by J. G. Sandom
“Yes. Yes, it was.”
“That’s why you called London, I suppose.”
“Of course.”
“And to whom did you speak, in London I mean?” “Isn’t it in the file?” Captain Musel said. “Someone named Hadley, I believe. Superintendent Hadley.”
For a moment Lyman felt himself drawn back to England, to that little valley full of rhododendron bushes, to the heat and humidity of Hadley’s greenhouse. He could see George digging in the garden, his front paws covered in mud. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Of course I am,” Musel replied shortly. “What are you driving at?”
“Did you ask for him by name?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. I asked for your division. But he was the one who always authorized my calls.”
“What do you mean, he authorized them?”
Musel looked embarrassed. “Inspector Lyman,” he said. “Amiens is only a small city. We’re not London or Paris. We don’t have the resources to call overseas anytime we feel like it. Besides, we were doing you a favor.”
Lyman felt his heart skip. “You mean it was a trunk call? You reversed the charges?”
“Yes, of course. And then when Superintendent Hadley never called…Well, I did my part. And besides, I didn’t put much stock in Tellier’s letter. If he hadn’t mentioned Pontevecchio, I never would have telephoned at all.”
“You know Jacques Tellier?”
Captain Musel laughed. “Everyone here does. He used to run a small antique shop on the rue Dupuis. But he disappeared from Amiens some time ago. His nephew has it now. Listen, I’m glad. Tellier was no good. He spent several years in prison for smuggling and forgery.” Captain Musel shook his head. “I think he came from La Tremblade originally, just south of Rochefort on the Charente River.”
“When exactly did he leave Amiens?”
“Oh, about two years ago, maybe less. Look, I know what you’re thinking. But what would a small-time forger like Tellier be doing with a millionaire like Salvatore Pontevecchio? It doesn’t make sense. He used to call us up and complain about prowlers, for God’s sake. A nervous man. You understand. Not someone likely to associate with international bankers. So I gave up calling London. You didn’t seem to care, so why should I?”
“No, of course not,” Lyman said. “And the missal,” he continued. “What do you make of that?”
Musel shrugged. “I don’t know. Pierre Clermont—the curator of the Amiens museum here—believes that it’s legitimate. He told me Thierry was the brother of Bernard of Chartres, someone who ran the famous school there, back in the Middle Ages. Clermont described it as a Masonic book of rites. I used to keep it in my safe, but Clermont insisted that I send it on to Paris, to some expert on this sort of thing. The Countess de Rochambaud, or Rochembord, or something like that. I don’t remember. You’ll have to ask Clermont. As for the reference to the Book of the Contender… well, that’s an old legend. Maybe Guy can help you there. He’s a guide over at the cathedral. Guy Soury-Fontaine.”
“I see. Thank you, Captain,” Lyman said. It was clear by the way he was swiveling in his chair that Musel had other things to do. “You’ve been very helpful. Really.” Lyman stood up. “Oh, one more thing, before I forget,” he continued. “I would appreciate it if you might treat me, at least on the surface, as if I were just another English tourist. I’m not exactly sure if this Jacques Tellier or the missal is important, but while I’m here I might as well be as inconspicuous as possible. Perhaps something will shake loose.”
“Inspector Lyman, you may pretend to be anyone you wish. That is your affair. If I can help you, I shall try. But remember,” Musel added, “you are not in London anymore. Paris may have authorized you to carry a gun—against my wishes, I might add—but Amiens is my responsibility. We are country people here. Amiens is a quiet city. Do you understand me?”
“Perfectly.”
Musel smiled. “I’m glad,” he said. “Then welcome. Welcome to Amiens.”
Chapter VIII
AMIENS
September 14th, 1991
LYMAN SAT ON HIS HOTEL BED SMOKING A CIGARETTE, listening to the rain fall dreamily outside the window, staring at the telephone on the table beside him. He had been sitting there in the same position for at least an hour, ever since his return from the police station. The room was dark. His coat lay on the floor next to his tartan overnight bag. The curtains were half drawn. He reached for his pack of Players and lit another cigarette from the one still burning in his hand. Then he blew the smoke out slowly, and watched it waft across the room, across the telephone, and vanish.
What was the point of putting it off? he thought. He would have to confront Hadley eventually. He picked up the telephone and dialed the number.
The phone rang at least a dozen times before he finally hung up. Perhaps Hadley was in his greenhouse. Lyman tried the London station house instead. The receptionist switched him to Dotty Taylor’s desk, and in a moment he could hear her soft familiar voice. “Hello, Dotty,” he said. “It’s me.”
“Who’s me?” she answered peevishly.
“Nigel.”
“Nigel? I don’t know any Nigels. In fact I’ve always rather avoided Nigels.”
“Dotty, I need your help.”
“Why didn’t you call me from Paris? You promised you would.”
“I’m sorry,” Lyman said. “I meant to. Really, I did.”
“I don’t know why I stay with you, Nigel. You don’t give a fig for me.”
“That’s not true. You know it isn’t.”
“What do you want anyway? I’m sure you didn’t call long distance just to chat me up.”
“Is the Lemur about?”
“No.”
“What about Cocksedge?”
“They’re all at the funeral. Didn’t anyone ring you?”
“What funeral?”
There was a pause and Lyman took another drag off his cigarette. “Dotty, are you there?”
“Tim Hadley and his wife. You’d think someone would have told you.”
Lyman stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
“They were in a car accident. The night after you left. Apparently some animal dashed out across the road in front of them. Hadley tried to avoid it and the car flipped over.”
“Good God! Did anyone see it happen?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
Lyman stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray by the bed. Hadley had been the one who had taken all of Captain Musel’s calls, and then failed to pass the information down the line. He’d been responsible for closing the Pontevecchio case when only half the evidence was in.
Lyman ran a hand along his face, rubbing his eyes. He had nothing left for Hadley. Nothing at all.
“I’m sorry, Nigel. I know you liked him.” Dotty sighed. “I thought you knew. Didn’t you send him those flowers?”
“What flowers?”
“They arrived yesterday. I saw them when I dropped a message off for Blackwell. They were just sitting there, dying on your desk, so I brought them back here to look after them. I thought they were for the Hadleys. Everyone’s been sending flowers.”
“I didn’t send any flowers.” Lyman swung his legs off the bed, his mind racing. “Is there a note on them, a letter? Check to see.” He reached down for another cigarette. In the distance he could hear Dotty tearing open an envelope, removing a card. He could even hear her catch her breath. “What is it?” he said. “What’s it say?”
“They’re from Superintendent Hadley. The flowers. How ghastly, Nigel. He must have sent them right before he died.”
“What does the note say?”
“‘For old times’ sake.’ And then his signature.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all, Nigel.”
Lyman lit his cigarette. It didn’t make any sense, he thought. Hadley had been a good driver. The accident seemed too convenient, the timing too perfect. Had Hadley killed himself?
No, not Hadley. And not with his wife in the car. Then, perhaps, it hadn’t been an accident. Perhaps it had only been staged to look like one. In that case, why had Hadley sent those flowers, unless they carried some kind of message? It didn’t make any sense.
“Are you sure that’s all it says?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“What do the flowers look like?”
“There’s a whole strand of them. Green with brown tips. The leaves look like little palms. And there isn’t any soil, just a kind of cork board at the bottom.”
“Cork board?” Lyman remembered the afternoon when he had driven out to visit Hadley in the country.
And what do you think of this one, Nigel? Hadley had said. That’s right. Lyman tried to visualize the moment. A friend of mine imports them from South America. They have the oddest reproductive cycle. And verdant, palmlike leaves.
“I’ve seen that plant before,” Lyman said.
“You have?”
“Listen to me carefully, Dotty. There’s no need to bother anyone else about this. It’s probably nothing, but I wonder if you’d take those flowers over to the Yard for me. I have an old friend there in pharmacology. His name’s Smythe. Have him run a test for alkaloids.”
“Scotland Yard? Why can’t I just drop them off downstairs?”
“I trust Smythe.”
“What do you mean, you trust him? What’s going on, Nigel? Are you in some sort of trouble?”
Lyman turned and faced the window. It was still raining but he could see the towers of the great cathedral in the distance, gray against gray sky. “Don’t worry,” he said without conviction. “Everything’s just fine.”
Lyman stooped out of the rain into the vestibule of the Amiens cathedral. Distant echoes shook the stillness of the air: a voice here buying postcards; another shouting to a child to stop; and every footfall blending into yet another still until the sounds rose past the arches to the sky.
He had just come from the hotel and he could still hear Dotty Taylor’s voice. “You’d think someone would have told you,” she had said. But who? Chief Superintendent Cocksedge? The Lemur—Terry Randall? Both had been with Lyman on the evening his flat had been ransacked. And hadn’t it been their idea to assign him to the case in the first place? For good reason, Lyman thought as he started up the cool basilica. Who better to assign than someone who had failed already, with Crosley, with his whole career? It was so easy to be disappointed by Inspector Lyman. He was the one who was always popping licorice between his teeth so that you couldn’t smell the whiskey on his breath, the one with all the unrealized potential.
But it could have been an accident, Lyman thought, a rabbit in the headlamps, a deer. Hadley could have simply been unlucky. And the flowers could have been a gift, a kind of peace offering.
He stopped. A man was measuring the maze of flagstones in the central aisle. Lyman put his hands in his coat pockets and sidled up beside him.
The stranger was crawling between the benches, laying his yard-long ruler length to length along the black path of the labyrinth. He wore an ice-blue anorak with a hood, and tight black dungarees. Every few feet, he stopped and removed a little black notebook from an inside pocket to record a figure. Lyman guessed he was in his early thirties, with a thin, pleasant face, and sandy blond hair. “Excuse me,” Lyman said. “Excuse me, may I ask what you’re doing?”
The man looked up. “I’m measuring the labyrinth.”
“Oh, I see.” Lyman thought he heard a foreign accent but he couldn’t really place it. “Do you work here?”
“No, sorry, I don’t.” The stranger stood up slowly, dusting his knees. “Why, do you need some help?”
“I’m looking for a fellow named Soury-Fontaine. I think he’s a guide here.”
“Oh, sure, Guy. I know him. But he won’t be back until tomorrow, I’m afraid.” Then he paused. “You’re British, aren’t you?”
“How did you know? Is my French that bad?”
The stranger laughed. “No, you’re just easier to understand,” he said in English. Then he extended his hand. “My name’s Joseph Koster. American. How do you do?”
Lyman shook it. “Nigel Lyman. A pleasure.” They stared at one another for a moment without speaking.
“I know Guy pretty well, you know,” Koster finally said. “I’d be glad to set up a tour for you, if you want.”
“A tour? Yes. That would be splendid.”
“How long are you in Amiens?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I rather hate making plans when I’m on holiday. Have to do that all year long.”
Koster nodded. “Sure, I know what you mean.” He looked back down at the labyrinth.
“What exactly were you measuring, if I may ask?”
“I have a theory,” Koster said, “that the labyrinth is a kind of two-dimensional model of the whole cathedral.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Not really. It’s just that the location of the labyrinth, and the number of lines and angles which define it, reflect certain basic mathematical characteristics equivalent to those found in the cathedral’s architecture. That’s my interest, you see. I’m an architect.”
“Oh, I see.” Lyman smiled. “To tell you the truth, I was never much good at maths. But you don’t need a head for numbers to sell a Royal Coachman. That’s what I do. I run a fishing tackle shop in Winchester, just south of London. Dry fly, mostly.” He swung his right arm back in a graceful arc. “You here on holiday?”
“I’m working on a book, on the cathedrals of France dedicated to Our Lady, Notre Dame.” Koster pointed at the ground with his ruler. “That’s why I was crawling around.”
“A book. How fascinating. It must have been awfully difficult to get permission. They told me at the hotel that you can’t even go up into that middle section there. What’s it called again? I was hoping to poke around a bit myself.”
“The triforium. Yeah, I know. I tried writing a cousin I have at the Vatican. What a nightmare. In the end my publisher was forced to petition the Minister of Culture in Paris, a friend of his named Charles Langelier.”
“Is that so?” said Lyman, turning to look up toward the metal choir gate. “Helps having family in high places, I suppose.”
“Not really. Most of the cathedrals are state-owned today. It’s the politicians who hold the purse strings now—not the bishops.”
“What exactly does your cousin do at the Vatican?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your cousin. I went to Rome once, years ago. On holiday. Damned nice people, the Italians.”
“He works with the IOR. It’s a kind of Church bank.”
Lyman studied Koster’s eyes. They were a maritime teal blue, warm waters merging into cold. They did not even blink. “Convenient if you ever need a loan, eh?” Lyman tried to smile. “Hello,” he said. “Is that your guide friend watching us? Over there.”
A tall man in a dark brown suit was standing in the shadow of a pier across the nave. He looked up at the windows in the clerestory and then suddenly turned away. A second man approached him from the southern aisle. They moved together through the dappled light, pointing here and there at the carvings on the walls.
“No, that’s not him. Guy has a beard.”
“You know, I wonder if you could help me,” Lyman said. “I’ve landed in a proper hole. You seem to know your way about. Perhaps you could recommend a hotel for me.”
“I’m staying at the Hôtel de la Paix. It’s all right, I guess. Nothing to write home about.”
“Thanks.” Lyman looked at his wristwatch. “Well, it’s getting on. What time tomorrow did you say Guy would be here?”
“About ten-thirty, usually.”
“I love these continentals. They keep such civilized hours.” Lyman smiled flatly. “I haven’t spoken much English these last few days. Even American makes me homesick.” He looked away for a moment, then added suddenly, “Are you busy this evening? Perhaps we could have
dinner later on, if you’re free?”
“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’ve got a date.”
“Well, perhaps another time. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other at some point.”
Lyman shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to assume a guise of helplessness.
The American hesitated. “You do know where the Hôtel de la Paix is, don’t you? On the rue de la République?”
“No, but if you’re heading back that way, I could always send for my kit later.”
Koster looked across the aisle. The flagstone lines were fading with the sun. “Why not,” he said. “It’s been here seven hundred years. I guess it can wait another day.”
He put the ruler and notebook back into his anorak, his movements precise, economical. Then he smiled, raising his eyebrows. If he were disturbed by the prospect of Lyman’s company, he did not show it. Yet Lyman felt the coincidences tugging at him, just as they had when he had heard of Hadley’s death.
A few hours earlier at the police station he had been studying Jacques Tellier’s drawing of the labyrinth, and now here was a stranger measuring its lengths. And not just any stranger—an American with a cousin at the IOR itself.
What had he gotten himself into this time? Lyman thought. First the ransacking and George, then Hadley, and now this Joseph Koster. He glanced back down at the labyrinth. It looked like a whirlpool of black stones, and for a moment he felt as if he were revolving slowly toward its center, drawn inexorably between the flagstone cracks and down into the earth.
Lyman spent the balance of the day checking into the Hôtel de la Paix, and relocating his gear. After a private conversation with the concierge, he was given the room next door to Joseph Koster’s. It was simple but clean: two beds, a balcony, a dresser, and a shower in the corner. Lyman washed up a little. Then he unpacked and headed down for dinner.
