This Night’s Foul Work

‘But how will that help us identify the third virgin?’ she asked.

‘Now that we understand that, Froissy, the rest will follow logically: it has to be crushed with the “living cross in the heart of the eternal branches,” adjacent in equal quantity.’

‘We’d already settled that,’ said Mordent. ‘It must mean wood from the Holy Cross.’

‘No,’ said Adamsberg. ‘That doesn’t fit. Like the rest, the text has to be read absolutely literally, word for word. Christ’s cross can’t live in the heart of anything, it doesn’t make sense.’

Danglard, sitting sideways on his tyre, screwed up his eyes, on alert.

‘The recipe says,’ Adamsberg went on, ‘that it’s a living cross.’

‘That’s just what doesn’t make sense,’ commented Mordent.

‘A cross, living inside a body that represents eternity,’ said Adamsberg slowly, pronouncing every word clearly. ‘A body related to eternal branches.’

‘In the Middle Ages,’ said Danglard, ‘the creature that signified eternity was the stag.’

Adamsberg, who up to this point hadn’t been entirely sure of his ground, smiled across at his deputy.

‘Why was that, capitaine?’

‘Because the stag’s antlers reach up to heaven. Because the antlers die and fall, then grow again every year, like the leaves of trees, with an extra point, getting more powerful, year by year. It’s an amazing phenomenon, to do with the beast’s vital force. It was once considered a symbolic representation of eternal life, always beginning again, and always growing larger, like the antlers. Sometimes one finds representation of stags with Christ on their heads, or a cross between the antlers.’

‘The stag’s antlers grow out of its skull,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Like hair.’

The commissaire ran his hand over the spring grass.

‘The eternal branches could be a metaphor for the stag’s antlers.’

‘Do they have to be in the mixture, then?’

‘No, because we need a cross. And every word in the recipe counts, like I said. The cross that lives in the heart of the eternal branches. So the cross must be inside the stag. It must be a bone, like the antlers, and incorruptible.’

‘Perhaps the bone at the base of the antlers, where it makes an angle,’ said Voisenet.

‘It doesn’t look to me as if deer’s antlers make a cross,’ said Froissy.

‘No, no,’ said Adamsberg. ‘I think the cross is somewhere else. I think it’s a secret bone that you have to know about, like the cat’s. The penile bone represents the male principle. We need something of the kind in the stag. A bone in the shape of a cross, that would represent the stag’s links with eternity, but hidden inside its body. A living bone.’

Adamsberg looked round at his colleagues, waiting for a response.

‘I don’t see it,’ said Voisenet.

‘Well, I think,’ Adamsberg went on, ‘that we’ll find this bone in the heart of a stag. The heart is the symbol of life, it beats. A cross that lives, a cross inside the heart of the stag with eternal antlers.’

Voisenet turned to Adamsberg.

‘It sounds good, commissaire,’ he said. ‘The only problem is that there isn’t a bone in the heart of a stag. Or in anyone else’s heart. Not in the shape of a cross or anything else.’

‘Well, Voisenet, there has to be something like that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because in the forest of Bretilly, and then again in the forest near Opportune, two male stags were slaughtered last month and left lying on the ground. The only thing that had been done to them was that their hearts had been cut out. These killings were carried out by the same person. They were in the same place, that is within the zone of the saint’s influence, and they were killed near the two women who were sacrificed. They must have been shot by our angel of death.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Lamarre.

‘The stags were cut open after death in a particular place. Exactly like what happened to the cat, Narcissus. They were operated on in some sense. With a definite aim, to get something out. What? The living cross in the heart. So it must be inside the stag’s heart, in some form.’

‘That’s impossible,’ said Danglard, shaking his head. ‘We’d know about it.’

‘We didn’t know about the cat, or the pig’s snout,’ said Kernorkian.

‘Yes, I knew about those all right,’ said Voisenet. ‘But I also know there’s no bone in the heart of a stag.’

‘I’m sorry, lieutenant, but there really has to be one.’

At this point there were some mutterings and doubtful glances, as Adamsberg got up to stretch his legs, It did not seem evident to the positivists that reality should reshape itself to meet the strange ideas that the commissaire was putting forward, inventing a bone in the heart of the stag.

‘No,’ insisted Voisenet. ‘It’s the other way round. There is no bone in the heart. So we have to work around that, because it’s the truth.’

‘Voisenet, there’s got to be something, or none of these actions would make sense. And if there is, we need to watch for the next stag to be slaughtered. The third virgin the nurse has picked out will be in the nearby area. The cross in the heart must be as close as possible to the quick of the virgin. “Adjacent in equal quantity.” It doesn’t mean “joined with it,” it means “close by”.’

‘Adjacent,’ said Danglard, ‘means lying alongside, or lined up against.’

‘Thank you, Danglard. For the virgin and the stag to be close together looks right: the female and male essences giving birth to life, in this case eternal life. When we find another stag with its heart cut out, we’ll know the name of the virgin out of all those you’ve got on your lists.’

‘All right,’ admitted Justin. ‘But how do we find this stag? Will we have to keep a watch on the forests?’

‘Someone’s already doing that for us.’

LIV

ADAMSBERG WAITED IN THE RAIN FOR THE ANGELUS TO BE RUNG IN THE church at Haroncourt before he pushed open the door of the cafe. This Sunday evening, he found the assembled men all present and correct, and about to begin the first round of drinks.

‘Ah, you’ll be wanting a drink then, man from the Bearn,’ said Robert, without letting his surprise show.

A rapid glance at Anglebert told Adamsberg that the outsider was still welcome to sit down, even if he had dug up a grave at Opportune-la-Haute eighteen days earlier. As in the past, a place was made for him alongside the elder of the tribe, and a glass pushed towards him.

‘You’ve been busy,’ observed Anglebert, pouring out the white wine.

‘Yes, I’ve had problems, police problems.’

‘Ah, that’s life,’ said Anglebert. ‘Robert’s a roofer, he gets roof problems, Hilaire’s got pork-butcher problems, Oswald’s got farmer’s problems, and I’ve got the problem of getting old. And that’s no fun, believe me. Drink up.’

‘I know now why those two women were killed,’ said Adamsberg, obeying the command. ‘And I know why their graves were opened as well.’

‘So now you’re satisfied.’

‘No, not really,’ said Adamsberg, grimacing. ‘This killer is a fiend from hell, and she hasn’t finished yet.’

‘But she’s going to?’ said Oswald.

‘Or so you think,’ punctuated Achille.

‘Yes, she does intend to finish the job,’ said Adamsberg, ‘by killing a third virgin. I’m looking for this third virgin. And I need some help.’

All eyes swivelled towards him, surprised at such an open appeal.

‘Well, not wishing to cause offence,’ said Anglebert, ‘but that’s your job.’

‘Not ours,’ punctuated Achille.

‘You’re wrong, it does concern you. Because it’s the same woman who slaughtered your stags.’

‘Told you so,’ breathed Oswald.