The Inquisitor's Key (19 page)

Descartes flipped back through his notes, twirling his pen between his fingers. He had just looked up to ask another question when his cell phone rang. Excusing himself, he stood up and walked toward the mouth of the passageway to take the call. He was gone for several minutes. When he returned, he sat, looked me square in the eyes, and said, “Your assistant—what was her relationship with Monsieur Beauvoir?”

The question caught me off guard, and Descartes would have to have been blind not to notice. “Fine, I think. He asked her to
come help with this excavation, so he clearly thought well of her. She came, so I assume she thought well of him, too.”

“Do you know why they thought so well of one another? And for how long a time?”
Crap,
I thought,
not this.

“I think they met six or eight years ago. When she was an undergraduate student. Miranda was on a dig in Guatemala that Stefan organized.”

He chewed absentmindedly on the end of a fingernail, still eyeing me closely. “Did you know that they were lovers?”

There, the shoe had dropped; I had known that question was coming. “It wasn’t any of my business if they had a personal relationship.”

He shrugged. “But did you know?”

“Yes. She told me shortly after I got here. She felt awkward about it.”

“Awkward about telling you? Or awkward about being lovers with him?”

“Both, I guess. But it was very brief, and it happened a long time ago, Inspector. I think
lovers
is too strong a word. It was a quick fling at a field school. It happens all the time.”

“All the time?” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly.

I flushed at the innuendo. “Not all the time, but it happens. It doesn’t necessarily mean very much. I thought the French were very tolerant about casual love affairs.”

“Sometimes. Not when one of the lovers ends up crucified. Tell me, was she angry with Monsieur Beauvoir? Resentful?”

“Resentful? About what?”

“About anything. About what happened in Guatemala. About what happened—or what
didn’t
happen—in Avignon.” Good God, did he actually think Miranda might have nailed Stefan to that beam?

“Look, Inspector, Miranda and I have worked together for six years. I never heard her mention this guy until she told me
she was coming here. If she were burning with rage for years—or longing for love—I think I’d have heard about it.”

He shrugged again, and I found the gesture annoying; it might simply mean “Who knows?” but it might also mean “What the hell do you know?” “Do you know where Mademoiselle Lovelady was last night?”

I returned the shrug. “I assume she was in her hotel room.”

“And do you know where Monsieur Beauvoir was last night?”

I flung up my hands in exasperation. “Well, if I were
guessing,
” I said sarcastically, “which is all I can do, I’d
guess
that for the first part of the night, he was in his apartment, and for the rest of the night, he was here in the chapel dying.”

He smiled slightly, ironically. “Actually, he was in Mademoiselle Lovelady’s hotel room until almost midnight.” His words felt like a punch in the gut. He studied my reaction. “You seem surprised.”

“I…Yes. I’m surprised. But as I said, whatever personal relationship they might have had—or might
not
have had—it’s none of my business.”

“I disagree, Dr. Brockton. Normally, no. But now—with Monsieur Beauvoir hanging there in the chapel—I think it is very much your business. You are involved, in some way, with a murder. You are swept up in the tide of events. You do not have the luxury of detachment.”

His words were confirmed by a sinking feeling in my gut. Somehow, for reasons I could not begin to fathom, I had turned a fateful corner in the labyrinthine streets of Avignon, and I wasn’t at all sure I could find my way out of the maze again.

“Excuse me? Dr. Brockton?” His voice sounded faraway; I felt as if I were swimming up from deep water to reach it, and I had the impression he’d called my name more than once.

“I’m sorry. Yes?”

“Dr. Brockton, where were
you
last night?”

“Me?”
I stared at him in astonishment. He nodded. “I was in
my hotel room.”

“The same hotel as mademoiselle?”

“No. A different one. A little inn near the ramparts. It’s called Lumani.”

“Ah,
oui,
Lumani. You found a beautiful place to stay.”

“Actually, Stefan found it for me. I think he knows the owners.
Knew
the owners.”

“Docteur, were
you
angry with Monsieur Beauvoir?”

“Why on earth would I be angry with him?”

“Perhaps you were jealous of his attentions to your assistant.”

“Oh, please,” I said. “I wasn’t. But even if I was, I certainly wouldn’t kill anyone over something like that. Besides, I didn’t even know that he went to see Miranda last night until you told me just now.”

“Perhaps you were angry that he tricked you into coming to Avignon. That was very manipulative,
non
?”

“It was, and I didn’t like it. But once I found out the reason for the trick, I understood.”

“And what, exactly, was the reason for this trick?”

“Didn’t Miranda explain it to you?”

“She did give me her explanation. Now I’m asking for your explanation.”

“She and Stefan had uncovered some very old bones in the Palace of the Popes,” I said. “The ossuary—the bone box—was engraved with an inscription that might cause big news.” He said nothing; simply waited. “The inscription claimed that the ossuary contained the bones of Jesus Christ. If that inscription proves to be true, this is the most sensational find of the past two thousand years.”

He stopped writing. “But how can you prove whether they are real or fake? You can’t use DNA testing, I think. Because you don’t have DNA from Jesus to compare.”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “But some people would argue with you. Some people think you could get DNA from the bloodstains on
the Shroud of Turin. I don’t think so; I don’t think the Shroud is authentic—I think it’s a clever medieval forgery—and I don’t think the stains on it are really blood.” I decided to see if Inspector Descartes had any sense of humor. “On the other hand, if the Holy Sponge is authentic, it might contain traces of Holy Spittle, along with some DNA.”

“The Holy Sponge? Please, what is this Holy Sponge?”

I explained.

“
Incroyable,
” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“What would really help,” I went on, “would be dental records: X-rays of the Holy Teeth.”

The inspector stared at me as if I were insane, then—when he realized I was joking—he laughed. “I like that,” he said. “
Oui,
X-rays of the Holy Teeth would be very helpful.”

“Oh!” My joke had reminded me of something serious. “We sent two of the teeth to a laboratory for carbon-14 dating, to see how old they are. We should get the results any day now. I’m guessing the teeth are only seven hundred years old, but if the lab says they’re two thousand years old, the bones suddenly become much more interesting.”

“What bones?”

“What do you mean, ‘what bones’? The bones I’ve just been talking about, Inspector.”

He repeated the question. “
What
bones?” He held out his upturned hands. His empty hands. Now I understood his meaning. “Where are these special bones?”

“I have no idea, Inspector. But I think if you find the bones, you’ll find the killer. What’s the French expression that means ‘Look for the woman’?
Cherchez la femme?
” He nodded. “How would you say ‘Look for the skeleton’?”

“Cherchez le squelette.”
The word sounded almost like “skillet.” “Of course we will search for the skeleton. But I don’t understand, Docteur. Why all the secrecy? Why not just tell the world that you found these bones and explain that you need to do more
tests to know if they are Jesus?”

“You want the truth?”

“Of course I want the truth. I always
only
want the truth.” For a moment I feared that I’d angered him, but he didn’t look mad; only intense. “Come.” He stood abruptly, beckoning to me to follow him. He led me into the chapel, where the forensic technicians seemed to be looking for the controls of the electrical winch that had hoisted Stefan into the air. Descartes studied the suspended body; then his gaze shifted to the fresco on the wall behind it, the wall above the altar. The painting showed a rosy-cheeked cherub hovering in the sky, beaming, as if delighted by the body hanging a few feet away. The detective shook his head slightly. “I don’t believe in angels or miracles or Holy Sponges, Docteur. But I do believe in the truth.
La vérité.
” A weary look clouded his eyes, and I wondered if he was thinking about the dead art-forger again. “I just have difficulty to find it sometimes.”

“How would you say it, Inspector—‘
Cherchez la vérité’
?”

He smiled slightly. “
Oui. Exactement.
So yes, please, tell me the truth about why Monsieur Beauvoir was so secretive.”

“This is just my opinion,” I stressed, “but I think Stefan wanted to keep it a secret because he was afraid someone else would take credit for the find; someone else would get the glory—some bureaucrat at the palace or the Ministry of Culture or wherever. I think he wanted all the glory for himself. Stefan wanted to be the one in the spotlight.”

I heard the whine of an electric motor. Overhead, the beam twitched and Stefan’s body jerked as the cable spool began to turn. As the wire unwound, the beam descended, slowly spinning in the glare of the theater lights.

Stefan had gotten his wish. He had taken center stage, and he was in the spotlight.

MIRANDA WAS QUIET ON THE WALK BACK TO HER
hotel, which was fine by me.

She looked tired and sad. I felt tired and sad, too; also confused and unsettled. I was shocked and puzzled by Stefan’s murder, but I wasn’t traumatized by it; he was a colleague, true, but I’d barely known him, so finding his body had been almost like stumbling upon a murdered stranger. No, my confusion and distress had more to do with Miranda. Was there something going on between her and Stefan after all? Had she lied to me about that? If she had, what else had she lied to me about? And was Descartes right—had his murder, and our involvement, made Miranda’s private life my business?

Perhaps it had, I concluded reluctantly. I was wrestling with what to say when I looked up and noticed where we were. Ambling on automatic pilot, we’d reached the Palace of the Popes. Miranda stared bleakly at the stone façade; silent tears sprang
from her eyes and rolled down her face. “God, I hate this place,” she whispered fiercely, not so much to me as to herself, or perhaps to the palace. “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, or at least to Disney, when I first saw it. The glory and the glamour, I totally fell for it, you know?” She laughed bitterly. “I was too dazzled to see that Stefan was just playing me. Probably using me to get to you—wanting to add your forensic heft to the project to give it more credibility. It never occurred to me to suspect him of that. I only suspected him of wanting to get into my pants again.”

It was, I supposed after my initial shock, as good an opening as any to the conversation we needed to have. “And did you want him to?”

“No. Well, maybe. But not really.” She shook her head. “God, what a mess. Would you let me just talk for a while? Can you just listen, and not interrupt, and try not to judge me?” She took my arm and led me to a bench at the edge of the plaza. “I hadn’t thought about Stefan for years; I really hadn’t. So when he first got in touch with me about this, I barely even remembered who he was. He had to say his name twice, and add ‘in France.’ But after that, it was like this seed started to germinate—ha, shades of Zeus and Leda; the seed of unfinished business, somehow. Digging around in the Palace of the Popes sounded cool, and so did a paid junket to France. But I got this nervous, hopeful feeling, too; this hope that maybe we could somehow get rid of some of the scar tissue we’d created six years ago, when Stefan’s wife showed up and I left Guatemala in disgrace.” I nodded; I wasn’t entirely sure I understood, but I’d been instructed not to interrupt, and I wanted her to know I was listening.

“So as soon as I get here, Stefan starts talking about how glad he is to be working with me again. How sorry he is about what happened in Guatemala. How grateful he is to have a chance to become real colleagues. I tried not to make too much of it; it sounded good, but I couldn’t help wondering if he was working me a bit, trying to get into my pants again. And he did make a
pass at me that night on his balcony, but I turned him down, just like I told you. But what I
didn’t
tell you about that night is, I didn’t burn the bridge completely. I was willing to consider the possibility that there actually could be something there—something genuine with Stefan—after all.”

I nodded, biting my tongue to keep from asking if Stefan had given her reason to hope for more. It was almost as though she’d read my mind, though. “He kept dropping hints along those lines,” she went on. “Talking about what an opportunity this find was. How we could publish off it for years. How it could open all sorts of doors for us. Turns out death’s door was the only one, huh?” She took another deep breath. “There’s another thing I haven’t told you. Stefan came to my hotel room last night.”

I broke the no-interruptions rule. “I know.”

She looked miserable. “How?”

“Descartes told me.”

“Shit. I’m sorry you didn’t hear it from me first.” She looked down at the cobblestones. “About ten o’clock last night, Stefan calls me, says he’s on his way home from dinner and can he swing by for a minute and talk to me about something. I say okay. He shows up at my room with a bottle of wine, and he’s all funny and charming, and I let him talk me into having some wine with him. A couple glasses in, I’m feeling relaxed and happy, and then he starts kissing me. And this time, I’m not planning on turning him down. But then he starts whispering stuff in my ear about how he wants to run away with me. How we can get out of the rat race of academia. Live somewhere beautiful and exotic. Travel the world. Write novels, raise orchids, do whatever the hell we want. At first I just figure he’s trying to sweet-talk me, but he keeps on and on, so finally I ask him what the hell he’s talking about—it makes no sense to me; it sounds crazy and juvenile. So then he gets defensive and mad. He gets up and storms out.”

“That’s it? That’s all that happened?”

“Almost; not quite. As he’s walking out the door, he turns
and says, ‘You have no idea what I’m offering you, Miranda. The door’s opening tonight. Right now. I’m stepping through it. I’d love for you to go with me.” He stands there looking at me, just…
waiting
. Then he shakes his head, steps into the hall, and shuts the door behind him. And then he’s gone.”

“Let me get this straight. He wanted you to leave the hotel with him, right then, at midnight, to seize some golden opportunity?”

“I think he did. I keep turning and turning those words over in my mind, and that’s where I end up every time.”

“Did you tell Descartes this?”

“Yes. I don’t know how seriously he took me. Or whether he even believes me.”

Suddenly I felt dizzy, almost sick. “If you’d gone with Stefan, you might have ended up hanging in that chapel with him. Nailed to the back side of that beam.”

“Yeah.”