This Night’s Foul Work

‘How do you know?’ asked Hilaire.

‘That’s his business,’ Anglebert interrupted. ‘If he tells you he knows, then he knows, that’s all.’

‘Stands to reason,’ punctuated Achille.

‘Both the human victims were linked with the death of a stag,’ Adamsberg went on. ‘Or, more precisely, an attack on the heart of the stag.’

‘What’s the point of that?’ asked Robert

‘To get at the bone in the heart, the bone that’s shaped like a cross,’ said Adamsberg, staking everything on this throw.

‘Ah, could be,’ said Oswald. ‘That’s what Hermance thought. She’s got one of them, Hermance has.’

‘A bone in her heart?’ asked Achille in astonishment.

‘No, in her sideboard drawer. She’s got a stag’s heartbone.’

‘Going after the cross in a stag, this day and age, you’ve got to be a bit cracked,’ said Anglebert. ‘That’s stuff they did in bygone times.’

‘Kings of France used to collect ‘em, though,’ said Robert. ‘To bring them good health.’

‘Like I said, it’s stuff from the olden days. Nobody collects them now.’

Adamsberg drank a glass to his own health, secretly celebrating the fact that there really was a bone like a cross in the heart of a stag.

‘But what did he want with the cross, this murderer of yours?’ asked Robert.

‘I told you, she’s a woman.’

‘Aargh,’ said Robert, with a look of disgust. ‘But anyway, you know why, do you?’

‘It was to put this cross alongside hair taken from the virgins.’

‘Well,’ said Oswald, ‘that proves she’s crazy. What’s that supposed to be about?’

‘It’s part of a recipe to give you eternal life.’

‘God’s sakes,’ spluttered Hilaire.

‘Eternal life, eh?’ observed Anglebert. ‘All right for some, but then again, you wouldn’t really want it, would you?’

‘Why not?’

‘C’m on, Hilaire, just think if you had to live for ever. What on earth would you do all day? You can’t sit around drinking for thousands of years.’

‘That’s a long time, all right,’ said Achille.

‘She plans to kill the next woman,’ Adamsberg went on, ‘after she’s killed the next stag. Or maybe the other way round, I don’t know. But all I can do is follow the cross in the heart. So that’s why I want you to tell me as soon as another stag is found dead.’

An ominous silence suddenly fell, such as only Normans can create or tolerate. Anglebert poured another round of drinks, making the neck of the bottle clink against each glass.

‘Well, my friend, it’s already happened,’ said Robert.

There was another silence, while everyone swallowed a mouthful, except Adamsberg who was staring at Robert with a stricken expression.

‘When?’ he asked.

‘About six days back.’

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘You didn’t seem interested any more,’ said Robert sulkily. ‘All you cared about was Oswald’s ghost.’

‘Where was this?’

‘At Le Bosc des Tourelles.’

‘Was it killed the same way as the others?’

‘Yeah, just the same. Heart on the ground beside it.’

‘Which are the nearest villages to it?’

‘Campenille, Troimare, Louvelot. Then a bit further away, Longeney one way and Coucy the other. Couple more. Plenty of choice.’

‘And no woman has been killed or had an accident round there?’

‘No.’

Adamsberg breathed in relief and took another sip of wine.

‘Well, there was that old Yvonne who fell over on the bridge,’ said Hilaire.

‘Is she dead?’

‘You’ve got death on the brain as usual,’ said Robert. ‘No, she broke her hip.’

‘Can you take me there tomorrow?’

‘Where? To see Yvonne.’

‘No, the stag.’

‘He’s already been buried.’

‘Who’s got the antlers?’

‘Nobody, he’d already lost ‘em.’

‘I’d still like to see the spot.’

‘Could be done,’ said Robert, holding out his glass for a third helping. ‘But where will you sleep? In the hotel, or at Hermance’s?’

‘Best be the hotel,’ said Oswald quietly.

‘Yes, that’d be best,’ said the punctuator.

Nobody expained why it was no longer possible to stay with Oswald’s sister.

LV

WHILE HIS COLLEAGUES WERE CHECKING THE AREA SURROUNDING LE BOSC des Tourelles, Adamsberg had been hospital visiting. He had seen both Veyrenc, who was now hobbling around at Bichat, and Retancourt, who was still asleep at Saint-Vincent-de-Paul. Veyrenc was due to be discharged the next day, and Retancourt’s sleep appeared to be more like a natural state. She’s returning to the surface quite fast, Lavoisier had said. He was taking quantities of notes on the polyvalent goddess. Veyrenc, once he had been brought up to date on the rescue of the lieutenant and the cross inside the stag, had formulated some advice which Adamsberg was chewing over as he walked back to the headquarters.

Her strength brought from the brink one who was close to death.

But another’s weakness threatens her every breath.

Make haste, the time draws near. The great stag died at last,

The virgin is at risk, her hour is almost past.

‘We’ve got a Francine Bidault here,’ said Mordent, passing over an index card to Adamsberg. ‘Aged thirty-five. Lives outside Clancy, a hamlet, population two hundred, seven kilometres from the edge of the Bosc des Tourelles. The other two nearest women live fourteen or nineteen kilometres away, and they’re both closer to another forest, La Chataigneraie, which is big enough to have deer in it. Francine lives alone, in an isolated farmhouse, almost a kilometre away from the nearest neighbours. Her garden wall is easy to climb, and the house is very old. Rickety wooden doors, simple locks, easy to force.’

‘Right,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Does she go out to work? Does she have a car?’

‘She’s got a part-time job, cleaning in a pharmacy in Evreux. She goes there by bus every day except Sunday. Any attack would most likely come between seven at night and one the next afternoon, which is when she leaves home.’

‘And she’s a virgin? They’re sure about that?’

‘Well, according to the priest at Otton, yes. “A little cherub,” he calls her. Pretty, childlike, not quite all there, according to some other reports. Mind you, the priest says there’s nothing really wrong with her head, but she’s afraid of almost everything, specially creepy-crawlies. She was brought up by her father after her mother died, and he was a brute. He died a couple of years back.’

‘There’s a problem,’ said Voisenet, whose positivist credentials had been been severely dented when