This Night’s Foul Work

‘Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? We can’t have disgusting things like that in the graveyard, and afterwards you just wonder, don’t you, and that’s what I said to Oswald, it wouldn’t hurt to ask you. Yes, indeed.’

‘We’re on our way now, Hermance,’ said Adamsberg, intercepting a glance from Veyrenc who was signalling to him to give up.

The two men put their shoes on outside the house, after taking care to leave their room as tidy as a stage set. From behind the door, Adamsberg could hear Hermance continuing to talk to herself.

‘Ah yes, that’s work isn’t it? Mustn’t let things get on top of you.’

‘A bit missing there,’ said Veyrenc sadly, as he tied his laces. ‘Either she was born like that or she lost it somewhere.’

‘Lost it somewhere, I think. Both her husbands died young and suddenly, one after the other. We can mention that here, but we’re not allowed to repeat anything about it outside Opportune-la-Haute.’

‘That’s why Hilaire hinted that Hermance brought bad luck. Men would be afraid to marry her, it could be the death of them.’

‘Once you get a reputation like that, you can never get rid of it. It sticks to you like a tick in your flesh. You can pull the tick off, but the jaws stay in there, still working away.’

A bit like Lucio’s spider, Adamsberg thought to himself.

‘Since you seem to know a few of the people round here, who do you think advised her to see you?’

‘I don’t know, Veyrenc. Maybe nobody at all. She was probably worried about the ghost for her son’s sake. I think she’s scared stiff of the gendarmes, after the inquest on Amedee. And she had must have heard Oswald mention me.’

‘Do people really think she killed both her husbands?’

‘They don’t really think that, but they wonder about it. Whether she could have killed them in person, or maybe just by willing it. We’ll take a look at the graveyard before we go back.’

‘What are we looking for?’

‘Whatever the ghost was up to. I promised the young man I’d sort it out. But Robert didn’t talk about a ghost, he talked about a “thing,” and Hermance talked about “disgusting things” in the graveyard. Or perhaps we should try another tack.’

‘What?’

‘To try and understand why they dragged me all the way out here.’

‘If I hadn’t driven you,’ Veyrenc objected, ‘you wouldn’t be here at all.’

‘Yes, lieutenant, I know. But it’s just a feeling.’

A shade passing, thought Veyrenc.

‘Apparently Oswald gave his sister a puppy,’ he remarked. ‘But it died.’

Adamsberg was walking up and down the grassy alleyways of the little graveyard, holding an antler in each hand. Veyrenc had offered to take one of them for him, but Robert had made it very clear that they were not to be separated. Adamsberg paced round the site, taking care not to knock the great horns against the monuments on the tombs. It was a modest graveyard, and only minimally maintained. Grass was growing up through the gravel in the walks. Most people here could not afford large funeral vaults and many graves were simply grassy mounds, some marked with a wooden cross bearing a name painted on it in white. The tombs of Hermance’s two husbands had been covered by thin limestone slabs, plain grey and without flowers. Adamsberg was anxious to leave, yet he lingered, enjoying the obstinate ray of spring sunshine as it warmed the back of his neck.

‘Where did this lad Gratien see the figure?’ asked Veyrenc.

‘Over there,’ said Adamsberg, pointing.

‘And what should we be looking for?’

‘Dunno.’

Veyrenc nodded, without showing annnoyance. Except when it came to Pyrenean valleys, the lieutenant was not the kind of man to be impatient or short-tempered. This near-cousin did resemble Adamsberg in a way, as he calmly accepted the improbable or the difficult. He too was enjoying the sunshine on his back, and was tempted to stay as long as possible, walking through the wet grass. Adamsberg strolled round the little church, noticing the spring brightness which announced its presence by making the slate roof and the marble stones shine.

‘Commissaire,’ Veyrenc called.

Adamsberg walked over to him, taking his time. The sunlight was playing on the red streaks in Veyrenc’s hair. If the stripes had not been the result of torture, Adamsberg would have found them quite attractive. Out of evil came forth sweetness.

‘I know we don’t know what to look for,’ said Veyrenc, pointing to a grave. ‘But this is another woman who had bad luck. Dead at thirty-eight, a bit like Elisabeth Chatel.’

Adamsberg considered the grave, a mound of earth, waiting for a headstone. He was beginning to understand the lieutenant a little, and knew that he would certainly not have called him over for nothing,

‘The song of the earth, can you hear it?’ said Veyrenc. ‘Can you decipher what it’s telling us?’

‘If you’re talking about the grass growing on the grave, I can see some blades that are short and some that are long.’

‘One might think – but only if one was looking for something to think – that the short blades have grown later than the others.’

The two men fell silent, each asking himself at the same moment whether he was really looking for something to think.

‘They’ll be waiting for us in Paris,’ Veyrenc objected to himself.

‘One might think,’ said Adamsberg, ‘that the grass at the head of the grave is shorter, and therefore a later growth than the rest. It makes a sort of circle. And this woman is from Normandy, like Elisabeth.’

‘But if we spent all the time visiting graveyards, we’d probably find thousands of blades of grass all different lengths.’

‘Yes, that’s right. But there’s no reason not to check whether there’s a hole under the short grass, is there?’

‘It’s for you to judge, my lord, if the signs we see here

Are the products of chance, or are something to fear.

And if the dark pathway you now desire to trace

Will lead us to success or else into disgrace.’

‘Better find out right away,’ said Adamsberg, placing the antlers on the ground. ‘I’ll tell Danglard we’re extending our stay in the country.’

XXV

THE CAT TIPTOED ROUND THE OFFICES OF THE SERIOUS CRIME SQUAD, FROM one secure perch to another, from one knee to the next, from a brigadier’s desk to a lieutenant‘s chair, as if crossing a stream on stepping stones without wetting its feet. It had started life as a little ball of fluff following Camille in the street, and had continued under the protection of Adrien Danglard, who had been obliged to give it lodging at the office. All because this cat was incapable of looking after itself, being completely without that rather disdainful independence which most cats so grandly display. Although it was an uncastrated male, it was the embodiment of dependence on others and inclined to non-stop sleep. The Snowball, as Danglard had baptised it when he took it in, was quite unlike the sort of cat a squad of police officers might have adopted as a mascot. The team took it in turns to look after the big, soft, furry creature, scared of its own shadow, which needed to be accompanied when it went anywhere, whether to eat, drink or relieve itself. But it had its favourites. Retancourt was the leader by far in this respect. The Snowball spent most of its days close to her desk, snoozing on the warm lid of one of the photocopy machines. The machine in question could not be used without giving the cat a fatal shock. In the absence of the woman he loved, the Snowball trailed back to Danglard or, in unvarying order of preference, to Justin, Froissy and, oddly enough, Noel.