An easy exit? wondered St-Cyr, glancing sternly at Kohler before saying, ‘Hermann, I think you’d better leave this to me.’
‘My patience is gone, Louis. Half those bastards in the fields are of military age, and most of that half are in their twenties.’
‘Why else would France have lost the war? If not at the breast then at the prayers, eh? A nation of shits, Hermann. I don’t like it any better than you.’
All this, of course, the monk overheard.
Columned cloisters led to others and others. Open portals let in all weathers and the wind up here sighed as their steps echoed.
They passed a scriptorium where monks diligently copied centuries-old writings or made fervent little notes to themselves on scraps of paper – odd bits of old envelopes, the backs of letters from home.
They crossed the main dining hall beneath arched beams and carved stones. The heavy, dark oak tables and their benches were the original ones. Kohler would swear to it.
Great black iron rings on heavy chains held candles that hung from the ceiling but how the hell could they possibly light the things? They were way up there among the gods.
Down a narrow passage, now thoroughly lost, they came to a black oak door upon which a fierce and much-bearded Adam held the gnarled club of a branch in one fist and a shield in the other. Some poor bugger’s head was clutched by the hair. Now what the hell … had that been in the Good Book?
The corridor resounded to the banging the monk gave the door. A slot shot into place – black letters on white wood: BUSY.
Nothing else.
The monk indicated two narrow benches. You must wait, he motioned, touching his lips in the gesture of silence.
Kohler stepped past him and tried the door. ‘It’s bolted. He’s busy,’ whispered Brother Andrew. ‘I must leave you now, messieurs. May God forgive me for speaking on this holy of holy days.’
His departing figure fluttered down the draughty passage. Sandals and bare feet … Jesus Christ! ‘They’ve got us right where they want us, Louis. So, why the cold shoulder, eh?’
‘Because of this, I think, Hermann. Did you not notice them?’
Kohler looked at the fist-sized boulder St-Cyr placed in his hand. ‘Flint,’ he heard himself saying. ‘A brownish, off-white, cream-coloured flint.’
The Bavarian lifted questioning eyes to his partner.
St-Cyr fished out his pipe. Hermann needed a little time – one must not appear too intelligent.
He lit up, got the furnace going, then ran his eyes over the Adam and Eve. Such differences the progress of civilization had made in the perception of those two. They were very savage, very Germanic-looking. At war with the world.
‘The boulder that killed the boy, Hermann. I should have seen it. It was stupid of me not to have.’
‘A hunk of flint like this?’ asked the Bavarian incredulously.
The Frenchman nodded. ‘At the time, I thought nothing of it – river transport, glaciers – gravel from somewhere. It comes from many places when it’s spread along a road. But I have to admit, Fontainebleau Woods is blessed with much dark brown and grey sandstone. That boulder came from here.’
The rheumy, sad dog’s eyes lifted in their pouches. ‘Louis, just what the hell have we got ourselves into this time?’
St-Cyr savoured the moment. Crime never ceased to fascinate him. ‘We have a real murder on our hands, Hermann. What was once apparently so simple has now become a quite different matter.’
‘Then you no longer think we had it pegged?’
‘Far from it. No, my friend, we are almost certainly going to be forced to strip back the layers of the fungus, teasing out each slender thread until we have unravelled the whole thing.’
Louis loved nothing better than a good case but … ‘I only hope von Schaumburg will listen.’ Glotz … there was also the problem of Brother Glotz to contend with, and Boemelburg, of course.
‘Von Schaumburg will listen, Hermann. It’s the Resistance that bothers me.’
‘They won’t have sent you a little black coffin, Louis.’
‘Me, I’m afraid that is just what they’ve done.’
‘The flint is what gives our wine its noble flavour, messieurs,’ said the Reverend Father, gazing sadly at the boulder the French detective had plunked down in the middle of his desk.
St-Cyr knew the business of the boulder was still very much a gamble but a little emphasis wouldn’t hurt, and as for the vows of silence, the boulder had shattered them. ‘It’s what led us to your abbey, Reverend Father. That and my humble knowledge of the Vouvray, that greatest of the Loire wines, next to the Anjou of course.’
The Anjou … pah! ‘Our silicious clay, Inspector – the perruches – produces a delicate wine, very light, you understand, but exceedingly noble, whereas the aubuis, our other clay, has much limestone in it. The fruity flavour of its grape is therefore very piquant and the wine a good keeper. We do not blend them. The one cancels the other, but I suppose you know all this?’
The abbot searched the faces of the two men. He must be careful. God grant him the grace and wisdom to deal with the matter. So much was at stake. The boulder had come from the perruches on the hillside below the abbey but had the one which had killed the boy also come from there?
‘Brother Michael was the Novice Jerome’s mentor. You will. want to talk to him, Inspectors, and I must release him from his vow of silence.’
The heave of his robust shoulders was one of, You see what a man of the cloth has to do? ‘Our Lady Scholastica, messieurs. The brothers are always having their little visitations. Ever since this past summer, in the heat of August. First one dreams of her and then another. All plead for a day’s silence and me, I can see that it can do no harm to allow them a certain penance.’
You wise old owl, thought Kohler, snorting inwardly. Who was it they saw bathing in the river? The Arcuri woman or her maid? ‘Our Lady Scholastica …’ A hiked-up habit, eh? Come on now, Reverend Father.
The abbot’s gaze was clear. ‘We will find Brother Michael in the caves, messieurs. If you would be good enough to follow me, I will, of course, have to take you there myself. No one else can release Brother Michael from his vow. He’s very strict, that one. He refuses even to communicate by gestures or written words on such days. Me, I am concerned he might fall ill at such a time but … ah, God will never refuse grace. He had much patience with Brother Jerome, you understand. Infinite patience. They argued of course. What more can I say? The wine, you understand. The shipments to Paris and elsewhere. The Germans … Forgive me, Inspector Kohler. Once released, you see what the tongue does. Midnight is still a long way off.’
He lifted tired, brown, worried eyes from the boulder, then thought better of leaving the thing so openly on the desk.
Pocketing the boulder somewhere in the coarse black habit, he came round the desk, was all graciousness now. ‘We will have a glass of our wine in the cellars, eh? In honour of your little visit, and perhaps if it is to your taste, a bottle or two to take away with you.’
One thing was certain, they’d never get to talk to Brother Michael alone.
A corridor led to stone steps and these, down to the start of a long tunnel which ran under the hill for some distance.
‘Voila, our caves, messieurs,’ said the abbot. He was obviously pleased with the effect, though he must have shown the place thousands of times.
The ‘caves’ were huge and lit by infrequent electric lights. Rows and rows of barrels lay on their sides. Beyond the barrels there were other caves that held racks of bottles. Here and there in the feeble light silent monks patiently turned bottle after bottle.
‘It’s done each day,’ confided St-Cyr.