Madrigal by J. Robert Janes

‘I can’t possibly say, Inspector. One of your soldiers perhaps. They often go for walks along the river. They are always exploring the countryside and picking things up they then tire of.’
    â€˜But you just said you couldn’t possibly say?’
    Sainte Mère , what have I done but make matters worse, thought Biron ruefully. ‘You must ask Xavier or Brother Matthieu. Reed warblers … pigeons … I have nothing to do with the dogs. Nothing , do you understand?’
    Piece by piece, garment by garment, the body of Mireille de Sinéty had been stripped of its finery in the morgue and each item noted, tagged and described as to its nature and position, once by Jean-Louis and once by himself, thought Ovid Peretti. He let his sad grey eyes pass down over her. The breasts sagged sideways, the skin had begun to blotch and discolour. She’d soon begin to stink. A waste, a tragedy – a danger. Why had he been so stupid as to have agreed to take on this task? Was he bent on self-destruction? he asked himself.
    The elder of the two nuns stood grimly on guard at the head of the corpse, refusing to budge.
    â€˜Sister,’ he said, ‘I won’t molest her. I’ll be as kind and gentle as possible.’
    â€˜With forceps?’ shrilled the younger nun. ‘With bone-cutters?’
    â€˜Jean-Louis, get those two out of here at once!’
    â€˜Sister Agnès, it’s illegal for you and Sister Marie-Madeleine to be here,’ said St-Cyr. ‘With the clothing, the jewellery and other things we could make allowances, but with what’s about to happen you will understand Coroner Peretti can’t possibly continue in your presence. Now come away.’
    â€˜The clothes … We must dress her in them after it’s done.’
    â€˜For burial?’
    â€˜Yes! The casket is to be open.’
    â€˜With a neck wound like that?’ stormed Peretti, towering over the corpse.
    She gave him a cold look. ‘Such things can be hidden. There are ways and we will use them.’
    â€˜Then leave us, Sister,’ said St-Cyr gently. ‘I’ll join you shortly for a quiet word. A few small questions, nothing difficult, I assure you. The preliminary autopsy will take several hours and I can’t remain here either as I’ve other things I must do. You can come back after the midday meal.’
    â€˜We don’t eat lunch. Not in these troubled times.’
    â€˜ Merde alors, foutez-moi la paix !’ shouted Peretti. Bugger off.
    He turned the body over and, shaking a thermometer to get its mercury down, eased it into the girl’s rectum. ‘Sister, I told you to leave. I might break the glass.’
    The nuns fled, with the Sûreré driving them, and when Jean-Louis returned, his cheeks blown out in exasperation, he, too, swore, then said, ‘The bishop …’
    Peretti recorded the body’s temperature. ‘You want to watch your back with him, Jean-Louis. There are whispers.’
    â€˜Whispers?’
    Bon , the point had been taken. ‘Power. The bishop yearns for the old days, covets the Palais and thinks our friends from beyond the Rhine can be convinced to give it to him if Il Duce fails and Italy falls to the invader when that one makes up his mind to invade.’
    Ah nom de Dieu …‘The Papacy?’
    â€˜He dreams of its return to Avignon and is convinced of the possibility. The Kommandant lets him since it costs nothing, except, perhaps, the life of this one.’
    They were alone, thank God. ‘How sure are you of this? The Papacy …?’
    There was a shrug. The thermometer was cleaned off and sterilized. ‘There are always whispers, some more prevalent than others. Here in Avignon is God not held in contempt while everything breathes a lie?’
    Petrarch had said as much. ‘But the Vatican …? Surely they must have something to say in the matter?’
    â€˜Rivaille keeps