Madrigal Read Free

saffron silk and decorated with a faint design, but over this kirtle, whose tight sleeves, collar and hem are visible, she wears a cote-hardie of cocoa-brown velvet whose bodice is of gold brocade and laced up the front from the waist to the softly curving, now much blood-spattered neckline.’
    The cote-hardie had sleeves that came only to above the elbows and were piped with gold brocade. At the hem, it was cut jaggedly so that upwardly-narrowing wedges of the saffron underdress would show through to a height of about thirty centimetres.
    The shoes were as no others Kohler had seen except in museum collections. They had no heels, no laces either, and were like modestly pointed slippers of fine black kid, and they fitted perfectly, as did the rest of her costume.
    â€˜It isn’t right, Louis. It’s too weird for me. Her belt—’
    â€˜The girdle, yes.’
    Of exceedingly fine suede, the belt was studded with silver and gold, with brooches and pins of emerald, lapis lazuli, amber and moonstone. And this comet’s tail of trinkets began high on the left hip, falling to well below the right hip, in the fashion of the times.
    â€˜There are tiny silver bells,’ managed Kohler, forcing himself to ignore the wound. ‘There are little silver and gold buttons. There’s a—’
    â€˜The “buttons” are enseignes – signs. But among them there are also talismans which were to ward off evil and disease. The bells were to frighten away the devil.’
    â€˜The purse wasn’t taken.’
    â€˜Her aumônière sarrasine . It probably contains the alms she would willingly have handed to the beggars in the streets had she lived back then.’
    Everything was as it once must have been. The purse was richly embroidered with silver thread …
    â€˜The wound is from the left to the right,’ muttered Jean-Louis and, losing himself in that moment, said, ‘Excuse me, mademoiselle, but I must bring the light closer now just for a little.’
    Concern and sympathy moistened Louis’s brown eyes. The Sûreté used a pair of tweezers to gently prise the edge of the cloak away from where it had become stuck. ‘Strength,’ he grimaced. ‘The one who did this has slaughtered sheep, Hermann. A ruthless cut and done continuously. One motion … and held against the assailant, her back suddenly arched. Something wide, something curved. Ah merde , could it be? Please look for the cork from an old wine bottle. It’s just a thought.’
    Please leave me to talk to her.
    Rigor would have set in from perhaps two to four hours afterwards, thought St-Cyr, but if she had been running through this empty place, her muscles would have been under extensive exertion and it could then have come on immediately.
    The wretched frost of one of the coldest winters on record would prolong it.
    Rigor there was. The fingers which clasped her little treasure would have to be broken.
    â€˜There’s a wine cork, Louis. Maybe he flung it aside and didn’t give a damn if we found it.’
    â€˜I’m not so sure it was a he, are you?’
    â€˜Not really, but with a wound like that …’
    â€˜There are bits of dried lavender on the floor, Hermann. Whoever did this also forgot to remove them.’
    â€˜Lavender?’
    â€˜Not from her person. Also winter grass and thyme.’
    â€˜A shepherd?’
    â€˜Or one who has to daily gather feed for rabbits and chickens.’
    â€˜A sickle, then, with a cork to protect its tip when not in use,’ sighed Kohler. Louis had made a point of doing comparative studies of wounds in his early days as a detective. ‘Dead how long, Chief?’
    â€˜At least twenty-four hours. The coroner can, perhaps, be more positive about it and the weapon. We’ll have to ask for Peretti. I want none of the préfet’s interfering, none of the bishop’s and certainly none of the