This Night’s Foul Work

‘We ought to take advantage of the lifting equipment to put the stone back,’ Danglard proposed.

‘Not straight away,’ said Adamsberg, his chin still on his hands. ‘We keep looking. If we don’t find anything, the sodding Drug Squad will have the bodies from us by tonight.’

‘We’re not going to stay here for days just to stop Drugs getting them, are we?’

‘His mother said he didn’t touch drugs.’

‘Oh, mothers,’ said Justin, with a shrug.

‘You’re relieving the tension too much there, lieutenant. One should believe mothers when they say something.’

Veyrenc was coming and going off to one side, occasionally throwing an intrigued glance at Retancourt who was indeed fast asleep. From time to time, he spoke to himself.

‘Danglard, try and hear what the New Recruit is saying.’

The commandant took a casual stroll in the alleyways and came back.

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘I’m sure that will relieve the tension.’

‘Well, he’s muttering some lines of poetry, beginning with “O Earth”.’

‘What comes next?’ asked Adamsberg, feeling discouraged.

‘O Earth, when I query, why disdain to reply?

And of this night’s foul work all knowledge now deny?

Has the key been withheld, or are my ears too weak

To hear of thy suff’ring, a sin too great to speak?

And so on. I can’t remember it all. I don’t know who it’s by.’

‘That’s because it’s by him. He speaks in verse as easily as other people blow their noses.’

‘Odd,’ said Danglard, with a perplexed frown.

‘It runs in the family, like all odd things. Tell me the lines again, capitaine.’

‘They’re not very good.’

‘At least they rhyme. And they’re saying something. Tell me again.’

Adamsberg listened attentively, then stood up.

‘He’s right, the earth does know and we don’t. Our ears are too weak to hear what it’s telling us, and that’s the problem.’

The commissaire returned to the graveside, with Danglard and Justin at his sides.

‘If there’s a sound to be heard, and we’re not hearing it, it means we’re deaf. The earth isn’t dumb, but we’re not skilled enough. We need a specialist, an interpreter, someone who can hear the sound of the earth.’

‘What do you call one of those?’ asked Justin, anxiously.

‘An archaeologist,’ said Adamsberg, taking out his telephone. ‘Or a shit-stirrer, if you prefer.’

‘You’ve got one in the team?’

‘I have,’ Adamsberg started to say, as he tapped in the number, ‘a specialist who’s excellent at discovering…’ The commissaire paused, looking for the right word.

‘Fleeting traces of the past,’ suggested Danglard.

‘Exactly. You couldn’t put it better.’

It was Vandoosler Senior, a cynical retired detective, who picked up the phone. Adamsberg quickly explained the situation.

‘Stymied and snookered, are you?’ asked Vandoosler, with his cackling laugh. ‘Out for the count?’

‘No, Vandoosler, since I’m calling you. Don’t play games with me, I’m short of time today.’

‘OK. Which one do you want this time? Marc?’

‘No, I need the prehistoric expert.’

‘He’s in the cellar, working on arrowheads.’

‘Tell him to get up here as fast as he can, the cemetery in Montrouge. It’s urgent.’

‘Given that he’s working on something from 12,000 BC, he’ll tell you nothing’s urgent. It’s very hard to tear Mathias away from his flints.’

‘Look, it’s me, Adamsberg, Vandoosler. Don’t give me grief like this. If you don’t help me, the case is going over to Drugs.’

‘Oh, that’s different. I’ll send him right away.’

XVI

‘WHAT DO WE EXPECT HIM TO DO? ASKED JUSTIN, WARMING HIS HANDS ON a cup of coffee in the keeper’s lodge.

‘What the New Recruit said. We want him to find out the secret of the earth. Your twelve-syllable verses sometimes make sense, Veyrenc.’

The daytime attendant looked at Veyrenc with curiosity.

‘He makes up poetry,’ Adamsberg explained.

‘On a day like this?’

‘Especially on a day like this.’

‘Right,’ said the keeper, accepting it. ‘Poetry – that complicates things, doesn’t it? But perhaps if you complicate things, you understand them better. And if you understand, you simplify. In the end.’

‘Yes,’ said Veyrenc, surprised.

Retancourt was back with them, looking rested. The commissaire had woken her simply by touching her shoulder, as if he was pressing a button. Through the window of the lodge, she watched as a blond giant crossed the street: he had shoulder-length hair, was wearing very few clothes, and his trousers were held up with string.

‘Here comes our interpreter,’ said Adamsberg. ‘He smiles a lot, but it’s not always easy to say why.’

Five minutes later, Mathias was kneeling alongside the grave, looking at the earth. Adamsberg signalled to his team to keep quiet. The earth doesn’t speak loudly, so you have to listen very carefully.

‘You haven’t touched anything?’ Mathias asked. ‘Nobody has moved the rose stems?’

‘No,’ said Danglard, ‘and that’s what’s so mysterious. The family scattered roses all over the grave, and the tombstone was placed on top. That proves the soil hasn’t been disturbed.’

‘There are stems and stems,’ said Mathias.

He moved his hand quickly from rose to rose, going round the grave on his knees and feeling the soil in various places, like a weaver testing the quality of silk. Then he raised his head and smiled at Adamsberg.

‘See it?’ he asked.

Adamsberg shook his head.

‘Some of the rose stems move if you just touch them lightly, but others are embedded well in. All the ones here are still where they were left,’ he said, pointing to the flowers at the bottom end of the grave. ‘But these ones are just loose on the surface – they’ve been moved. See?’

‘I’m listening,’ said Adamsberg, with a frown.

‘What it means is that someone has dug into the grave,’ said Mathias, carefully removing the flowers from the head of the grave, ‘but only part of it. Then the withered flowers were put back over the top, to make it look as if the earth hadn’t been disturbed. But, you know,’ he went on, standing up in a single movement, ‘it still shows. A man can move a rose stem and a thousand years later you can still tell he did it.’

Adamsberg nodded, impressed. So if he touched the petal of a flower tonight, in the dark, without telling anyone, a thousand years in the future some guy like Mathias would know all about it. The idea that all his actions might leave their ineradicable traces behind seemed a little alarming. But he was reassured by looking at the prehistorian, who was taking a trowel out of his back pocket and cleaning it with his fingers. Experts like Mathias didn’t grow on trees.

‘It’s very difficult,’ said Mathias, pursing his lips. ‘It’s a hole that’s been filled in again with exactly the same