‘That was not a formal accusation, Madame. Formal accusations are for the courts. I am conducting an investigation. I need to stop your son before he can do any more harm.’
‘What you say about my son is grotesque. Your accusations are entirely without foundation.’
‘And you, Madame Mastigou? Have you anything at all to add?’
‘Nothing, Captain. Madame la Comtesse is not well. I consider it in the worst possible taste that you continue this investigation under such conditions.’
The Countess stood up. ‘I have decided what I shall do, Mathilde. I shall telephone the Minister of the Interior. He is a cousin of my friend, Babette de Montmorigny. We shall soon have this state of affairs rectified.’
Calque also stood up. ‘You must do as you see fit, Madame.’
One of the uniformed officers burst into the room. ‘Captain, I think you should see this.’
Calque shot the man a scowl. ‘See what? I am conducting an interview.’
‘A room, Sir. A secret room. Monceau found it by accident when he was investigating the library.’
Calque turned to the Countess, his eyes glittering.
‘It is not a secret room, Captain Calque. Everyone in my household knows about it. Had you asked me, I would have directed you to it.’
‘Of course, Countess. I understand that.’ With both hands anchored firmly behind his back, Calque followed his subordinate out of the door.
74
The room was approached through a tailored entrance, masterfully concealed within the library shelving.
‘Who discovered this?’
‘I did, Sir.’
‘How does it open?’
The officer swung the door shut. It sealed itself flush against the stacks. The officer then bent forwards and pressed against the ribbed spine of three books, situated near the floor. The door sprung back open again.
‘How did you know which books to press?’
‘I watched the footman, Sir. He came in here when he thought we weren’t looking and fiddled with the catch. I think he was trying to lock it so that no one could inadvertently trigger the mechanism. At least that’s what he told me.’
‘Do you mean he was worried for our safety? That the door might spring back and strike one of us unexpectedly?’
‘That was most likely it, Sir.’
Calque smiled. If he had read the Countess’s character rightly, that footman was for the chop. It was always a good thing to have a disgruntled employee cannoning around. Valuable information could be gleaned. Backs might be stabbed.
Calque ducked through the entranceway. He straightened up inside the room, then gave a low, appreciative whistle.
A large rectangular table formed the centrepiece of the room. Thirteen chairs were collected around it. On the wall behind each chair was a coat of arms and a series of quarterings. Calque recognised some of them. But they were not those of the twelve Pairs de France one would have expected, given the tenor of his present company.
‘This room hasn’t been opened since my husband’s death. There is nothing in here of any interest to your people.’
Calque ran his hand across the table. ‘Dusted, though. Someone must have been in here a good deal more recently than your husband’s death.’
‘My footman. Of course. Keeping the room tidy would form part of his duties.’
‘As would locking the doors if strangers come around?’
The Countess looked away. Madame Mastigou tried to take hold of her hand but found herself brushed off.
‘Lavigny, I want these heraldic shields photographed.’
‘I would rather you didn’t do that, Captain. They have nothing whatsoever to do with your investigation.’
‘On the contrary, Madame. I believe they have everything to do with my investigation.’
‘This room is a private place, Captain. A club room. A place where people of like minds used to meet to discuss serious issues in discreet and conducive surroundings. As I said, the room has not been used since my husband’s death. Some of the families to whom these coats of arms belong may even be ignorant of their presence in this room. I would be grateful for that state of affairs to continue.’
‘I see no billiard table. No bar. It’s a funny type of club room. What’s this, for instance?’ Calque pointed to a chalice, locked inside its very own tantalus. ‘And these initials engraved on it? CM.’
The Countess looked as though she had been bitten by an adder.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a roll of parchment here. With seals on it. It’s heavy, too. It must have wooden rollers or something.’
Calque indicated that the parchment should be spread out on the table.
‘Please don’t touch that, Captain. It is very valuable.’
‘I have a search warrant, Madame. I may touch anything I please. I will endeavour not to smear it with my fingers however.’ Calque bent forwards and perused the document.
The Countess and Madame Mastigou stood frozen against the interior wall of the sanctum.
‘Lavigny. Would you kindly escort the Countess and Madame Mastigou out of the room. This may take some time. And fetch me a magnifying glass.’
75
The first thing Sabir did when Bouboul dropped him back at the Maset was to light the fire for comfort. The night was cold and he felt an indefinable frisson overtake his body as he glanced up the corridor towards the place where Macron’s body had lain. Shaking his head in disgust at his own susceptibilities, he began the search for candles.
The old house seemed to echo back his footfalls as he padded round the room – so much so that he found himself curiously unwilling to venture further up the corridor towards the kitchen. After a desultory five-minute search he was relieved to discover three candles still lying on the floor, where they had been overset by the eye- man’s use of the fire extinguisher, two nights before.
Lighting them and then seeing his shadow reflected around the room like a torchlit danse macabre, Sabir wondered, not for the first time, how he had ever allowed Yola to persuade him to come back and use the Maset? The rationale was certainly there – for Les Saintes-Maries remained tightly sealed by the police in their search for the eye-man, with egress relatively easy and ingress more controlled.
But since he had last been here the Maset seemed to have transformed itself into a place of doom. Sabir now felt distinctly uncomfortable in using the location of someone’s brutal murder for what he understood might well turn out to be a flippant journey up a no-through-road. In fact it brought home to him, yet again, just how differently the Manouche viewed death when compared to the rather sentimental, post-Victorian way he still viewed it himself.
It was all very well for him to sit here and fantasise about the nature of the prophecies – in reality there was a fair chance that the bamboo tube didn’t even contain them and would instead prove full of dust. What if the
