Madrigal by J. Robert Janes Page A

up a continuous correspondence which His Holiness answers, of course, for, like the Kommandant, what is there to lose? The Church always dabbles and hedges its bets, so why not with this?’
    â€˜But …’
    â€˜Look, all I’m saying is let’s not fool ourselves. Let’s find out the truth but keep as much of it as we can to ourselves. Oh by the way, she was still a virgin.’
    â€˜A virgin … The Papacy? Does he want to become the Pope?’
    â€˜A cardinal perhaps. I really don’t know, but you’re in Avignon, remember? Six hundred years ago or today, it’s exactly the same. Whereas the Occupier uses guns, the citizens still prefer poison, the garrotting wire or the knife.’
    â€˜It was a sickle. I’m all but certain of it.’
    â€˜Bend, gather, pull and then reap, eh? We shall see.’
    Still upstairs in the Palais, Kohler was lost in thought. A chamber separated the Grand Tinel from the Kitchens Tower and in it the girl could have waited out of sight until the judges had been seated. But had she taken off her overcoat, her winter boots, hat and mittens? ‘She couldn’t have walked through the streets dressed in costume, not even after dark,’ he said to the concierge. There’d have been the chance of a spot check or control – a rafle , maybe.’ A raid, a house-to-house search or roundup. ‘She’d have had a handbag.’
    Her identity papers …‘There was nothing here, Inspector. Nothing in the Palais to suggest …’
    â€˜Nothing but a bird’s nest.’
    Kohler shone his torch around the barren floor and up over walls that had once held frescoes whose patchy remains revealed the faint grid lines in reddish ochre that had allowed the artist to easily transfer his drawings. Together, he and Biron went into the Kitchens Tower. It, too, was barren.
    â€˜The chimney is huge, Inspector. A pyramid in the octagonal shape.’
    Nothing remained of the bake ovens and yet one could sense the constant comings and goings. Well over four hundred retainers, cooks, scullions, guards and porters – thirty chaplains alone and all of their servants – would have occupied the Palais, in addition to the guests and the family of the pontiff. The spongers.
    â€˜There are pantries and storerooms in this tower,’ said Biron. ‘Other kitchens below us, all of whose flues go up and into the central chimney, which is unique for these parts and for such times.’
    Again Kohler used his torch. The mistral played fitfully with the flame of the lantern. The downdraught carried a trail of smoke towards the open entrance where tall wooden doors would once have stood.
    â€˜The Revolution destroyed them,’ said Biron of the doors. ‘The pots, pans and stone or clay crocks – everything was smashed, burned or stolen. One can but regret the loss, the pages of history which are gone from us for ever, the …’
    â€˜Just cut the travelogue, eh?, and show me where they dumped the bodies of the Royalists that were imprisoned and then murdered in 1791.’
    The Glacière Massacre of that October. ‘The Latrines Tower is just through here. On each floor of the Palais, latrines gave relief and refuge to servant, dignitary, guard and pontiff alike. Rainwater and kitchen slops joined the waste, and the refuse fell to a large pit that had been sunk into the rocks far below. A drain then carried this waste to the Sorgue which soon joined the Rhône.’
    The torchlight didn’t shine down the shaft nearly far enough. Biron went on about how, during a siege, invaders had entered the drain, waded across the cesspool and then had climbed into the Palais to surprise the guards.
    â€˜What happened to the bodies of the Royalists?’
    â€˜Quicklime was dumped on top of them. When the stench became too great, they were removed through an opening.’
    â€˜Is that opening still