The Saint-Fiacre Affair (2 page)

The rope that the bell-ringer had pulled
a few moments before still quivered at the end of the church. The sacristan had just
finished lighting the candles.

How many were they, in this ghostly
gathering of bleary-eyed people? Fifteen at most. There were only three men: the
sexton, the bell-ringer and Maigret.

… 
a crime will be committed
 …

In Moulins, the police had assumed it
was a bad joke
and hadn't been
concerned about it. In Paris, they'd been amazed when the inspector followed
it up.

He heard a noise coming from the door to
the right of the altar and could guess, second by second, what was going on: the
sacristy, the tardy altar boy, the priest silently putting on his chasuble, placing
his hands together in prayer, heading towards the nave, followed by the little boy
tottering in his robe.

The little boy had red hair. He rang the
bell. The murmur of liturgical prayers began.

… 
during first mass …

Maigret had looked at all the shadows,
one by one. Five old women, three with their own reserved prie-dieu. A fat
farmer's wife. Some younger village girls and a child …

The noise of a car, outside. The creak
of a door. Small, light steps and a woman in mourning dress walking all the way
across the church.

In the chancel there was a row reserved
for the people from the chateau: hard pews of polished old wood. And it was there
that the woman sat down, without a sound, followed by the eyes of the village
women.

‘
Requiem aeternam dona eis,
Domine …
'

Maigret could still have given the
response. He smiled at the thought that he had once preferred requiem masses to the
others, because the prayers are shorter. He could remember masses lasting only
sixteen minutes!

But already his eyes were fixed on the
occupant of the gothic pew. He could barely see her profile. He didn't at
first recognize the Countess of Saint-Fiacre.

‘
Dies irae, dies illa
 …
'

But it was, it was her! The last time he
had seen her she had been twenty-five or twenty-six. She was a tall, thin,
melancholic woman, only ever seen from a distance in the grounds of the chateau.

And now she must have been at least
sixty. She prayed ardently. Her face was emaciated, her hands too long, too refined,
clutching a rosary.

Maigret had stayed in the back row of
straw chairs, the ones that cost five centimes at high mass but are free at low
mass.

… 
a crime will be committed
 …

He stood up with the others for the
first reading from the Gospel. Details crowded in from all directions, and memories
flooded over him. He suddenly found himself thinking:

‘On All Souls' Day, the same
priest celebrates three masses …'

Back in his day, he had had lunch at the
priest's house, between the second and the third. A boiled egg and
goat's cheese!

The Moulins police were right after all.
There could be no crime! The sacristan had taken his seat at the end of the pew,
four seats away from the countess. The bell-ringer had walked flat-footedly away,
like a theatre director who doesn't care to watch his play.

The only men left were Maigret and the
priest, a young man with the passionate gaze of a mystic. He was in no hurry, unlike
the old priest that the inspector had known. He didn't leave out half the
verses.

The stained-glass windows paled. Day was
breaking outside. A cow lowed in a farm.

And soon everyone bowed their heads for
the Elevation of the Host. The altar boy's shrill bell rang out.

Maigret was the only one not to take
communion. All the women stepped towards the communion rail, hands clasped, faces
closed. The hosts had a pale, almost unreal gleam as the priest held them
momentarily in his hand.

The service continued. The countess held
her face in her hands.

‘
Pater Noster … Et ne nos
inducas in tentationem
 …'

The old lady parted her fingers,
revealing her tormented face, and opened her missal.

Four minutes to go! The prayers. The
last reading. And that would be it. And there would have been no crime!

Because the warning said:
first mass
 …

The proof that it was over was the
sexton rising to his feet and stepping inside the sacristy.

The Countess of Saint-Fiacre had put her
head in her hands again. She didn't move. Most of the other old women were as
motionless as she was.

‘
Ite missa est.
' …
‘The mass has been said.'

It was only then that Maigret realized
how anxious he had been. It had only now caught up with him. He gave an involuntary
sigh. He couldn't wait for the end of the last reading and was looking forward
to breathing the fresh outside air, seeing people moving about, talking about this
and that.

The old women woke up all at the same
time. Feet moved on the cold blue tiles of the church. First one
village girl headed for the exit, then another. The
sacristan appeared with a snuffer, and a thread of blue smoke replaced the
candle-flames.

Day had broken. A grey light entered the
nave along with the cold air.

There were still three people. Two. A
chair moved. Then the only one left was the countess, and Maigret's nerves
tightened with impatience.

The sacristan, who had finished his
task, looked at Madame de Saint-Fiacre. A look of hesitation flickered across his
face. At the same time the inspector stepped forwards.

They were both quite close to her,
startled by her stillness, trying to see the face hidden by the clasped hands.

Worried, Maigret touched her shoulder.
And the body tilted, as if nothing had been holding it upright, then rolled to the
ground and lay there inert.

The Countess of Saint-Fiacre was
dead.

They had carried the body to the
sacristy and laid it on three chairs set side by side. The sacristan had run to
fetch the village doctor.

And Maigret forgot how uncanny his
presence was. He took a few minutes to understand the suspicious question in the
priest's ardent gaze.

‘Who are you?' he asked at
last. ‘What brings …'

‘Detective Chief Inspector
Maigret, Police Judiciaire.'

He looked the priest in the face. He was
a man of thirty-five, with features that were regular but so serious that they
suggested the unshakeable faith of monks from another age.

He was deeply troubled. His voice less firm,
he murmured, ‘You don't mean that? …'

They had not yet dared to undress the
countess. They had put a mirror to her lips, to no avail. They had listened to her
heart, which had stopped beating.

‘I see no wounds,' was all
Maigret said in reply.

And he looked around him at this
setting, not a detail of which had changed in thirty years. The cruets were in the
same place and the chasuble ready for the next mass, and the altar boy's
cassock and surplice.

The gloomy daylight, entering through an
ogive window, diluted the rays from an oil lamp.

It was hot and cold at once. The priest
was clearly gripped by terrible thoughts.

‘But you're not trying to
say that …'

What a drama! At first Maigret
didn't understand. But memories from his childhood rose up like bubbles.

A church where a crime has been committed has to be reconsecrated by the bishop
 …

How could there have been a crime? There
had been no gunshot! No one had gone near the countess. Throughout the whole of the
mass, Maigret hadn't taken his eyes off her.

And no blood had been spilled; there was
no apparent wound!

‘The second mass is at seven
o'clock, isn't it?'

It was a relief to hear the heavy tread
of the doctor, a red-faced chap who was struck by the atmosphere and who looked at
the inspector and the priest in turn.

‘Dead?' he asked.

But he had no hesitation in undoing her
bodice, while the priest averted his eyes. Heavy footsteps in the church. Then the
peal rung by the bell-ringer. The first chime of the seven o'clock mass.

‘All I see is an embolism that
would have … I wasn't the countess's regular doctor; she preferred to be
treated by a colleague in Moulins. But I was called to the chateau two or three
times. Her heart was in very poor shape.'

The sacristy was very cramped. There was
hardly enough room for the three men and the body. Two altar boys arrived, because
there was mass at seven.

‘Her car must be outside,'
said Maigret. ‘We'll have to have her taken home.'

And he still felt the priest's
anxious eyes on him. Had he guessed something? Either way, while the sacristan, with
the help of the driver, guided the body towards the car, he approached the
inspector.

‘Are you sure that … I still have
two masses to say. It's All Souls' Day. My congregation is …'

Since the countess had died of an
embolism, couldn't Maigret find it in himself to reassure the priest?

‘You heard what the doctor said
 …'

‘And yet you've come here
today, to this very mass …'

Maigret tried to stay calm.

‘A coincidence, Father … My father
is buried in your cemetery.'

And he hurried towards the car, an
old-model coupé. The chauffeur was turning the crank. The doctor didn't know
what to do. There were a few people in the square who had no idea what was
happening.

‘Come with us …'

But the corpse took up all the room
inside the car. Maigret and the doctor crammed themselves in beside the
driver's seat.

‘You look surprised by what I
said,' murmured the doctor, who hadn't yet regained all his confidence.
‘If you knew the situation you might understand … The countess …'

He fell silent, glancing at the
black-liveried chauffeur, who was absently driving his car. They crossed the sloping
square, bounded on one side by the church built on the incline, on the other by the
Notre-Dame pond, which was a poisonous grey that morning.

Marie Tatin's inn was on the
right, the first house in the village. On the left there was an avenue lined with
oaks and, at the end, the dark mass of the chateau.

A uniform sky, cold as a
skating-rink.

‘You know this is going to cause a
fuss … That's why the priest is pulling such a face …'

Dr Bouchardon was a peasant, and the son
of peasants. He wore a brown hunting suit and high rubber boots.

‘I was going duck-hunting in the
ponds …'

‘You don't go to
mass?'

The doctor glanced at him.

‘It didn't stop me being
friends with the old priest … But this one …'

They entered the grounds. The details of
the chateau could be seen now: the ground-floor windows obscured by shutters, the
two corner towers, the only old parts of the building.

When the car parked near the steps,
Maigret peered
through the barred basement
windows and saw kitchens full of steam, and a fat woman busy plucking
partridges.

The driver didn't know what to do
and didn't dare open the doors of the car.

‘Monsieur Jean isn't up yet
 …'

‘Call anyone … Are there any other
servants in the house? …'

Maigret was sniffling. It was really
cold. He stood in the courtyard with the doctor, who started stuffing a pipe.

‘Who is Monsieur Jean?'

Bouchardon shrugged and gave a strange
smile.

‘You'll see.'

‘No, tell me, who is
he?'

‘A young man … A charming young
man …'

‘A relative?'

‘If you like! … In his own way! …
Well, why don't I get it out of the way … He's the countess's
lover … officially, he's her secretary …'

And Maigret looked the doctor in the
eye, remembering that they had been to school together. Only, no one recognized him.
He was forty-two! He had put on some weight.

He knew the chateau better than anyone.
Especially the servants' quarters. He had to take only a few steps to see the
estate manager's house, his birthplace.

And perhaps it was the memories that
troubled him so much! Especially the memory of the Countess of Saint-Fiacre as he
had known her: a young woman who had personified, to the working-class little boy
that he was, femininity, grace, nobility …

And she was dead! She had been pushed,
like an inert
object, into the car, and
they had had to fold her legs. They hadn't even buttoned up her blouse, and
white underwear contrasted with the black of her mourning dress!

… 
a crime will be committed
 …

But the doctor claimed that she had died
of an embolism. What supernatural creature had predicted such a thing? And why alert
the police?

In the chateau people were running
about. Doors were opening and closing. A butler, not yet in full livery, half-opened
the main door and hesitated to come any further. A man appeared behind him, in
pyjamas, his hair tousled and his eyes weary.

‘What is it?' he
shouted.

‘The gigolo!' the doctor
murmured cynically into Maigret's ear.

The cook had been alerted as well. She
watched in silence from the basement window. Skylights opened in the roofs leading
into the servants' bedrooms.

‘Well! What are we waiting for?
Let's carry the countess to her bed,' Maigret thundered indignantly.

It all struck him as sacrilegious,
clashing as it did with his childhood memories. It made him uncomfortable, not just
emotionally, but physically as well!