If drunk on it, she wouldn’t have felt a thing or remembered much. And as sure as he was standing here, someone had taken close-ups of her breasts and had cut off a few curls of her hair. Enough for how many postcards? he wondered, and decided Louis and he had better find out. But Louis was still busy.
Drawing on his pipe, St-Cyr took out the little black notebook that had always served him well, both for the apprehension it induced in a suspect — and Rivaille was most certainly that! — and for the record that would be made.
‘Bishop, pardon a simple detective, but could you state absolutely for me that there was an audition on Monday evening, 25 January 1943?’
So it was to be like this after all, the pedantic, cleat-booted mind of the Paris flic St-Cyr had once been. ‘Even such as yourself can rise up through the ranks to attend the Police Academy and earn laurels as a pugiliste.’
A boxeur who had won acceptance not just for the fists. ‘Bishop, please answer the question.’
‘Then, yes, at ten o’clock that evening.’
‘Wasn’t that a …’
‘A little late? It was the earliest that could be arranged.’
‘You dined out, I gather?’
‘With the Kommandant and Maître Simondi.’
Offer nothing more than asked — was that it, eh? ‘You had details to discuss about an upcoming concert and a tour the singers were to make.’
‘Schedules, laissez-passers, sauf-conduits only the Kommandant could issue. The singers don’t just entertain our citizens, Inspector. We have to think of our friends as well.’
The Occupier. The troops, their officers, and yet another warning …‘Was Frau von Mahler present?’
‘During the meal or before it?’
‘Both, and just afterwards. Let’s get things straight so as to save time.’
‘Then, yes. For this occasion only. It … ah, mais certainement it wasn’t that dear lady’s custom to dine with others than her immediate family, or to show her face in public. The burns, the terrible scars most of which are not those of the skin but of the …’
Rivaille hauled himself to a stop.
‘But of what, Bishop?’
‘Must you write down everything I say?’
‘Forgive me. It’s a habit from the old days. It’s in a shorthand few but myself could ever read. My partner constantly complains. Please don’t concern yourself a moment longer.’
Touché, was that it, eh? Ah! It would be best to give the Sûreté an impatient sigh and admit defeat so that the coup de filet, the knife stroke, could come later when most unexpected. ‘Frau von Mahler is still extremely terrified of fire — in the mind, you understand. She had nothing but praise for Mireille and was deeply concerned that the girl should at last succeed and be allowed to join the singers. Therefore that good lady set aside her own difficulties to put forth Mademoiselle de Sinéty’s case.’
‘And the third judge?’
‘Both César and I wanted the Kommandant to join us — it would’ve swung things the girl’s way, but von Mahler is a man of principle and claimed rightly that he wasn’t musically qualified.’
The Sûreté sucked on that pipe of his, seemingly to pass the hours in contemplation, thought Rivaille, a habit Paris had emphasized since it could also be used by the questioned to plan ahead.
‘The audition, Bishop. Could it not have been cancelled?’
Maudit! He was a nuisance. ‘The girl was fully prepared. Everything that she wore, apart from her clothing, had been patiently assembled from a variety of sources. Each piece was authentic and most were of considerable value. To turn the clock back, to deny her the weeks of preparation, would not have been right.’
One should choose an olive now, thought St-Cyr, to savour its taste as well as that of the Dutch pipe tobacco Hermann had been good enough to find in Paris. ‘The identity, then, of the third judge.’
‘Albert Renaud, the notaire public.’
‘The rue des Teinturiers …’
Good for Matthieu. ‘Yes.’
‘An old friend of her family. One of Simondi’s and yourself also, I gather.’
And a fellow Pénitent Noir, was that what this one was thinking? ‘A friend, yes.’ And a believer, then, in the dream of returning the Papacy to Avignon — he could see St-Cyr thinking this.
‘Was it usual for the singers to wear scissors, bells, enseignes … irreplaceable rings with a hair from the head of the Virgin?’
‘Maudit salaud! How dare you doubt me? No! Such things would only detract from the music and cause jealousy amongst the singers, and since we do not have sufficient nor could we risk their loss or damage.’
‘Bon. Then tell me, please, why Mireille de Sinéty insisted on wearing them to this audition?’
Had she not worn them before? was in the Sûreté’s expression and the bastard gave a satisfied nod to indicate as much. ‘Mireille … to understand her is to understand a commitment second only to that of her belief in God and the Church. The girl had tried everything, Inspector. It was her tenth audition — the eleventh perhaps. I can’t remember but will have it written down. She thought that this time, if she appeared exactly as one from the past, we, her judges, would have no other option but to admit her.’
‘Then the audition was unique in this regard?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you admit her?’
‘No.’
‘A brief answer, Bishop, for one who had prepared so diligently and had then been murdered. Did she take that to her death?’
‘I had nothing to do with her killing.’
‘I didn’t say you had.’
But it’s interesting I should state that I hadn’t, eh? thought Rivaille. Well, listen then! ‘The girl was too nervous. Her voice quavered. One can’t have that, can one? It’s the supreme test. To sing alone in the Grand Tinel or in the Cathedral itself, with only God to guide the voice and strengthen the heart, is not easy. All of us are aware of this. But the test quickly separates those who can overcome their fears and distrust from those who can’t. She also, on hearing the result, abruptly turned her back on us and left the hall which was, I must say, unforgivable of her.’
‘“Distrust”, Bishop? Please explain this.’
‘Ah! It was nothing. A matter from the past. The Avignon of those days wasn’t the Avignon of today. Young girls … the one she was named after. Recently married, loved dearly — treasured, but desired by another …’
‘Ordered to do what, Bishop?’
‘Summoned to the Papal Court to take up but a temporary residence. An honour … a great honour.’
‘Under duress.’
‘It was a foolishness our Mireille wouldn’t leave alone. Repeatedly I counselled compassion. The differences in our ways then, the forgiveness that is necessary if one is ever to come to grips with the past.’
Six hundred years ago …‘The girl’s husband and the de Sinéty family tried to get her back, didn’t they?’
‘And fell into disgrace, their lives in ruins, their properties confiscated even as she threw herself from the battlements of the Bell Tower.’
‘Was she murdered, Bishop?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I must.’
‘Then understand that nothing I could say or find in the manuscripts, court documents and letters of the time would satisfy our Mireille but the truth is, this girl from the past of her family simply jumped out of despair.’
A typical Provençal tale from the age of the troubadours, Hermann would have said, and snorted at the folly of such a waste. ‘Why couldn’t Mademoiselle de Sinéty be convinced, Bishop?’