knowledge. Nor did they yet quite know with what they were dealing, for to be able to reach the gods was to be uniquely gifted, and mere mortal men, being accustomed to dominating women, were reticent and oft-unwilling to accept such a challenge or even to recognize it.
‘We always place a lovely cut-glass bowl of water in the centre of our circle, inspectors, and from this I fill my chalice before lifting it to the goddess. Those who wish may dip the fingers to brush the Sign of the Cross over the brow. The water of life is always that which flows from La Grande Source. We do not even use that of La Source Salée, and of course not those of the Marie or Demoiselles, which have all but ceased their issue.’
Vittel’s spa waters, but what was it about her, wondered St-Cyr, beyond that deliberate yet carefully contrived evasiveness? ‘The water is cold and flat, Hermann. Eleven and a half degrees Celsius and flows at a rate of just over 5,300 litres an hour.’
How good of him to have remembered, thought Élizabeth. ‘And with .6039 grams per litre of calcium sulphite, inspectors, and .2393 of magnesium sulphite.’
And a healthy dose of the trots! She could see Herr Kohler thinking this, but his partner quickly covered for him by saying, ‘Vittel’s waters are odourless and colourless, Hermann, and all are very fresh-tasting.’
‘You were here when wounded, Chief Inspector. Your memory is. . . ’
‘Matched only by my curiosity, madame. Your husband, please?’
He hadn’t even questioned her about how she had known such a thing of him. ‘Ah, the name Chevreul. Like so many, the war drew me to Paris as soon as the call went out. I had had little enough experience as a registered nurse compared to what I was soon forced to learn. The Marne, of course, and the horrible stalemate that followed its battle. Verdun later on, for the French needed me too, and I could speak the language. Later still, the Somme, of course, and then a ward I will remember for the rest of my life here on earth and will carry to those who have passed over. I paused on its threshold. I knew, inspectors; love is sometimes like that, is it not? André had lost his sight—that terrible gas—but he and I. . . how can I say it? He would touch my face and I would know we belonged to each other, but it was not to last, yet I think in no small part he held on for those brief two years of married bliss entirely due to the love we bore each other.’
And so much for financial security—was that it? wondered Kohler. Blond, blue-eyed, petite, and still quite handsome, she was a woman to be reckoned with.
‘Chevreul. . . ’ began Louis.
Suspicion would be paramount with these two, but no matter. ‘It’s an old family name. I was left with the Château de Mon Plaisir in the forested hills near Mortagne-au-Perche in Normandy. That is how the house and grounds were always known to my husband and me, and I lived quietly there tending his grave and those of his family until. . . well, until I was forced to remember that I still possessed my British passport. The Occupier, of course, wished the use of the house and stables, and the horses we bred, and of course I have been trying ever since to make them see sense and let me return, yet know I have found a calling here that transcends all others. Now, please, there are questions to which you need both direction and answer. Let me be but your guide and willing servant.’
‘Things have been stolen,’ said Louis.
‘Caroline Lacy had an invitation in her pocket,’ said Herr Kohler, snapping his fingers until his partner, digging deeply, retrieved it from a pocket though there was no need.
‘The ballet dancer came often to my chambers, inspectors. She seemed sincere. If at first one doesn’t succeed, does one not try again and again, and is that not a sign of artistic determination? Léa. . . Madame Monnier finally asked if I could fit the girl in and I, in turn, said to set a date and I would
‘We always place a lovely cut-glass bowl of water in the centre of our circle, inspectors, and from this I fill my chalice before lifting it to the goddess. Those who wish may dip the fingers to brush the Sign of the Cross over the brow. The water of life is always that which flows from La Grande Source. We do not even use that of La Source Salée, and of course not those of the Marie or Demoiselles, which have all but ceased their issue.’
Vittel’s spa waters, but what was it about her, wondered St-Cyr, beyond that deliberate yet carefully contrived evasiveness? ‘The water is cold and flat, Hermann. Eleven and a half degrees Celsius and flows at a rate of just over 5,300 litres an hour.’
How good of him to have remembered, thought Élizabeth. ‘And with .6039 grams per litre of calcium sulphite, inspectors, and .2393 of magnesium sulphite.’
And a healthy dose of the trots! She could see Herr Kohler thinking this, but his partner quickly covered for him by saying, ‘Vittel’s waters are odourless and colourless, Hermann, and all are very fresh-tasting.’
‘You were here when wounded, Chief Inspector. Your memory is. . . ’
‘Matched only by my curiosity, madame. Your husband, please?’
He hadn’t even questioned her about how she had known such a thing of him. ‘Ah, the name Chevreul. Like so many, the war drew me to Paris as soon as the call went out. I had had little enough experience as a registered nurse compared to what I was soon forced to learn. The Marne, of course, and the horrible stalemate that followed its battle. Verdun later on, for the French needed me too, and I could speak the language. Later still, the Somme, of course, and then a ward I will remember for the rest of my life here on earth and will carry to those who have passed over. I paused on its threshold. I knew, inspectors; love is sometimes like that, is it not? André had lost his sight—that terrible gas—but he and I. . . how can I say it? He would touch my face and I would know we belonged to each other, but it was not to last, yet I think in no small part he held on for those brief two years of married bliss entirely due to the love we bore each other.’
And so much for financial security—was that it? wondered Kohler. Blond, blue-eyed, petite, and still quite handsome, she was a woman to be reckoned with.
‘Chevreul. . . ’ began Louis.
Suspicion would be paramount with these two, but no matter. ‘It’s an old family name. I was left with the Château de Mon Plaisir in the forested hills near Mortagne-au-Perche in Normandy. That is how the house and grounds were always known to my husband and me, and I lived quietly there tending his grave and those of his family until. . . well, until I was forced to remember that I still possessed my British passport. The Occupier, of course, wished the use of the house and stables, and the horses we bred, and of course I have been trying ever since to make them see sense and let me return, yet know I have found a calling here that transcends all others. Now, please, there are questions to which you need both direction and answer. Let me be but your guide and willing servant.’
‘Things have been stolen,’ said Louis.
‘Caroline Lacy had an invitation in her pocket,’ said Herr Kohler, snapping his fingers until his partner, digging deeply, retrieved it from a pocket though there was no need.
‘The ballet dancer came often to my chambers, inspectors. She seemed sincere. If at first one doesn’t succeed, does one not try again and again, and is that not a sign of artistic determination? Léa. . . Madame Monnier finally asked if I could fit the girl in and I, in turn, said to set a date and I would
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