Madrigal Read Free Page A

Kommandant’s.’
    Killed Monday night, the twenty-fifth. ‘Then you’d better speak to them,’ came the faltering words. ‘We’ve company.’
    The Sûreté didn’t even take his eyes from the victim. ‘Please escort them to the entrance, Hermann. We will question each of them individually as necessary.’
    â€˜A moment,’ said someone – the Kommandant, by the atrocious accent.
    â€˜No moments, Herr Oberst,’ said St-Cyr. ‘This is a matter for the Sûreté and the Kripo. If in doubt, please consult Gestapo Boemelburg and Maître Pharand. You will find both at 11 rue des Saussaies in Paris.’
    Formerly the Headquarters of the Sûreté Nationale and now that of the Gestapo in France and of the Sûreté. ‘It was myself who asked specifically for you both.’
    â€˜Then please leave us to do what you asked.’
    â€˜ Verdammt ! How dare you?’
    There was a sigh and then, still not pausing in his work, the admonition of, ‘Herr Oberst, you of all people must be accustomed to delegating authority and to placing trust in those so chosen. Are you then also mindful of Orlando Gibbons, the English madrigal composer of the late sixteenth century and the first quarter of the seventeenth?’
    â€˜Don’t talk nonsense.’
    â€˜Fortunately, before leaving Paris I was able to find something on madrigals, since that word was mentioned in Gestapo Boemelburg’s directive to us. The book hadn’t been banned and burned by the List Otto. * I’ll give it to you then, shall I, in deutsch , this little quotation I discovered on the train?, and will ask you to listen to the question it forces us to consider, since the three of you are so anxious about this killing you would wait for us to arrive and would stay up more than half the night.
    â€˜â€œThe silver swan, who living had no note. / When death approached unlocked her silent throat:” did she have something to say, Herr Oberst, and is that why she was killed?’
    There was no answer.
    â€˜Now please leave, as I have asked. Find Peretti, Hermann. Maître de Passe, get me your best photographer and fingerprint artist, and we’ll want the Palais sealed and placed off-limits to everyone but those we wish to consult.’
    They didn’t like it. They huffed and farted about but obeyed. And when he had them at the ancient door and under its Gothic arch, Kohler said, ‘He’s like that. Get used to it. We’re here to find out who did it, and we will, no matter what.’
    Alone with her at last, St-Cyr apologized for the disturbance. ‘Murder invariably attracts the concerned and the curious,’ he said, his voice gentle. ‘But sometimes the killer is among the first to appear and is most anxious to assist for reasons of his or her own. Tell me why you are here, dressed as you are? Did you come to meet someone?’
    Her eyes, though glazed, were of the softest shade of amber. They couldn’t blink or appear to be evasive, of course, yet he swore the question had upset her.
    Ancient keys of beautifully but simply worked iron hung from her belt. There’d be those for the linen boxes – closets and armoires were all but unheard of in those days – others for the pantry and storehouses. Keys for the money box, too. Keys for this and that. In total there were eight of them, and one was both longer by five centimetres than the longest of the others, and stouter. But these were the keys to a house or villa, not a Palais, and the original lock could no longer be in place here in any case.
    Had she had a key to the present entrance, or had someone left the door open for her?
    â€˜And if the former, then who gave it to you?’ he asked. ‘A lover? Were you to meet in the Palais, and if so, why? To sing?’ he hazarded.
    Madrigals were part songs, the popular music of the day, and she … what would her