‘I’m to take you to the singers, messieurs. As it is the afternoon, you will find them at practice in the salon where there is a fire.’
‘They never use the tower for their music and … and other things in winter,’ chimed in the daughter only to receive the sharp sting of, ‘Gina!’ Nothing else.
At least thirty-five years separated the father from the mother. The daughter burst into tears but wept silently. She’d have had to, poor kid, thought Kohler, not liking it.
‘Come on, Louis. Let’s see what the singers have to say.’
It was the Sûreté who cautioned the father. ‘We may want to question your daughter, monsieur. Please be certain she isn’t punished for anything she might wish to confide in private or anything you might think she has said even though she denies it.’
They fell behind the bastard so as to have a quiet word as they went up the spiral staircase to the first floor. ‘You’ll get a knife in the guts one of these days if you’re not careful,’ hissed Kohler softly. ‘Tout doux, eh? and that’s an order!’
Take it easy … ‘Bon, then I’ll let you miss what you should have seen.’
Startled, Kohler stopped him. ‘What?’
St-Cyr gave a nod towards the concierge’s retreating boots. ‘Rabbit dung and hairs. Bits of winter grass too, and lavender.’
‘Ah Christ …’
Genoese velvet, silk and wool; damask from the north. Cotton, muslin, quilted muslin, linen with a plain weave, a twill weave, block-printed cloth, plain cloth, fine cloth, ivory silk and gold brocade, silver, too, the silk so fine it was as if transparent, the colours so striking they clashed, they harmonized, they leapt at one. Emerald green, matt red, sky blue, sea blue, dove blue, orange, a fiery orange, burnt umber, a beige, a cocoa-brown, a soft yellow, saffron yellow, purple … wine purple flowing, melding as the part song raced to fill the ears, its background, ‘ch’i … ch’i… ch’i … rom-, rom-, rom-,’ the melody and words leaping away in, ‘So-spi-ra Dolce-men … te et s’a di-ra Con pa ro — le ch’i sas — ’.*
She sigh-eth oh so gent-ly, then fli-eth in a ra-ging with words …
The six of them sat to one side and with their backs to a magnificently carved Renaissance fireplace. A blonde girl was on a dais, with an exquisite lute in her hands and outspread lap. Christiane Bissert sat below her and to the left, a recorder ready; Xavier the same but to her right, while the young men, the boys — everyone still called them that these days — flanked him, voice following voice, the part song light and full of laughter, yet sad, too.
They didn’t hesitate. They carried right on into the Silver Swan which they sang in French with evident delight and then … then a long madrigal in which occurred the line, ‘Tue! à mort’.*
Kill! To the death!
The fire was of olive logs, the salon hung with tapestries and filled with far more recent fine antique furniture and sunlight, so that one saw the group bathed in soft gold, while across the blonde’s hair and the shoulders of the crimson cloak she wore the firelight flickered. Stunning blue eyes there, but dark brown eyes, too, grey eyes, greeny-brown eyes … None of the singers wore jewellery of any kind, noticed St-Cyr, but they sang so perfectly each was completely at ease with the others.
The introduction over, their response to the killing, given each in his or her own words, was also as one.
‘Mireille didn’t work out.’
‘We tried, but with some, no matter how great the desire, they simply do not have what it takes.’
‘The intonation.’
‘The tenuosity.’
‘The ability to hear all other parts while singing precisely as directed.’
‘With a full voice.’
‘From the heart.’
‘Or not at all.’
‘From the soul.’
‘With love.’
‘Desire.’
‘Hatred too.’
‘Merde! What’re we to do with them?’ blurted the Sûreté.
‘Use the scissors and cut each one off from all the others,’ said Kohler firmly.
‘Find the music, read the part and let us each audition for you.’
Christiane Bissert had said this and, swiftly exchanging a knowing glance with the lute player, bid the Sûreté to follow. ‘Ma chambre à coucher, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It’s very private and will allow me to strip the soul bare without the distraction of other voices.’
Kohler chose the blonde who, having swiftly turned her back on her fellow musicians, and having carefully set her lute aside, warmed her hands while gazing raptly into the flames.
The men, the boys, drifted off as males will do when uneasy, with the cops around.
She was almost as tall as he was, she thought. ‘Name?’ he said, and he was formidable. A scar … but such a scar. Could he bed a woman with that? What sort of woman? she wondered.
‘Genèvieve Ravier, Canto Primus.’
‘Pardon?’
The smile she gave was frail and disconcerting.
‘Primo Soprano, Ispettore. First Soprano. Xavier is the other but his voice …’ she said hesitantly and left the thought hanging but the detective didn’t ask further. ‘Shall we sit, Inspector, or do you always prefer to stand when questioning a suspect?’
‘No one said you were suspected of anything.’
‘Merci,’ she said so softly he could hardly have heard her, and turning her back to the fire, added, ‘That is good to know. We all thought … I mean, she was one of us. Well, almost. We were with her that afternoon. She came here — were you not aware of this? We sang together for two hours, at least. Over and over again. The works of Landini, Marenzio and Monteverdi. Lots of others, too, for none ever know what the judges will demand. Xavier hadn’t returned from the harvest — at least, I don’t think he had — so Mireille sang his part but …’ She shrugged. ‘But what can I say?’
‘No good, eh?’
She faced him silently for a moment, her expression candid and searching.
‘We are a unit and complete, Inspector. It’s like two lovers engaged in the act of giving themselves to each other. The energy of each, the will, the striving to le grand frisson — I’orgasme — is shared equally if success is to be guaranteed, but with us, you understand, there are six.’
A regular partouse, an orgy, was that it, eh? ‘Let’s sit down, then.’
‘Let’s.’
Not dyed, her hair was parted in the middle and fell almost to her shoulders, but two tresses at the front had been shortened and these framed the soft oval of her face, half hiding her eyes, which were widely set and of clear conscience, perhaps. The skin was smooth and creamy, but definitely not that of the postcard. ‘Your age?’ he asked.
‘You like pretty girls, Inspector, but I am, I fear, making you nervous.’
‘It’s the costume, the six hundred years that separate us. I don’t want to see another murder like that. The throat …’
‘Me?’ she cried, startled.
‘Your age?’ he demanded.
His little black notebook was pressed open on the left knee of his trousers. Involuntarily a shiver passed through her and she cursed herself for having let it escape. ‘Twenty-three. I’ve been a student of César’s for the past five years, one of his singers now for three and a half.’