An Uncertain Place (32 page)

‘Arandjel, I have two final questions.’

‘I’ll keep listening as long as there’s still some drink in my glass,’ said Arandjel, taking a very small sip and looking amused.

Adamsberg felt as if he had been caught in an intelligent trap, where he would have to think quickly before the alcohol started to disappear, like sand running through an hourglass. When the glass was empty, the words of wisdom would dry up. He estimated that the time in front of him was about five mouthfuls of
rakija
.

‘Is there any connection between Plogojowitz and the old graveyard in north London, Higg-gate Cemetery?’

‘Highgate you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Much worse than a connection, young man. Long before they made the cemetery, people say that the body of a Turk was taken to the top of the hill, in his coffin, and that his was the only grave there for a long time. Well, people get a lot of things wrong: he wasn’t a Turk at all, but a Serb, and he’s supposed to be the master vampire, Plogojowitz himself. Fleeing his native land to go and reign from London. They even say that it was his presence on the hill that spontaneously caused the building of the cemetery.’

‘Plogojowitz, the master of London?’Adamsberg whispered to himself, quite taken aback. ‘So the person who put the shoes there wasn’t making an offering to him, but provoking him, picking a quarrel, showing him his powers.’

‘
Ti to verjueš
,’ said Vlad, looking at Adamsberg and shaking his long hair. ‘You really believe it. Don’t let Arandjel bewitch you with his tales, that’s what my dedo always told me. He’s just having fun with you.’

Adamsberg once more allowed the gales of laughter to finish, watching the level of the alcohol in Arandjel’s glass. Meeting his eyes, Arandjel swallowed another mouthful. Just a centimetre left now. ‘Time is passing, ask your second question.’ That was what Arandjel’s smile seemed to say, like the sphinx testing passers-by.

‘Arandjel, was there anyone who was specially singled out for treatment by Plogojowitz? Is it possible that there’s some family that thinks it is a particular victim of the Plogojowitz clan’s powers?’

‘Irrelevant,’ said Vlad, repeating what Danglard had said. ‘I already told you. It’s his own family that was targeted.’

Arandjel raised his hand to tell Vladislav to be quiet.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All right,’ he went on, pouring himself another small slug of
rakija
. ‘You have won the right to a last little glass before my siesta.’

A concession that seemed to suit the old man very well. Adamsberg took out his notebook.

‘No,’ said Arandjel firmly. ‘If you can’t remember it’s because it’s not interesting enough to you, so you won’t have missed anything.’

‘OK, I’m listening,’ said Adamsberg, pocketing the notebook.

‘There was one family at least that was persecuted by Plogojowitz. In a village called Medwegya, not far from here, in Brani
č
evo district. You can read all about it in the
Visum et repertum
that Dr Flückinger wrote in 1732 for the military council in Belgrade after they closed the inquiry.’

I’m talking to the Danglard of Serbia, Adamsberg remembered. He had no idea what this
Visum et repertum
could be or where to find it, and old Arandjel had challenged him not to take notes. Adamsberg rubbed his hands together in his anxiety not to forget.
Visum et repertum
by Flückinger.

‘The case caused even more of a sensation than Plogojowitz’s. A major scandal throughout the Western world, with people taking sides. Your Voltaire had a good laugh about it, the Austrian emperor got involved, Louis XV ordered his envoys to follow the inquiry, the doctors were tearing their hair out, the priests praying for their salvation, the theologians didn’t know what to think. A great outpouring of literature and debate. And to think it all started here,’ Arandjel added, glancing round at the hills.

‘I’m listening,’ said Adamsberg.

‘This soldier came back to Medwegya after years of fighting in the Austro-Turkish wars. He wasn’t the same as when he went away. He said he had been the victim of a
vampir
during his tour of duty, that he had fought the vampire but it had followed him to the Turkish part of Persia and in the end he had managed to kill the monster and bury it. He had brought back some earth from the grave and he ate it regularly to protect himself from the
vampir
. It’s a sign that the soldier didn’t think he was safe from the living-dead creature, even if he thought he had killed it. So he lived on in Medwegya, eating earth, wandering around cemeteries and getting his neighbours worked up. Then, in 1727, he fell off a hay cart and broke his neck. In the month after he died, there were four deaths in Medwegya, “in the manner people die when attacked by vampires”, and people started to say the soldier had become a vampire too. They made such a fuss that the authorities agreed to his exhumation, forty days after his death. And the rest is well known.’

‘Tell me all the same,’ said Adamsberg, afraid that Arandjel might stop at this point.

‘The body was pink-skinned, fresh blood was to be seen in the orifices, the skin looked new and smooth, fingernails were lying in the tomb, and there were no signs of decomposition. They plunged a stake into the soldier’s chest and there was a horrible cry. Or some say not so much a cry as an inhuman sigh. They cut off his head and burnt the body.’

The old man took another mouthful of
rakija
under Adamsberg’s watchful eye. Only a third of the second glass left. If Adamsberg had remembered the dates right, the soldier had died two years after Plogojowitz.

‘The four victims too were taken from their graves and got the same treatment. But since they were afraid that the contagion of the Medwegya vampire might extend to his neighbours in the graveyard, they went further. An official inquiry was instituted in 1731, they opened forty tombs near the soldier’s and discovered that seventeen corpses were still in perfect condition: Militza, Joachim, Ruscha and her child Rhode, Bariactar’s wife and her son Stanche, Milo, Stanoicka, and others, they were all taken and cremated. And there were no more deaths.’

Only a few drops of liquor now remained in Arandjel’s glass, so everything depended on his rate of drinking. ‘If the soldier had been fighting with Peter Plogojowitz –’Adamsberg started quickly – ‘because we
are
talking about Plogojowitz, aren’t we?’

‘So they say.’

‘In that case, the members of the soldier’s family were – how shall I put it? – unintentional vampires, but they could consider themselves as victims of Plogojowitz, people who had been captured and enslaved. Men and women who were turned into vampires by force, destroyed by the creature.’

‘Yes, that’s it. That’s what they were.’

Arandjel swirled the last drop of
rakija
round and looked at the facets of his glass glinting in the sunlight.

‘And the soldier’s name?’ asked Adamsberg hastily. ‘Is that known?’

Arandjel raised his glass towards the blank sky and without putting it to his lips threw the last drop of
rakija
straight into his mouth.

‘Arnold Paole. He was called Arnold Paole.’

‘Plog,’ whispered Vladislav.

‘Try to remember it,’ said Arandjel, stretching out in his armchair. ‘It’s the kind of name that slips your mind.’

As if Plogojowitz’s breath had made it inconsistent.

A
DAMSBERG WAS LISTENING TO
W
EILL CHATTING INTO HIS
mobile, asking him about the local dishes and wines, and had he tasted the stuffed cabbage yet?

He was strolling calmly along in a landscape that now seemed familiar to him, almost as if he belonged there. He recognised a flower here and there, ruts in the path, the view across the rooftops. Finding himself at the fork in the forest road, he was on the point of taking the path to the woods, then shrank back. Drawn towards him, you’re being drawn towards him. He took a right turn instead, and found himself on the path along the river again, allowing his eyes to scan the Carpathian peaks.

‘Are you listening,
commissaire
?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘Because I’m doing all this for you.’

‘No, you’re doing it to get back at the forces of darkness in the hierarchy.’

‘Well, maybe,’ Weill conceded, since he disliked being caught out expressing honourable sentiments. ‘I’ll start with the third rung of our ladder, which is now leaning up against the jaws of hell.’

‘Er, yes,’ said Adamsberg, distracted by a huge flight of white butterflies, playing in the warm air round his head as if he were a flower.

‘Right. The judge in Mordent’s daughter’s case is called Damvillois. Found that out. Incompetent type, mid-career but stalled. Only he has a half-brother in high places. Damvillois can’t refuse him anything, because he counts on him to get promotion. Fourth rung is the half-brother, Gilles Damvillois, who’s a powerful examining magistrate in Gavernan, high-flyer. Might get to be state advocate. If, that is, the current holder of the post is disposed to back him. Fifth rung, current state advocate, Régis Trémard, who’s on hot bricks because he wants to chair the Appeal Court, no less. That’s if the current chair puts
him
top of the list.’

By now Adamsberg had taken a path he didn’t know, along the bend of the Danube, leading towards an old mill. The butterflies were still with him; either they were following him or perhaps they were a different lot.

‘Sixth rung, chair of the Appeal Court, Alain Perrenin. What he’s after is the vice-presidency of the Council of State. If the current vice-president backs him. We’re getting warm now. Seventh rung. Vice-president of the Council of State, a woman called Emma Carnot. Very warm indeed. She got where she is by using her sharp elbows, never wasted a moment of her life messing about reading philosophy, enjoying herself, or all the other things lesser mortals spend their time on. She’s a hundred per cent workaholic, and she has a phenomenal number of contacts and strings she can pull.’

By now Adamsberg had gone inside the old mill. He looked up at the ancient rafters, which were of a different pattern from the mill in his home village of Caldhez. The butterflies had abandoned him to the semi-darkness. Under his feet he could feel a carpet of bird droppings which was a crunchy but pleasant sensation.

‘And she wants to be Minister of Justice, I suppose?’ asked Adamsberg.

‘Or go even higher. There’s no limit to her ambition, she’s out for all she can get. At my request, Danglard searched Mordent’s office. He found Emma Carnot’s personal number, pathetically obvious, just stuck on the underside of the desk. Forgivable in a junior officer, but a black mark against someone on the
commandant
grade. I have one golden rule: if you can’t memorise a ten-digit telephone number, don’t get mixed up in anything dodgy. Second golden rule: don’t let anyone slip a bomb under your bed.’

‘Agreed,’ said Adamsberg, shuddering at the thought of Zerk, whom he had let go, just like that.

That was a real bomb under his bed. It could blow him sky-high like the toads the village boys tortured. But he was the only one who knew that. No, of course Zerk knew it and was determined to use it:
I’ve come to fuck up your life
.

‘So, are you pleased?’ asked Weill.

‘To find out that the key woman in the Council of State is after my guts? Not really, Weill.’

‘Adamsberg, what we have to do is find out why Emma Carnot doesn’t want the Garches murderer found at any cost. Is he some dangerous colleague? Her son? Her ex-lover? The word on the street is that these days she’s only interested in women, but some people whisper – and I’ve got a whisperer on the line from the Limoges Appeal Court – that there
was
a husband at one time. One time very long ago. The trail always leads to family secrets. Third golden rule: keep your private life private, and burn all your papers if you can.’

‘That’s no doubt what she’s trying to do.’

‘I’ve looked, Adamsberg. I can’t find any records of a marriage, or of any link between her and the Garches affair, or the Pressbaum one either. No marriage, well, perhaps I’m not entirely sure about that.’

Weill clicked his tongue and savoured the brief pause.

‘The page that corresponds to her maiden name at the town hall which should be the right one, because she was born in Auxerre, has been quite simply cut out of the register. The clerk says that a woman from “the ministry” asked to see the register recently, something to do with “national security”. I think our Emma Carnot is panicking. I can smell fear. A woman with jet-black hair, the clerk said. Golden rule number four: never use a wig, it’s ridiculous. So what we have is a marriage which has been removed from the public record.’

‘The killer is only twenty-nine, though.’

‘Could be the son of the marriage. She might be protecting him. Or trying to make sure her son’s crazy actions don’t get in the way of her career.’

‘But, Weill, the mother of our Zerk has a name, she’s called Gisèle Louvois.’

‘Yes, I know. But what if Carnot discreetly had a baby adopted – for a hefty consideration?’

‘All right, Weill, so we’ve arrived at the seventh rung – what do we do next?’