An Uncertain Place

‘Yes. He was trying to get the gardener arrested, taking orders direct from the examining magistrate.’

‘But that suggests that Carnot already knew who had massacred Vaudel. On the Sunday morning. And she was already in touch with Mordent. If not, how could she have got the machinery working so fast? She’d already got to Mordent. That would mean at least a couple of days’ preparation. She must have known on the Friday.’

‘The shoes,’ said Adamsberg suddenly, drumming his fingers on the porthole. ‘It wasn’t the Garches murder that alerted Carnot. It must have been whoever cut off the feet we found in London. And some of those were far too old for Zerk to have been involved.’

‘I don’t know about all this stuff,’ said Veyrenc.

‘I’m talking about the seventeen feet cut off at the ankles that were found, still in their shoes, in front of Higg- gate Cemetery in London, ten days ago.’

‘Who told you about them?’

‘No one. I was there. With Danglard. Higg-gate belongs to Peter Plogojowitz. His body was taken there before they ever built the cemetery, to get him away from the fury of the people of Kisilova.’

The stewardess kept returning to them, evidently fascinated by Veyrenc’s striped hair. The spotlight over his head lit up all the red strands. She brought two of everything for them – champagne, chocolates, towelettes.

‘When we were in London,’ Adamsberg said, after telling Veyrenc as succinctly as he could about the whole Highgate saga, ‘there was a fat man with a cigar standing in the distance behind this lord who was fussing about his shoes. The “Cuban”, so-called, must have been Paole, is what I’m thinking. Who had just deposited his collection of feet as a sort of challenge on Plogojowitz’s territory. And he was using Lord Clyde-Fox to lure us there.’

‘But why would he do that?’

‘To make the link. Paole needs to associate his collection to the destruction of the last Plogojowitzes. He took advantage of French police being there to get us involved, knowing that the Garches murder would come to us anyway. He couldn’t have guessed that Danglard would recognise a foot from Kisilova in the pile, whether it was really his uncle’s or a neighbour’s. Danglard’s uncle by marriage was Vladislav’s dedo, that is his grandfather.’

Veyrenc put his champagne glass down, and closed his eyes with a flutter of his eyelashes, a reflex he often had.

‘Forget all that for a moment,’ he said, ‘and simply tell me how it’s going to bring anything new to bear on Armel.’

‘There were pairs of feet there that had been severed when Zerk was a child, a baby even. Whatever I might think of him, I don’t believe your nephew went round as a five-year-old robbing the back parlours of undertakers.’

‘No, that figures.’

‘And I think that what Emma Carnot knew about was a shoe,’ said Adamsberg, catching a new fish that was wriggling around in his brain. ‘A shoe with a foot in it, that she’d seen somewhere, a long time ago. And she made the connection with Higg-gate, and after that with Garches. A connection that leads to her. Because we took our eye off that one entirely.’

‘What one?’ said Veyrenc, opening his eyes.

‘The missing one. The eighteenth foot.’

XLII

ADAMSBERG HAD TELEPHONED AHEAD FROM THE AIRPORT to convene a meeting of the squad – exceptionally, given that it was a Sunday evening. Three hours on, they had all more or less assimilated the latest episodes of the inquiry, rather at random and in some confusion, rendered greater by the commissaire’s state of exhaustion. Some people whispered during a break that it was obvious he had spent a night mummified in a freezing tomb and on the point of suffocation. His aquiline nose looked pinched, and his eyes had sunk even deeper into the distant depths. They greeted Veyrenc warmly, slapped him on the back and congratulated him. Estalere was particularly perturbed by the account of Vesna, a corpse almost three hundred years old but looking lifelike, alongside whom Adamsberg had spent the night. He was the only one in the squad who knew the story of Elizabeth Siddal, and he had remembered every detail of Danglard’s story. He was still not sure about one point. Had Dante Gabriel Rossetti opened his wife’s grave out of love, or to retrieve his poems? His answer varied depending on the day and his state of mind.

There were some gaps in the commissaire’s account of the past few days, on which he did not seem disposed to elaborate. One of them was the inexplicable presence of Veyrenc in Kisilova. Adamsberg had no intention of revealing to the squad that he had a son whom he had abandoned, that this son had suddenly turned up like a figure from hell, aka Zerk, and that everything pointed to his being the author of the atrocities in Garches and Pressbaum. Nor had he mentioned the ambiguous questions raised by the intervention of Weill. And apart from Danglard, no one in the team knew about the danger emanating from Emma Carnot. That would have obliged Adamsberg to reveal the treacherous activity of Mordent, which he was not ready to do. The daughter – Elaine, wasn’t it? – was due to stand trial in a few days. Dinh had managed to hold up the lab tests for three whole days without being disciplined. His talent for levitation, real or imagined, no doubt explained the indulgence of his colleagues.

On the other hand, Adamsberg had described in detail the enmity between the Plogojowitz and Paole families. So, not to put too fine a point on it, as Retancourt said, there was some all-out war going on between two clans of vampires, each trying to annihilate the other, after the original clash three hundred years before. And since, ahem, vampires did not exist, what were they supposed to do about it and where was the investigation heading?

At this point, the antagonism which divided the members of the squad resurfaced: the materialist positivists were seriously annoyed by Adamsberg’s vague wanderings, sometimes to the point of rebellion, while the more conciliatory group did not object to a spot of cloud-shovelling from time to time. Retancourt, who had at first beamed with pleasure on finding Adamsberg alive, had gone into a sulk at the first mention of vampiri and the place of uncertainty. She had had to admit, as Adamsberg pointed out, that there were a lot of Plogs in the surnames of the victims and their entourage. And that Vaudel senior, who was the authentic grandson of an Andras Plog, had written to Frau Abster, a half-Plogerstein, to warn her and to keep Kisilova free from attack – in other words to protect the Plogojowitz family. And that he, Adamsberg, had been well and truly locked in the vault holding Plogojowitz’s nine victims. That the severed feet in London – feet cut off to prevent the dead coming back to life – had been deposited in Plogojowitz’s English domain, Highgate Cemetery. That one of those pairs of feet belonged to a certain Mihail Plogodrescu. That the massacre of Pierre Vaudel/Plog and Conrad Plogener corresponded strictly to the method of exterminating a vampire; as had already been ascertained, they hadn’t just been killed but annihilated, and more especially their thumbs, teeth and feet. That their functional, spiritual and manducatory organs had been systematically destroyed. That everything indicated that this triple destruction was meant to prevent any possible reconstitution of the body from a single fragment and the recomposition of the accursed whole. As the dispersal of the fragments showed, comparable to the practice of placing a vampire’s head between its feet. That Arandjel, the Danglard of Serbia, as Adamsberg called him to provide authority for his remarks, had identified the family of the soldier Arnold Paole as being the tragic and unquestionable victims of Peter Plogojowitz.

The positivists were shattered, while the conciliatory group were acquiescent and were taking notes. Estalere was following Adamsberg’s pronouncements with passionate intensity. He had never missed a word his boss let drop, whether pragmatic or irrational. But during these moments of confrontation between the commissaire and Retancourt, a woman he idolised, his mind was divided into two warring halves.

‘We’re not looking for a vampire, Retancourt,’ said Adamsberg firmly, ‘we’re not going out into the streets to search for some creature who got a stake through his heart in the early eighteenth century. Surely that’s clear enough for you, lieutenant.’

‘No, not really.’

‘What we’re doing is looking for some deranged descendant of Arnold Paole, who knows the whole story of his