Mayhem (20 page)

Everywhere they looked there were potential hiding places and routes of escape.

St-Cyr yanked on the heavy iron chain. A distant bell thudded in cloistered warrens. An eternity passed before the bolts clashed and at last the iron-studded door was eased open.

A silent rock of ages with bright, mischievous eyes, stooped shoulders and a toothless grin motioned them in as if in secret.

The House-guest Brother.

‘It's a day for silence, messieurs. Our humble apologies but none are allowed to speak until after the service at midnight.'

His eyes lit up at the prospect of such a late service. Kohler simply lost patience. ‘Gestapo, you ancient fart! Take us to the abbot and I'll show you the worth of your “vow” of silence! We're on a murder case.'

The mischievousness disappeared. Brother Andrew calmly studied this German as if such a thing had never been seen before. Without another word, he beckoned them to follow. He even left the door wide open. Perhaps it was too heavy.

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 Jérome'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 Jérome, 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.

‘Voilà, 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.

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 Jérome'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 Jérome 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 Thériault, 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 Jérome, 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 gazogène. 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 Jérome 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 Jérome 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.'