This Night’s Foul Work

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 café. 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 Béarn,’ 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.

‘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.