29
‘Captain Calque? Please sit down. And you, too, Lieutenant.’
Calque collapsed gratefully on to one of the three large sofas set around the fireplace. Then he levered himself back-up while the Countess sat down.
Macron, who had at first been tempted to perch on the arm of one of the sofas and dangle the soles of his painful feet in the air, thought better of it and joined him.
‘Would you both like some coffee?’
‘That’s quite all right.’
‘I shall order some for myself then. I always have coffee at this hour.’
Calque looked like a man who had forgotten to buy his lottery ticket and whose numbers had just flashed up on the television screen.
‘Are you sure you won’t join me?’
‘Well. Now that you mention it.’
‘Excellent. Milouins, a pot of coffee for three, please. And bring some madeleines.’
‘Yes, Madame.’ The footman backed out of the room.
Macron made another incredulous face but Calque refused to meet his eyes.
‘This is our summer house, Captain. In the nineteenth century it used to be our winter house, but everything changes, does it not? Now people seek out the sun. The hotter the better, no?’
Calque felt like blowing out his cheeks, but didn’t. He felt like a cigarette, but suspected that he might simply set off a hidden smoke alarm – or trigger a ruckus about ashtrays – if he gave in to his craving. He resolved to forgo both and not subject himself to any more stress than was strictly necessary. ‘I wanted to ask you something, Madame. Purely as a matter of record. About your husband’s titles.’
‘My son’s titles.’
‘Ah. Yes. Your son’s titles. Simple curiosity. Your son is a Pair de France, is he not?’
‘Yes. That is correct.’
‘But I understood there to be only twelve Pairs de France. Please correct me if I am wrong.’ He held up his fingers. ‘The Archbishop of Reims, who traditionally conducted the Royal crowning. The Bishops of Laon, Langres, Beauvais, Chalons and Noyons, who, respectively, anointed the King and bore his sceptre, his mantle, his ring and his belt. And then there were the Dukes of Normandy, Burgundy and Aquitaine (also known as Guyenne). The Duke of Burgundy bore the crown and fastened the belt. Normandy held the first square banner, with Guyenne holding the second. Finally there were the Counts: Champagne, Flanders and Toulouse. Toulouse carried the spurs, Flanders the sword and Champagne the Royal Standard. Am I not correct?’
‘Extraordinarily so. One would think that you had just this minute looked these names up in a book and memorised them.’
Calque fl ushed. He could feel the blood churning through his damaged nose.
‘No, Madame. Captain Calque really does know his stuff.’
Calque gave Macron an incredulous stare. Good God. Were we talking class solidarity here? That had to be the answer. There could be no other possible reason for Macron to defend him so sedulously and in so public a manner. Calque inclined his head in genuine appreciation. He must remember to make more of an effort with Macron. Encourage him more. Calque even felt the vestige of a slight affection clouding his habitual irritation at Macron’s youthful brashness. ‘And so we come to your husband’s family, Madame. Forgive me.
But I still don’t understand. This would surely make them the thirteenth Pair? But no record of such a Pair exists, as far as I am aware. What would your husband’s ancestor have carried during the Coronation?’
‘He wouldn’t have carried anything, Captain. He would have protected.’
‘Protected? Protected from whom?’
The Countess smiled. ‘From the Devil, of course.’
30
Yola felt that she’d timed her two interventions just about perfectly. First she’d sent Yeleni to wake Gavril and tell him that Bazena needed to speak to him. Urgently.
Then she’d allowed five minutes to go by before hurrying to tell Badu, Bazena’s father, that his daughter had just been seen begging outside the church. The five minutes were to allow for the fact that Badu and Stefan, Bazena’s brother, would undoubtedly hit the ground running the moment they heard the news. Now Yola was running herself, unwilling to miss the unravelling of her plot.
Alexi saw her coming. ‘Look. It’s Yola. And over there. Gavril. Oh shit. Badu and Stefan.’
To Sabir it seemed as if the scene had been loosely modelled on the car chase from the original Pink Panther fi lm – the one in which the old man, bewildered by the plethora of police cars and two horsepower Citroens circling the square in front of him, finally brings out his armchair, plumps it down in a prime location and watches the outcome in comfort.
Gavril, entirely unaware of Badu and Stefan, was hurrying towards Bazena. She, caught in flagrante, with a cloth laid out in front of her covered in coins, had just noticed her father and brother. She stood up and called out to Gavril. Gavril stopped. Bazena motioned him violently away. Badu and Stefan saw the movement, turned and recognised Gavril. Gavril, instead of standing his ground and simply pleading ignorance, decided to do a bunk. Badu and Stefan split up – a move that they had obviously practised on numerous occasions before – and came at Gavril from opposing halves of the square. Bazena started screaming and pulling at her hair.
Within a span of ninety seconds from the start of Yola’s plan, maybe fifty gypsies, of all sexes and ages, had converged, as if from nowhere, on the centre of the square. Gavril was backing up in front of Badu and Stefan, who had their knives out. People were flooding out from inside the Sanctuary to see what all the commotion was about. Two policemen on motorcycles were approaching from another part of town, but gypsies were already impeding them and making sure their view of the fight was spoilt. Bazena had thrown herself around her father’s neck and was hanging on for dear life, while her brother was circling Gavril, who also had his knife out but was still busy fiddling with the metal locking ring.
‘This is it. This is my moment.’ Alexi darted away amongst the crowd before Sabir could question his intentions.
‘Alexi! For Christ’s sake! Keep out of it!’
But it was too late to stop him. Alexi was already sprinting around the periphery of the crowd in the direction of the church.
31
Alexi had been a master thief all his life – and master thieves know how to use happenstance. To benefit from the moment.
He was certain that the watchman would eventually be tempted out of the Sanctuary. How could he not be, when the entire congregation of the church had exited in a drove before him, spurred on by curiosity about what might be happening above them in the square?
Alexi could imagine the sequence of thoughts that would be passing through the security guard’s head. His duty, surely, lay outside? Sainte Sara could look after herself for a few moments, could she not? There was no formal threat against her that he knew of. Nobody had warned him to take especial care. What harm would it do to break up the morning’s monotony with a breath of fresh air and a riot?
He had just secreted himself on the right-hand side of the main door when the watchman burst through at the tail of the crowd, his face alight with anticipation. Alexi darted in behind him and straight down to the Sanctuary. He had been coming to this place all his life. He knew its geography like the back of his hand.
Sainte Sara was standing in a corner of the deserted crypt, surrounded by votive offerings, photographs,
