Jesus! ‘Oskar was very worried, yes. He … he didn’t want de Bonnevies to give that address his daughter gave this afternoon. It would ruin everything, would make things very difficult for him, as it will. Always word of such things is passed so quickly. He … he wanted him stopped, that’s all I know. I swear it is, but … but felt he couldn’t have him arrested.’

‘Too obvious, eh? Too blatant for the Kommandant von Gross-Paris to swallow. Besides, there was this other little matter of Frau Schlacht’s having one of his mistresses followed to a certain hotel. The beekeeper’s wife, to be precise.’

‘Frau Schlacht had purchased a bottle of Amaretto. Oskar, he … he watches constantly, or has others do the watching for him, so he knew Uma was up to something with that bottle, but … but didn’t know exactly what.’

‘Does he like the stuff?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then let me elaborate. Fearing the worst, he had me taken to that smelter of his and had his friends in the Milice try to pry the answer he wanted from me, but since the beekeeper had refused to help Frau Schlacht poison your boss, who added the nitrobenzene to that bottle?’

The cigarette was teased from her lips to be shared. Nervously she touched the base of her throat, then fiddled with her scarf. ‘Oskar learned of the poison from one of the other beekeepers – de Saussine, I think – but … but said it had to be done so as to make it appear as if Juliette had done it. She despised her husband and was very unhappy in her marriage. She knew where the poison was kept and had told Oskar of this. A tin on a shelf in the study, above the workbench. A skull and crossbones on its label … Oil of mirbane in bright lemon-yellow letters, mono … mono-nitrobenzene beneath this in brackets. Juliette was to suspect nothing. The daughter would be away …’

‘Did you do it for him, since you knew where it was kept?’

‘NO! I … Look, I didn’t, I swear it.’

‘But he asked you to?’

‘And I refused.’

‘Then what about the stepson?’ demanded Kohler.

He was so anxious now she would have to smile weakly at him, she told herself, and softly say, ‘Oflag 17A, you know of it, of how desperate Juliette was to get her son home? She would do anything Oskar wanted her to and went with many men in that place of his. Two … three at a time, if he wanted her to – prostitutes as well – what did it matter, so long as Oskar would buy the boy’s freedom?’

‘Did you watch them?’

‘Once. Oskar … Oskar thought it was funny. He throws dinner parties and then we … we all go back to that hotel of his to … to observe things.’

But that was more than once. ‘And did he buy the son’s freedom?’

‘To put her out of her misery – one of the French? What do you think?’

‘That he’d prefer to spend the money on a bit of sculpture for der Führer.’

‘Leda and the Swan, ah yes.’

‘No freedom, then?’

‘Not from Oskar. This I know.’

‘Good. Now let’s stop pissing about. Tell me where he’s keeping Oona.’

‘Oona? Who is this, please?’

Abruptly Kohler moved away from her to deeply thrust into the coals the long iron hoe that was used to pull clinkers from the firebox. ‘The candle factory, where is it?’ he demanded.

‘On the rue Championnet, across from the Omnibus Yards.’

‘How many employees?’

Would he threaten to burn her with that rod? ‘Thirty, I think.’

‘How many shifts?’

‘Two. Each of twelve hours, when … when there is sufficient wax.’

‘Any guards?’

‘Why should there be?’

‘Lorries?’ ‘Two.’

‘Gazogènes?’

‘Their roof tanks are filled at the Omnibus Yards. Oskar has a … a deal with the manager.’

‘Deals and deals, eh? So where do the Milice who keep an eye on that smelter of his hang out?’

‘Did they hurt you badly?’ she winced and heard him answer, ‘Not badly enough.’

‘The gymnasium on the rue Bonne Nouvelle. They … they have a room at the back and … and use the gym for parades and … and other things.’

‘Like beating people up and raping girls they’ve hauled in for questioning?’

‘When it’s necessary, yes.’

‘Since when were either necessary?’

‘You … you know what I meant.’

‘So, where is Oona?’

‘At the Hotel Titania. There’s a room Oskar uses for … for the girls he’s preparing.’

‘Guards?’

‘One or two.’

‘French?’

‘Of course.’

‘Gangsters?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything else I need to know?’

‘Nothing! Will the Führer really shut us down?’

It took all types to make up the Occupier, but he’d best say something to calm her, thought Kohler, setting the rod aside to help her on with her coat. ‘Not if I can prevent it. That’s what the Höherer SS wants and we aim to deliver.’

‘We?’

‘My partner and I, though he doesn’t know about it yet, but don’t go telling your boss that we’ve had this little chat, not when Oberg agreed to let me question you.’

‘Did he really?’

‘If I were you, I wouldn’t even ask. Oh by the way, I’ll want to interview you again about your use of the name “Juliette” for Mme de Bonnevies, and your knowing all about that tin of … What did you call it?’

Verdamm!. ‘Oil of mirbane.’

Honoré de Saussine was in his mid-forties, the picture of health in these days when the sick got sicker and most others became ill through worrying. He did not back away from anything, thought St-Cyr, but met each question with a confidence that was troubling. A civil servant, and no doubt once a lover of la petitesse, the virtue of living small, he had come up in the world. No longer was his tie worn loose so as not to wear it out, nor did he bother to save his cigarette butts.

‘Inspector, as assistant director of building codes in the Ninth arrondissement, I was at my desk on Thursday from eight a.m. until noon, and from two until six. I could not possibly have gone to Charonne, nor had I any intention of, or wish to harm Alexandre. Oh bien sûr, we disagreed. Among scientists is disagreement not a fact of life? But to poison him … Ah no. No. It’s impossible.’

‘And you’ve those who will swear to your being at that desk?’

‘My secretary and my assistants, the director also. Let me tell you nothing escapes that one’s eye. Nothing.’

‘Then that’s settled. A moment. I’ll just jot it down in my little book. “De Saussine at work.”‘

The Sûreté took his time and wrote far more, so as to be unsettling, but one could only smile at such a ruse, thought de Saussine. St-Cyr would find no paste-pot pinching civil servant here, no shifty-eyed accumulator of the rubber bands and erasers of fellow employees.

From time to time Juliette de Bonnevies would glance their way and he had to ask himself, What has she told the Inspector? That I hated Alexandre even more than she did? That I knew very well where the nitrobenzene was kept – had I not been in his study many times? Had I not my own to use, in any case?

At the flash of a lewd and knowing grin from him, the woman quickly averted her veiled eyes and turned her back on them, a back that, when naked, had been seen by many.

The Hôtel Titania, eh, madame, he silently taunted. Was Alexandre aware of the things you did in that place, things Herr Schlacht bragged about to me?

‘Your lunch, monsieur,’ said the Sûreté, suddenly looking up from his notebook. ‘Where, please, did you have it on Thursday?’

‘My lunch …? In the café at … at the corner of the rue Rossini and the rue Drouot, near the office. We always go there. Myself and two others.’

‘The soup, the pot-au-feu … a glass of wine?’

‘No wine, Inspector. It was a no-alcohol day, remember?’

‘Bread?’

‘Two of the twenty-five gram slices.’

‘The National?’

That grey stuff that was made of sweepings and a lot of other things. ‘Yes.’

‘Bread,’ he muttered and wrote it down. ‘No wine.’

‘Inspector, is this necessary?’

‘As necessary as is the truth, monsieur. You see my partner has spoken at length with …’

‘All right. I … I dined with Herr Schlacht at l’Auberge de Savoie.’

‘Thirty-six rue Rodier, but still in the Ninth and not far from that office of yours in the town hall, not far from the auction house either. Before the war, the porters at the Hôtel Drouot were its regulars. They all came from Savoy, a prescriptive right Napoleon insisted on, but now … Now I do not know how things are.’

‘Occasionally a few of them still eat there, but … but it’s a busy place and the clientele has changed.’

‘Black market?’

‘The gratin de pommes de terre de Savoie was superb.’

Baked, thinly sliced potatoes, cheese, eggs, milk and garlic, with pepper, salt and butter, optional nutmeg and sometimes sliced onions or shallots … in a city where most hadn’t seen a potato since the winter of 1940 to ‘41, to say nothing of the butter and cheese!

‘The soufflé de truite à la sauce d’écrevisses was magnificent.’

Mon Dieu, trout with a crayfish sauce! ‘The Reblochon and the Boudane?’

Cheeses from Savoy, the latter matured in grape brandy. ‘Those also, and coffee. Herr Schlacht likes to dine well.’

The Inspector painstakingly wrote all of this down, then took a break to pack his pipe and light it. The match was blown out, not waved out, and then, as an added precaution, spittle wetted a thumb and forefinger and the thing was decisively extinguished.

‘One never knows, does one?’ he said. ‘The threat of fire in winter seems even more imminent than in summer.’

Fire in a greenhouse! ‘Inspector …’

‘Monsieur, I am certain Herr Schlacht expressed to you his thoughts regarding your president.’

‘He was concerned, yes.’

‘Not simply concerned, monsieur. The two of you …’

‘What, exactly, did Madame Roulleau tell you, Inspector? That I was deutschfreundlich and assisting one of the Occupier? Since when is that a crime?’

‘Madame Roulleau and I did not even discuss you, monsieur.’ This was a lie, of course. ‘But it is interesting that you should think she has accused you of murder.’

‘I didn’t say that! I …’

‘But the possibility arose between you and Herr Schlacht, didn’t it, and you were asked advice on how best to do it?’

‘I refused absolutely to even speak of such a thing.’

‘At what time did you finish your lunch? Please remember that the patron will be consulted.’

‘At three forty. We … we talked of other matters.’

‘The honey you were selling for him. Honey you knew carried diseases and yet … and yet you sold it to your colleagues to augment the winter stores of their hives.’

‘Inspector, to not have done so was for them to have lost their colonies. If Madame Roulleau were at all honest and reliable, she would have acknowledged this.’

‘You deal on the black market, monsieur; you sell diseased queens.’

‘What else did that interfering old woman tell you?’

‘That you threatened your president with legal action; that the two of you argued vehemently and that Monsieur de Bonnevies sent out notices to warn others of the diseases you were so thoughtlessly spreading.’

‘He had no proof! It was all a figment of his “scientific” imagination. Acarine mites … A crisis in the making? A tragedy? It’s absurd. Idiotic. Their numbers were far too small. Only a few hives showed any signs of it. All were fumigated most thoroughly. All!’

‘And Herr Schlacht, monsieur? Didn’t he offer you a substantial reward if you took care of things for him?’ This was another lie, of course, but when needed, could lies not be forgiven in these difficult times?

‘I refused. Ask him.’

‘Two hundred thousand francs?’ It was a shot in the dark.

‘A million. It … it was insane, Inspector. I … I couldn’t agree to such a thing – how could I? Alexandre and I go back too far. When I was but a boy of thirteen, he took me under his wing and shared his love of bees. I …’

‘Inspector …’

It was Lalonde, the assistant gardener. ‘Well, what is it?’

‘A moment, please. I … I have found something you must see.’

‘Can it not keep?’

‘Forgive me, Inspector, but it can’t. Your partner also wishes to speak with you in private.’

Hermann … Merde, what the hell had happened? ‘He’s always in a hurry. Monsieur de Saussine, please remain ready to continue. A million you said? Ah! I must jot that down and get you to … Sign here, please.’

‘It … it’s in code. I can’t re—’

‘Just sign it, monsieur, and date it. Thirty-first January, 1943 at … four ten in the afternoon. No wonder I’m hungry. I’ve totally missed my lunch!’

Hermann was waiting in another of the greenhouses and didn’t look up when approached. Humus was scattered. Two of the potted flowers, set well behind a screen of others on the trestle table, had been uprooted and hastily replanted. Broken, blackish-brown rootlets formed a tangled spaghetti on the leaves of adjacent plants.

‘Merci, Monsieur Lalonde,’ sighed St-Cyr. ‘You may leave us now, but were absolutely correct to fetch me.’

‘Mademoiselle Danielle could so easily have come in here before the meeting, Inspector. The girl is considered almost as one of us and knows well where each type of flower is grown.’

The gardener was clearly much distressed and with good reason, but had best be told. ‘Say nothing. Let us deal with it. Now go. We will return to the others in a moment.’

‘Helleborus niger, Louis. The Christmas rose …’

‘Yes, yes. A cure for madness in the days of Pliny the Elder, Hermann, but as to how many patients survived, the historical records are understandably vague.’

The flowers, of a very uncomplicated but proud look, were large and white or purplish and stood tall and straight, with golden, pollen-covered anthers to which the bees, excluded from this greenhouse, could not come.

The leaves were serrated and leathery; the stems, a purplish-brown.

‘Did she wear gloves?’ asked Kohler.

‘If it was Danielle – if, Hermann. We don’t know this yet, but if gloves weren’t worn, then the skin of the fingers – especially that around the nails – will definitely show signs of inflammation.’

‘There’ll also be earth under her fingernails, idiot!’

‘Unless whoever did this washed their hands afterwards, or wore gloves.’

‘The roots, Louis.’

‘When dried and ground, they have the look of powdered liquorice and can, at times, unfortunately be mistaken for it. A dram of the tisane has been known to kill, but with the powdered root, the exact dosage is unknown and probably varies, though it has to be much less than a gram.’

‘She either killed her father or thinks that half-brother of hers did it and now plans to kill herself.’

‘And if not Danielle and not Étienne?’

‘Then Frau Käthe Hillebrand, or Madame de Bonnevies.’

‘Or Honoré de Saussine, or Father Michel?’

‘You tell me. Look, we have to talk. The Palais d’Eiffel is about to be shut down. Oberg insists we do everything we can to prevent this. We can find our murderer, but had better leave Schlacht and his wife well out of it, or else.’

Hermann was clearly agitated and didn’t look well. ‘And Oona?’

‘To Spain. It’s what has to be, Louis. I’m sorry, but I’ve no other choice. I’m one of them, remember?’

One of the Occupier. ‘We’ll discuss it later.’

‘Verdamtnt! An order is an order.’

‘And Oona? Oona loves you, Hermann. You and Giselle are her link with sanity in a world gone mad. Take the two of you away from her and what remains?’

‘Ashes.’

‘Then let’s pay the morgue a visit. Let’s both calm down and do what we have to.’

‘I knew you’d help. I was just worried about asking you.’

‘Then don’t be. We’re in this together. How are the toes?’

‘Terrible.’

The Citroën was packed. Hoarfrost had quickly formed inside the windscreen and windows, and Hermann, his hands not free, what with the crutches and Danielle sitting on his lap, could do nothing to improve visibility.

Frau Hillebrand sat squeezed between them, with Father Michel, Juliette de Bonnevies, and Honoré de Saussine in the back. The SS followed in two cars; the city was, of course, in darkness. When one lamp, its bluing streaked, signalled that they had finally reached the place Mazas, the forty-watt light bulb that was above the door to the morgue had gone out.

A bad sign? wondered St-Cyr. Hermann would think so. Hermann hated visits to the morgue, but this one was necessary. Even so, he sighed and said, ‘Louis, there are things you need to know; things I can’t tell you in present company, or in any other, for that matter.’

‘This won’t take long, mon vieux, and will, I think, save much time.’

‘And if we refuse to go in there?’ shrilled Frau Hillebrand.

‘Then my partner will have the SS drag you in, meine gute Frau,’ said St-Cyr in deutsch. ‘If you’ve nothing to hide, you’ve nothing to fear.’

Father Michel said in French that it wasn’t right and that the deceased deserved to be left in peace. ‘He never did that to me, Father!’ countered Juliette. ‘Why not tell the Inspectors everything? Why not confess?’

‘My child, you’re overwrought.’

‘You came to the house on Thursday afternoon, Father. You had just been to see Angèle-Marie.’

‘Inspectors, is this really necessary?’ asked de Saussine.

‘I guess it is, eh, Louis?’ snorted Kohler.

Danielle de Bonnevies said nothing but was so tense, he could feel her pulse racing and, finding an ear, whispered, ‘Don’t even think of it. Those boys behind us have two dogs and Schmeissers. We’d only be laying you out on a slab.’

‘I heard no dogs,’ she replied.

‘Well, maybe not, but you do understand, eh? Now you first, and easy, then me. Here, hang on a minute, I need to lean my crutches against the door.’

‘Forgive me,’ she muttered as the door was opened.

‘Forgive …’ echoed Hermann, only to shriek in agony as the girl stamped on his wounded foot and tumbled out of the car. She fell. She dragged herself up and began to run as the guards cried, ‘Halt!’ and Juliette shrilled, ‘Danielle …’

‘Don’t shoot! Please don’t!’ yelled St-Cyr in German, and then, ‘Ah merde. Mademoiselle, arrêtez-vous! You cannot escape.’

Cursing, the SS bundled back into their cars, one racing up the avenue Ledru-Rollin with high beams fully uncovered and the fronts of the buildings staring out into the passing light as if suddenly awakened; the other tearing up the boulevard de la Bastille. Simultaneously they must have reached the rue de Lyon, for two sets of tyres screeched, both horns blared. A bicycle taxi had perhaps got in the way.

‘Louis, shouldn’t we go after her? Those roots …’

‘What roots?’ demanded Frau Hillebrand in perfect French.

‘Hermann, we had best leave her for now. Inside, I think.’

They heard the cars taking the short little side streets that lay between the rue de Lyon and rue de Bercy.

‘Verdammt!’ swore Kohler still gritting his teeth in pain, and gathering up scattered crutches. ‘Why the hell couldn’t she have listened to me, Louis?’

‘The half-brother, I think. Now come on, let me help you.’

‘No. I’m all right. I should have listened to myself. I knew she was going to make a bolt for it.’

They crowded into the entrance, blinking as the electric light hit them. Frau Hillebrand was nervous and withdrawn; Father Michel tense and watchful; Juliette de Bonnevies sickened by what Danielle had just done and by the nearness of what they must now go through.

And de Saussine, wondered St-Cyr, and answered, is no longer sure of himself.

‘This way, tnes amis. Monsieur,’ he said to the attendant on the desk, ‘St-Cyr of the Sûreté and Kohler of the Kripo to see the autopsy reports on Alexandre de Bonnevies and to view the corpse.’

‘Louis, must I?’ muttered Kohler.

‘Why me, why you, why us, eh?’ It was a plea Hermann often made.

‘My son …’

Stung, Kohler swung round. ‘Father, get that butt of yours in there and speak only when spoken to!’

They went into a room so big and cold and white, her shivering would be noticed, thought Juliette and swallowed hard. There were several corpses on table-like slabs, with draining boards and sinks and blood … blood seeping from a cut-open chest and abdomen. Blood pooled around someone’s heart and lungs and splashed on a limp penis and marble-white thighs.

Alexandre was hideous. His iron-grey hair was parted in the middle and slicked down hard with pomade – he’d never worn it that way. Not like a gangster or pimp! The nostrils were blackberry blue, the eyelids and lips, the fingernails …

Turning swiftly away, she choked and threw up.

‘And you, Frau Hillebrand?’ asked the Chief Inspector St-Cyr, watching her closely, too closely, thought Käthe. ‘You’re not sickened, but are fascinated.’

‘In shock!’ she said harshly in deutsch, and dragging a handkerchief from her purse, clapped it over her nose. Rage moistened her lovely eyes – guilt also? wondered St-Cyr.

Father Michel had kissed the rosary he had dragged from a pocket and was muttering an Ave.

De Saussine was pale and shaken. Slowly, gradually, his gaze moved from the blue-black lips and gold-filled teeth to the scars of war that had lacerated and punctured the chest and arms, to the varicose veins and putrid, greenish-yellow blotches that were spreading under the pale, blackberry-hued and hairy skin.

‘Ah bon!’ sighed St-Cyr. ‘He’s been opened twice and …’

The Inspector consulted a sheaf of typed pages, pausing when he found what he was after, thought Juliette. ‘A good sixty cubic centimetres were downed in one gulp from that bottle. The “Amaretto” was between thirty and forty per cent mono-nitrobenzene, but its excess, beyond that which had dissolved in the alcohol, would have risen to the top so he did not even look at the drink he took.’

‘Oil of mirbane,’ whispered Kohler to Frau Hillebrand who darted a startled and hurtful glance at him.

‘Apparently our victim had eaten little since the early morning, Madame de Bonnevies,’ went on Louis. ‘A “coffee” taken without milk, a small piece of the National bread and a teaspoon of pollen.’

‘He always swore it gave him energy,’ she said emptily.

‘A little wine during the day. A dried apple, a few chestnuts and one or two of your daughter’s vitaminic biscuits.’

The woman shrugged and said, ‘I really wouldn’t know what, if anything, he ate during the rest of that day. I took him his breakfast at seven. We didn’t even speak. We … we seldom did.’

‘And that afternoon?’

‘Father Michel came to see me after he’d been to the Salpêtrière. He said … I’m sorry, Father, but I have to tell them. He said that it had all been taken care of and I need not worry any longer about Alexandre’s bringing Angèle-Marie home.’

‘I gave that poor unfortunate a taste of honey, Inspectors, and freely admit it.’

‘Later, mon Père. We’ll deal with you later,’ grunted St-Cyr. ‘Madame, at what time, please, did your husband return from the hospital?’

‘At … at about ten past four.’

‘And where were you at that time?’

‘In the kitchen. Father Michel hadn’t wanted Alexandre to find him there but my husband came through as usual, saying only that he was going out again.’

‘And your answer, madame?’

‘My answer …? Why, the silence of a wife who knows, Inspector, exactly where her husband is going.’

‘To Le Chat qui crie.’

‘Yes.’

‘And early that evening?’ asked Louis, glancing again at the autopsy reports as if there was information he had deliberately withheld, thought Kohler, and saw the priest warily watching Juliette.

‘At eight thirty Alexandre went out to unlock the gates.’

‘And where were you when you heard this?’

‘In … in Étienne’s room.’

‘And you heard your husband from behind closed windows, black-out drapes and closed doors – remember, please, that the study is quite separate from the rest of the house?’

Ah damn him! ‘I had opened my son’s bedroom window a little. I … I felt Alexandre must be meeting someone because he … he had been so agitated. Nothing had been right. It never was, but …’ She shrugged. ‘I just had to find out who could be coming at such an hour.’

‘Yet you had hardly spoken during the whole of that day?’

Merde alors, would he not leave things alone? ‘It … it was a feeling I had. Nothing else.’.

‘Then we’ll let the matter rest, shall we? Death occurred between eight twenty and nine twenty, give or take a half-hour on either side.’

‘Alexandre hurried back through the garden. I heard him quickly close the outer door to the study. There were a few minutes of silence and then … then …’ She gripped her forehead and, covering her eyes in despair, said, ‘I heard him cry out suddenly, heard him shrieking my name and … and gagging. I thought he was just angry. Really I did. Oh mon Dieu, mon Dieu, why could I not have gone to help him? I didn’t, Inspectors. I waited, and may God forgive me.’

A reasonable performance, thought Kohler, but not quite believable. ‘And then?’ asked Louis with that same unruffled patience he always had when a corpse was between himself and a suspect.

‘I heard him vomiting and wondered at this, but … but someone was opening the gate at the back of the garden. It needs to be oiled, you understand, but there is no oil to be had. This person came on and opened the outer door to the study. Light fell briefly on her and I … I saw who it was.’

‘The time, please – as close as you can estimate?’

‘Nine, I think, or … or eight forty-five.’

‘And the name, madame?’

‘Frau Schlacht. She … she didn’t stay more than a minute or two and, making certain the lock was on, closed the door and hurriedly left by the way she had come. I ran downstairs and went out the front door to the street and nearly collided with her, but … but she simply hurried away and got into a vélo-taxi that was waiting for her. Only then did I hear her voice, in German. She was swearing at her driver and telling him to hurry.’

‘And then?’ asked Louis.

‘I went back inside and tried to get my husband to open the door to the study, but … but there was no sound.’

‘No sound … Ah! a moment, madame. I have it here.’

Kohler knew the look Louis gave the woman, that of a Sûreté who hadn’t believed for a minute what she’d said.

‘By itself, and simply drinking the nitrobenzene, madame, any reaction would have been delayed for at least an hour, but your husband, as you know, realized what had happened and immediately tried to check the contents of the container, and during this, spilled the oil of mirbane and got it on his hands and clothes. As a result, the reaction was much more rapid and death took place within an hour. An hour, Madame de Bonnevies.’

‘Between eight twenty and nine twenty,’ muttered Käthe Hillebrand, ‘or between seven fifty and eight fifty …’

‘Or between eight fifty and nine fifty,’ said St-Cyr, ‘which would be suitable, of course, but we want that hour prior to death, don’t we, and Madame de Bonnevies has just told us her husband had gone out to open the gates at …?’

‘At eight thirty. My watch, it’s … it’s not so good any more.’

‘Off by an hour?’ asked the Sûreté. ‘Still on the old time perhaps?’

She swallowed hard and admitted that this was possible.

‘Then let’s get it straight once and for all, madame. Your husband lay on the floor in agony – vomiting, passing out only to awaken moments later with a ragged gasp. Twitching, getting up – falling – knocking things over and …?’

‘And crying out my name, but … but I did not kill him. I swear it. I … I thought he was drunk.’

Her tears were very real, but still it would have to be asked. ‘Had he ever been drunk before in his study?’

‘No! Father … Father, tell him I didn’t do it. Tell him I sat in the kitchen, listening to Alexandre – knowing something must be wrong and that I should go to him, but that the years of bitterness had been too many.’

‘Inspector …’

‘Later, Father. Later. And Frau Schlacht, madame?’ asked St-Cyr.

‘She came to the front entrance and I let her into the house. Together we broke a pane of glass in the back door and found my husband on the floor.’

‘Dead?’

‘Of course.’

‘At what time, please?’

‘Time? I … I don’t know! How could I? My watch …’

‘Was it at the Hôtel Titania on a night table, madame? Were you nowhere near your house at the time of your husband’s death?’

‘Louis, when first interviewed she claimed she couldn’t possibly have known he was expecting a visitor.’

‘Absolutely a conflict, Hermann.’

‘All right. I … I didn’t find him until about three in the morning when Herr Schlacht dropped me off at the corner of the street. Alexandre’s bedroom door was open and he wasn’t in his bed. That’s … that’s when I broke the window and found him on the floor.’

‘And Frau Schlacht?’ asked Louis.

‘Must have put the lock on the outer door he had left open for her. I … I really don’t know but didn’t want you to find her name in his little book because … because Oskar had said she was up to something with my husband.’

He would give her the curt little nod of dismissal he usually gave on such occasions, thought St-Cyr, and then would distract her by going after the priest. ‘And now you, Father. Let’s get this over with quickly.’

‘I didn’t kill him. I would never have done that.’

‘Perhaps, but as his priest and confessor you knew all about what he’d been doing to Héloïse Debré and to Jean-Claude Leroux, the custodian of the catacombs, and you knew he wanted his sister to come home.’

‘Angèle-Marie was a madness of his. I couldn’t allow him to destroy Juliette’s life any more than he already had.’

‘So you gave the sister a taste of honey.’

‘Things had gone too far. Alexandre could be and was a monster and yet … and yet, he had much good in him.’

‘And after you’d been to see the sister?’

‘I went straight to the house to counsel Juliette, as she has stated.’

‘You knew where the nitrobenzene was kept, Father,’ said Kohler, ‘and unless I’m very mistaken, madame confided to you that she had been questioned by Herr Schlacht as to its whereabouts.’

‘The bottle of Amaretto was on the desk,’ continued Louis. ‘Monsieur de Bonnevies would pay the brothel his customary visit.’

‘He’d been very vocal, hadn’t he?’ said Kohler.

‘And had told you, Father, exactly what he’d do if madame’s son should return.’

These two would not stop until they had the truth, sighed Father Michel and said sadly, ‘Alexandre was beside himself with rage to which I, poor humble servant that I am, tried only to plead for reason. Étienne had done him no real harm. How could he continue to blame the boy for a love affair the child in its mother’s womb could have known nothing of.’

‘Your husband, madame,’ said St-Cyr. ‘I believe you knew very well what he intended to do should your efforts to free your son succeed.’

‘And these two were both in the house when that bottle sat alone on the desk,’ interjected Käthe Hillebrand.

‘No poison in it, eh, Louis, and then more than sufficient, even if he hadn’t cooperated by spilling it on himself.’

‘And a million francs,’ swore Honoré de Saussine. ‘Herr Schlacht must have offered it to you as well, Madame de Bonnevies.’

‘A million …,’ countered Juliette lividly. ‘Neither Father Michel nor I went into that study, Inspectors. The door was locked and I don’t have a key. I’ve never had one. Not even when Alexandre first brought me to the house of his mother and introduced me to the hatred and resentment he bore me.’

‘But you do have keys to the gates?’ asked St-Cyr and heard her saying, ‘Danielle has those for when looking after the hives. Not me, Inspector. Never me.’

‘But she has told us she left them in her room when out of the city?’

‘This … this I wouldn’t have been aware of.’

‘Of course you were.’

‘All right, I was, but I didn’t touch them.’

‘And could Danielle, knowing only too well what her father would do if Étienne was freed, not have left the city on Thursday as she claimed, but returned to the house late that afternoon?’

‘Danielle … It’s … it’s possible, but … but Etienne has not been freed. I would have known of this. My son would not have denied his mother the news I’ve been praying so hard for.’

‘Louis …’ Kohler indicated the SS major and two others who had come into the autopsy room. ‘They haven’t found her.’

‘Then let us hope the half-brother has come home.’

In total darkness 42 boulevard Maillot faced on to the Bois de Boulogne. Her heart sinking at what she must now go through, Juliette recalled that before the Defeat there had been tall iron gates, such handsome gates, bearing the de Trouvelot coat of arms, but these had been taken by the Occupier and shipped to the Reich as scrap metals. ‘To the Krupp factories at Essen!’ Madame de Trouvelot had charged, as if she had caused the loss and was still to blame for … What? she asked herself. For bearing her son’s only child and keeping silent the family name.

She remembered begging the woman to free Étienne before he died in the camps. ‘On 5 November of last year I went down on my knees to her, Inspectors,’ she confessed, her voice breaking. ‘Tears that should never have fallen in front of one such as her, wet my cheeks and I could not stop them just as now. I told her the name of the waiter at Maxim’s that Oskar had said could help me. Fifty thousand francs … a hundred thousand – they were nothing to her. Oh bien sûr, the Occupier has requisitioned her beautiful house but pays her a healthy rent, and yes, she now lives in one room – the library. Henri-Christophe loved that room and, when forced to move, she chose it above all others, but the Generalmajor who lives here and commands the Luftwaffe in Paris and the Île de France is an understanding man. Her meals deny her nothing. She has the use of the garden and is free to come and go as she pleases. Sometimes even the car is available, but you’ll get nothing from her. She hated me and hated the thought of her son marrying me. To her I was a tramp and nothing Henri-Christophe could do or say could ever change her opinion. My father was a shopkeeper. I had lured her son into illicit sexual encounters to elevate my own status, disregarding entirely that I would bring down that of his family.’

‘Louis, let me stay here with madame and the others,’ sighed Kohler. ‘Don’t bugger about looking for answers we might or might not need. Just ask the woman if she paid up and if the boy was freed.’

‘She didn’t!’ wept Juliette. ‘She laughed at my attempts to beg and told me that now I must really pay for my sins. My sins, when Henri-Christophe and I were so in love our hearts ached to be with one another and we could hardly wait to go to a hotel. A hotel … Ah! I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Ours was a secret, an amour fou, and I can still feel the first time he kissed me, the first brush of his hands on my breasts, the tenderness of his caresses, the first time he entered me, the rush of it, the joy, the eagerness of us both.’

‘My child …’

‘Father, don’t you dare patronize me! You knew the agony I was living. You, who married me to that bastard!’

‘It was for the best.’

‘Sacré nom de nom, how can you say such a thing? You who knew him far better than anyone else!’

Pocketing the keys, Louis got out and came round to the other side of the car. Kohler saw him look up to that God of his to ask for help. Danielle de Bonnevies was terrified and on the run and probably trying to reach her brother before it was too late for him, but if no brother, then what? he asked himself and answered, A quiet place where the roots of Helleborus niger can be ground or simply eaten as is.

A sentry challenged Louis as he stepped between the stone gates, and the beam of a blue-blinkered torch swept over him before alighting on the proffered Sûreté badge and identity papers. Madame de Bonnevies gave a ragged sob to which Father Michel impatiently said, ‘If Étienne de Bonnevies has come home, Inspector, then I greatly fear you have no need to look further for your murderer.’

Frau Hillebrand simply smoked a cigarette in silence and stared out her side window while Honoré de Saussine muttered things to himself.

The sofa and armchairs had been in the library since well before the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 to ’71, felt St-Cyr. Their wine-red morocco was crackled and faded but also wore that dark patina of solid comfort and many cigars. Books climbed to the ceiling.

‘Inspector, I’ll be frank. I’m a woman who never had any patience for waiters, street beggars, or the police and other civil servants. Please state your reason for this invasion of my privacy.’

Madame de Trouvelot was in her early eighties, a tall, slim, dignified woman in a soft grey prewar suit of immaculate cut. The single strand of pearls was worth a fortune, the rings and brooch, too, but exactly the right amount of jewellery was worn, no more, no less. The face was narrow, the nose bringing together a sharpness whose deep blue eyes perceptively assessed this Sûreté and plumbed for the depths of his little visit. No matter what Hermann had advised, one did not go quickly with a woman such as this because she simply would not allow it. The bourgeoisie aisée, the really well off, could often be so difficult.

‘The aristocracy,’ she said, having read his thoughts. ‘Oh do sit by the fire. You find me in much reduced circumstances, Inspector, but living in one room saves on my having to employ a lot of ungrateful servants. My cook is considerably happier, since he can now steal far more and his new employer is apparently oblivious to it. The maids smile because they are fed a daily diet of compliments and little presents by the Generalmajor’s staff who want, no doubt, to get under their skirts. The chauffeur, however, still considers himself above such plebeianisms, since I’ve always turned a blind eye to his philandering, even to his disgusting habit, when I am not present, of using the back seat of my automobile for his liaisons sexuelles.’

‘Madame, a small matter. A few questions. Nothing difficult, I assure you.’

‘Must you be so tiresome?’

‘The library is pleasant.’

‘Am I to understand that you are interested in real estate?’

‘Madame, the watercolours that hang among the Old Masters, the exquisite array of small bronzes on your mantelpiece, that portrait photograph … May I?’

‘Since you have already picked it up, who am I to deny the police their pleasure in these days of trial?’

She would take a cigarette now, thought Marie-Elisabeth. This presumptuous Sûreté would try to offer a light she would coldly refuse.

‘I have sufficient,’ she said, flicking the lighter the Generalmajor Krüger had given her. She’d let this Sûreté see that it bore the SS runes and swastika, a piece of cheapness the Generalmajor had not wanted on his person perhaps, but an item also that necessity had forced upon her.

‘Madame, this portrait photograph is of Juliette de Bonnevies née de Goncourt.’

‘Beautiful, wasn’t she, at the age of nineteen? Pregnancy always makes a girl radiant in its first month or two. Flushed, warm, soft, tender. A seductress, Inspector. The earrings dangling like that. Cheap seed pearls and rhinestones that fooled no one.’

‘Diamonds, madame. Two strands of magnificent pearls which match in lustre the seeds but are larger and far more expensive. Your son … Did he, perhaps, give them to her?’

‘How dare you?’

The dress, of a white silk crêpe de Chine, was worn well off the shoulder and with double straps. On the right wrist there was the slim, black leather band of a Hermes watch, on the left, some bracelets, no doubt from Cartier’s and again of diamonds. The straight jet-black hair was parted in the middle and pulled back tightly, the dark eyes magnificent and full of warmth and happiness, nothing else. A young girl who was sitting sideways, so as to look over her right shoulder at the camera. Not shy, not bold, just herself and totally in love.

‘A girl of few morals and loose ways, Inspector. Oh bien sûr, she seduced my son and the boy wanted desperately to marry her, but passion and love are the least of reasons for one to marry and we could not allow it. A position was found in the Service Diplomatique for Henri-Christophe and we sent him to Indochina. The girl married and had her child, a son, I believe, and then a daughter.’

‘And you’ve not seen her since?’ He indicated the photo.

‘Not since.’

‘Then why, please, have you the photo out? Why the bronzes, the watercolours, all of which were done by Étienne de Bonnevies?’

The Inspector leaped from his chair to touch the bronzes. ‘Sandpipers,’ he said. ‘Swans. A girl of fifteen, Madame de Trouvelot, a mermaid rising from the Seine near …’

‘Do you really think I would let that woman know I had bought them, Inspector? Ah! you police, you’re all the same. Of course I had them removed before she came to see me. I had to have my revenge, but one mustn’t go too far with such things.’

‘You bought some of the boy’s work.’

‘As a way of encouraging him and because Henri-Christophe had genuinely admired his talent. They never met, of course. To have done so would have been for my son to have broken his solemn promise to me.’

‘Then how did he know the boy had talent?’

‘Because that mother of his once stopped my son in the street and gave him some of the boy’s sketches.’

The Sûrete put the mermaid back. ‘The boy’s sister,’ she said, ‘but he does not, I am forced to say, and glad of it too, think of her in the way a man usually thinks of a naked girl.’

She would give this one a moment to digest such a morsel, thought Marie-Élisabeth, and then would leave him to consider it. ‘Inspector, Juliette should have come to me long before she did. To think that the boy has languished in prisoner-of-war camps all these years since the Defeat. I went the very next day, the sixth of November, to Maxim’s and made enquiries. Fifty thousand francs was, of course, outrageous, but waiters have never known their proper place and times like these only make them far more arrogant. The boy is never to return to the house of that mother of his, you understand, but has sent me a note that he is safely back in France and staying at the country house where he had, before the war, a studio. He will pay me a visit only when I ask it of him. He has, I gather, started to paint again.’

‘At the country house …’

‘That is just what I said. Really, Inspector, you can’t have expected me to have told Juliette? Surely not.’

‘And have you paid this waiter the final fifty thousand francs?’

‘As agreed. I did so as soon as I received the boy’s letter. It was written on the fourth of this month and arrived on the sixth – the mail these days is simply not what it used to be. I went to the restaurant on the seventh.’

‘Might I see the letter?’

‘It’s there beside the rose my son gave me when he was called away to Berlin.’

‘As a diplomat?’

‘Thirteenth September 1938. A road accident. There was heavy rain and fog. The other car was totally demolished. Three people … The police claimed they were driving too fast and that my son was in the right, but …’ She shrugged. ‘These things are never clear when they happen in such places and at such times, are they?’

A nod would be best, since the son could well have been on sensitive business and murdered by the Nazis. The letter seemed genuine enough but, still, he’d best ask, ‘Have you ever had any other letters from Étienne de Bonnevies?’

‘The signature matches that on his sketches, Inspector, and I am satisfied as best I can be.’

‘Good. Madame, you stated that the boy would pay you a—’

‘Inspector, I thought I had made myself clear. He’s very talented and most of what you have seen of this house, and whatever else I possess, will soon be his. I have no other heir to whom I would wish to leave my estate.’

‘But he doesn’t look at naked girls in the way your son looked at Juliette de Goncourt?’

A slight tremor caused her to put her cigarette down, though she said nothing, which was to her credit, since she was trying to protect the boy and still uncertain of this Sûreté.

‘Madame, my partner and I are of the law, but believe it should be tempered with reason and compassion wherever possible. Homosexuality is deemed illegal these days, and both our Government in Vichy and the Occupier wish vehemently to stamp it out. As a result, such men, and women, are imprisoned and sent into hard labour in the Reich, or shot.’

‘Or beaten to death, but you and your partner are open to reason. Is it not dangerous for you to admit such a thing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then understand that this is why I have insisted the boy stay out of Paris and away from that stepfather of his who will, I greatly fear if aware of his true nature, do everything in his power to have him arrested. Please prevent it from happening.’

‘Do you know Alexandre de Bonnevies?’

‘I know of him, Inspector. I’ve always known. A woman in my position has to, though these days I am not so able to find things out as quickly as I would wish.’

‘And the daughter, Danielle?’

‘When I decided to purchase my grandson’s freedom, I had the girl brought here and told her. I wanted to be absolutely certain no harm came to him, and was fully satisfied by her responses and manner. She struck me as being a very intelligent, very capable young woman who loved my grandson dearly. She explained his need to use her as a model, since he had so little money and could not hire another, and while I did not agree, I understood perfectly the sincerity of her reasoning. He is extremely talented, and she wanted only to help him.’

A match was struck, hands were cupped, and out of the night, the left side of Kohler’s face appeared briefly as he lit a cigarette. Then the match went out and there was only that tiny glow as he leaned on his crutches and secretly shared the cigarette with the sentry. Their voices were muffled. Maybe they’d be talking of home, thought Käthe. Maybe Kohler would joke about a little, but as sure as she was sitting here watching him, she knew he had deliberately left the four of them alone in the car.

Again the image of that scar came to her. Kohler had defied the SS in his and St-Cyr’s holier-than-thou pursuit of the guilty and they had savagely struck him with a rawhide whip some months ago. Ever since then, both men had been distrusted and reviled by many in the SS and Gestapo, and the Höherer SS und Polizeiführer Oberg would be fully cognizant of this and wouldn’t want the Palais d’Eiffel to be closed and a scandal to erupt.

Oskar was worth too much to him, and to others in high places, but also knew too much and would be a decided embarrassment should things go wrong. Oberg had been very clear on this. Settle things or else. Get de Bonnevies out of the way. Never had she seen Oskar in such a state. ‘Juliette will open the door of the house and ask you in when you tell her I’ve sent a message. She won’t suspect a thing.’

Oil of mirbane. It would be on a shelf in the study. The bottle of Amaretto had been on the desk …

Glancing up into the rearview mirror, she tried to meet the gaze Juliette must give, but there was only darkness. I know she’s watching me, said Käthe silently. Oskar had been so tired of Uma and had wanted his little bit of fun, and it had been exciting – lots and lots of laughs and sex; sex like she’d never experienced before, but now … Would Kohler and his partner really try to smooth things over and hide the truth?

Juliette had pulled off a glove. Her fingertips were cold when Käthe felt them touch the nape of her neck. ‘A cigarette?’ asked the woman. ‘Could I have one, please?’

I know you speak and understand French. How else could Oskar have managed when he first came to the city?

‘Of course. Here … here, let me light it for you.’

The lighter was flicked twice, the flame lit up the front seat of the car, but then … then the light went out so quickly, thought Juliette, and said diffidently, ‘Merci,’ as she took the proffered cigarette and put it between her lips. Lips that have kissed yours, Frau Hillebrand? she silently asked. I was blindfolded, wasn’t I, each time you came into Room 4-18 at the Hotel Titania to find me naked and with my hands tied behind my back? Was it you who insisted on the blindfold? You would always say a few words in French to calm me, but I sensed you were afraid if you said more I might be able to recognize you. You trembled, you were so anxious sometimes. Later the smell of the Javel would always be on my fingertips, and you, Frau Hillebrand, are a part of the reason for this. Of course I wanted that husband of mine dead. Of course I lied when questioned by St-Cyr. When one has so much to hide, what are a few more things?

Oskar knew where the oil of mirbane was kept, Käthe, because I had told him when asked. And getting the keys to the study and to the gates presented little difficulty. There was beeswax on my front-door key one time. Was it wax from when an impression had been made? With that key, it was then possible for someone to enter the house, but will the detectives believe this if I tell them?

Alexandre usually left his keys on the bureau in his bedroom when he hung up his suit, Käthe. He slept soundly for a man of such cruelty and was so arrogant he never believed for a moment anyone would dare to enter his room at night.

Danielle, when away, would leave her keys behind and when at home would set them on her night-table before bed. Danielle whose breath came uneasily in a sleep that was often troubled. She fears the worst, poor thing, and has run for her life, but can’t run to Étienne who would surely have come home if he could have to instantly free me from my agony.

Étienne who is so sensitive a creature, an original in his own right, but never one like Alexandre.

Étienne who is locked up with hundreds and hundreds of lonely men, Käthe, most of whom will only abuse him terribly.

‘Father, I did what I had to do,’ she said and offered to share the cigarette, an offer that wasn’t refused, for he answered softly, ‘My child, God hears and understands.’

‘But will He forgive me?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course, as He forgives all who truly repent and accept His love.’

‘Then will He forgive my son for being the way he is?’

‘And what way is that?’

‘You know, so please don’t ask me to say it.’

‘Then yes. Yes, He will. My child, did you manage the boy’s release? Danielle would not have run like that unless she believed Étienne had come home and had killed Alexandre.’

‘Father, Madame de Trouvelot adamantly refused to help me. Étienne will not have come home.’

‘That boy poisoned Alexandre, didn’t he?’ snapped Honoré de Saussine. ‘While we’re all being held for something we didn’t do, he runs free and that sister of his runs after him!’

‘You were offered money,’ countered Juliette swiftly. ‘Oskar must have had a set of keys made to the house and study, mon ami. Please don’t forget that when the opportunity arises I will definitely inform the detectives of this!’

‘Salope!’ swore de Saussine. ‘Putain!’

Kohler yanked open the rear door and leaned into the car to confront him. ‘Our beekeeper was one hell of a problem, wasn’t he, mon fin? He’d have let you have your day in court and willingly would have seen you thrown out of that Society and shut down hard.’

‘I didn’t do it!’ shrilled de Saussine. ‘I didn’t need to because Herr Schlacht had arranged for …’ Ah merde, had he walked himself to the widow-maker? he wondered, sickened by the thought. ‘I … I shouldn’t have said that. I … I spoke in haste.’

‘Had arranged for whom, exactly, to do the job, eh? Frau Hillebrand?’

‘I didn’t!’ cried Käthe. I couldn’t! I … I went there, yes, to the house in the afternoon but … but didn’t even ring the front bell!’

‘We’ll see then, won’t we, but it’s good of you to have let us know you were there on the day he died. Now which of you knows anything about Helleborus niger, the Christmas rose?’

‘The leaves, the stems and roots are poisonous,’ said Father Michel. ‘But why, please, do you wish me to say this?’

They listened, Juliette swallowing hard but saying nothing. ‘Violent inflammation of the skin where the plant has touched it. Vomiting and purging that can’t be stopped – the bowels ache to pass waste and constrict but can’t void a thing because you’re totally empty. Severe abdominal cramps and numbness – one of its ingredients, helleborin, is a narcotic; another, helleborein, is a cardiac poison. There is copious sweating – you constantly drool, but can’t figure out what the hell is happening to you. Your heartbeat is very rapid but so faint you can hardly feel it. Consciousness remains until about ten minutes before death, but you drift into and out of it until, at last, the nerve centres that control the heart finally become paralysed. Your daughter, madame, intends to kill herself.’

The driver’s side door was yanked open. Breathlessly Louis crammed himself behind the steering wheel and jammed the key into the ignition. The tyres screeched. He made a sharp U-turn on the boulevard Maillot and they shot eastwards towards Charonne. There were a few bicycles and bicycle-taxis, a gazogene lorry … Tiny blue-blinkered red brake lights, a pedestrian crossing, a traffic cop …

The horn was leaned on and they were through.

‘The grandmother paid up, Hermann. Étienne de Bonnevies has come home and Danielle will try to reach him before we do or the SS take her. There’s also a gun, the service revolver belonging to Captain Henri-Alphonse Vallée, madame. A Lebel Modèle d’ordonnance.’

A gun … Ah Scheisse! ‘The black-powder cartridges, Louis?’

They might be damp because of their age. ‘Perhaps, since Vallése is definitely of the old school, but if not the 1873, Hermann, then the 1892 and the 8mm smokeless. Madame, where is it hidden?’

‘I … I don’t know. How could I? Alexandre …’

‘Come, come, madame, we’ve no time to lose. Please understand that if the SS or anyone else should arrest your daughter and find that on her, there will be nothing my partner and I can do to save her.’