They could hear the patient drip of water and against this, the shuffling sandals of the monks and the hush each bottle made as it was turned in the rack. It was like no other sound Kohler had heard.
Brother Michael was in the fermentation room, holding a glass of the white before a lighted candle, grim, taciturn, grizzled – well up in his sixties, a man of little patience when it came to the youth of today.
The black beret was clapped on the wide grey head. Hairs sprouted from beneath it. No monk’s tonsure for this one. No habit either. A man of less than medium height, he wore blue denim from head to ankle and sensible black boots.
The lips were turned down in grim contemplation of the wine. Sad grey eyes, bags under them, a full, hooked nose, so typically French, warts and moles and jowls … Kohler could just imagine him discussing the doubts of the flesh with that young boy. Had Brother Jerome’s pecker been stiff? he wondered. Had the good Brother Michael not caught the younger man at a little self-gratification?
Ah now …
‘Brother Michael, hear me,’ said the abbot, making the sign of the Cross.
The eyes fled anxiously from the glass to take them in. ‘Our Lady Scholastica frees you from your vow of silence, Brother,’ went on the abbot.
Still there was no sound from the man. Hurt-filled eyes now flicked from one to the other of them. ‘But I had a dream, Reverend Father …?’
‘It’s all right, Brother Michael. Our Lord will understand. Now don’t take on. A glass of your wine for our guests and then a private word, I think. Yes, that would suit God’s way and that of our Holy Rule.’
The wine was drawn from a barrel in yet another of the caverns. Brother Michael waited tensely for their reactions. St-Cyr wafted in the bouquet before letting the wine pass his lips.
It was a moelleux, of Sauterne sweetness and robust fruity flavour. Clean and crisp on the palate.
He nodded curtly. ‘It’s magnificent, Brother Michael. Me, I would like to purchase a dozen bottles if it were not for the rationing.’
Brother Michael heaved his shoulders. ‘It’s all sold in any case. Goering of the Luftwaffe sent his buyer. We will of course keep some for ourselves, but not much.’
‘Brother Michael …’ began St-Cyr.
‘Please allow me,’ interrupted the abbot. ‘Brother Michael, these gentlemen have come to see you on a matter of great delicacy. It appears, Brother, that the rock which killed our beloved Brother Jerome came from our district. Perhaps from as much as seven … perhaps eight, or would it be twelve kilometres over which the perruches would be found with its boulders?’
Brother Michael didn’t bat an eye. ‘Twenty-eight kilometres, Reverend Father. Much of the Domaine Theriault, our own, and downstream, I believe, as far as Rochercorbon there is such a silicious clay. Those boulders …’ He clucked his tongue. ‘They cause much trouble with the plough.’
St-Cyr again tried to step into things but the abbot smiled benignly. Apparently the vow of silence could only be broken one way. ‘They wish to know your opinions of Brother Jerome, Brother Michael. Please, I know how distressing this must be for you, but,’ the abbot clasped his hands in the sign of prayer, ‘God’s grace is infinitely understanding.’
The monk clucked his tongue and ground his false teeth. ‘The boy had no sense of vocation, Reverend Father. Always going off to see his sister. Doubts … plagued by doubts. Paris … when we shipped wine to Paris, he hid in our truck, our beloved gazogene. Brother Emanuel discovered him. He was not at the appointed place on the return journey.’
A fussy man once unleashed. The abbot, far from discouraging him, said, ‘And, Brother, what else? Theft, I believe.’
‘Yes … Yes, God forbid – we have nothing of our own here, but some will covet little things, Reverend Father. You know I’ve urged the birch many times. A small gold figurine the Brother Lucien found in the fields. Seven centuries of mould and worth something, I am certain.’
He paused to blink and blow his nose. He was obviously greatly distressed. ‘Brother Jerome sold the figurine in Paris, Reverend Father. He said he had to have money for prostitutes, Father. I have prayed for his soul ever since.’
‘Did anyone visit him here?’ attempted St-Cyr.
Kohler merely watched the proceedings, likening the pair of them to a couple of carnival shysters.
‘Visit?’ exclaimed Brother Michael, darting eyes at the abbot for reassurance. ‘Yes … yes of course he had visitors. Always that sister of his, always the long walks and talks, the cajoling, the pleading. Always picnics by the river. Swimming …’ He knew he’d said too much. God forgive him. ‘Brother Jerome was unclean, messieurs. Soiled.’
‘Now, Brother …’ began the abbot.
‘Our vows of chastity are sacred, Reverend Father.’
‘You have no proof, Brother Michael. This business of prostitutes in Paris was never proven. There wasn’t a shred of evidence. The boy was merely telling you to mind your own business. You must search your soul on this matter, Brother. I command that you do so.’
‘He made allegations of an improper nature against Brother Sebastian, our beekeeper, Reverend Father. I didn’t wish to trouble you with the matter until I had had the opportunity to investigate. He borrowed my bicycle far too many times,’ went on the wine maker. ‘I’d like to have it back. These old legs of mine…’
Again St-Cyr stepped in, this time with more success. ‘The Prefet of Barbizon will see that it is returned to you, but tell me, Brother Michael, to ride so far …? Would someone not have given him a lift?’
‘Plenty of times. The countess in her car. Others, too, perhaps.’ He gave a shrug and turned away.
Was the interview to be concluded on such a note of innuendo? ‘A moment, Brother,’ said St-Cyr desperately. ‘The General Hans Ackermann perhaps? He visits the chateau, I believe?’
‘The general …?’ Brother Michael flung a look at the abbot who calmly said:
‘A distant cousin, I believe, Brother Michael.’
‘Me, I don’t know about such things. I only know Brother Jerome was absent far too many times.’
St-Cyr gave them another moment then gambled. ‘Did he sign his will, Brother Michael?’
‘His will? No … No, he …’ Dear God forgive him. ‘No, he … he refused. When … when I went to look for it in his box in the scriptorium, it … it was missing, Reverend Father. I would have told you but …’
‘You should have told me, Brother Michael. I’ll see you before chapel. In my office! Gentlemen, your interview is concluded. Follow the arrows and they will lead you out to our road. Good day.’
‘What was that all about?’ asked Kohler when they’d gone some distance.
St-Cyr tossed his hands in a gesture to the gods of gambling on a shoestring. ‘As a Benedictine novice, Hermann, Brother Jerome was required to renounce all worldly goods and give himself to Christ and his God.’
‘So, what’s the problem?’
‘Ah, the problem, my friend. The problem … Before taking their final vows each novice signs over his worldly goods to the monastery. He makes out a will and it’s as if he has already died.’
‘But he couldn’t have had anything in any case? His father’s the Chef de Culture at the Domaine Theriault. The countess told me the family had worked for them for the past ninety-seven years. If that isn’t indentured slavery, I don’t know what is!’
‘It’s what the countess didn’t tell you that puzzles me, Hermann. Why, for instance, should the Benedictines accept such an unworthy candidate – true, he was escaping his military service like so many others and true, money – a donation – may have changed hands, but still …? And why was he such a pretty boy, as is the son of Mademoiselle Arcuri? No, my friend, there’s more to this than meets the eye. These old families …’ St-Cyr clucked his tongue and shook his head. ‘Sometimes life is so simple, Hermann, we don’t see the obvious.’