write and send that card you have, which I did. Was her death unpleasant—please, you must spare me the details. I can see the answer already in your expressions.’
‘ Ah, bon, ’ said Louis, ‘you mentioned setting a date, but there is none on the card.’
Of the two, was he the stickler for details? If so, she had best keep it in mind. ‘A date, you ask? None was necessary. It was to have been for tonight at 2200 hours sharp.’
‘But death intervened,’ grumbled Hermann, not believing a word of it.
‘Precisely, Inspector, and I shall, in tonight’s séance, be asking Cérès to contact that poor child so that she can speak through the goddess to me.’
‘And reveal who her killer was or what she wanted to tell the new Kommandant?’
‘Hermann. . . ’
‘No, please, Chief Inspector, let me answer. Caroline was convinced Mary-Lynn Allan’s death was not an accident. Things had been stolen. . . little things; seemingly worthless things. When women have so little, even the smallest, most insignificant item to male eyes could well be the most treasured: the essence of a cherished memory, the feel, the touch, the smell of an object, a bit of cloth, a seashell perhaps—all such things can have their intense value to a woman, no matter how coarse or common she might appear to you men.’
A seashell. . . ‘Caroline was asked to bring what she had,’ said Kohler. ‘Be so good as to tell us what that was?’
Had she said too much, gone too far? wondered Élizabeth. ‘Always, for every sitter, the invitation says the same thing: They are to bring something—anything—that will form a bridge to what they most desperately want to know. Cérès needs such items upon which to focus, but as a result of these continual thefts, a degree of bitterness and viciousness far beyond the measure of each loss has entered our community, our two houses, if you like.’
‘And the thefts?’ asked Louis.
‘They happen in an instant. None are planned—I’m sure of this. The thefts are random and governed totally by impulse, and I am certain too, that whoever is doing this, that poor soul is in torment and unable to resist the impulse yet exceedingly clever at accomplishing it and hiding her identity.’
‘And her hiding place?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘Though there are those who search, no one, insofar as I have been told, has ever found it.’
‘Hence Madame Monnier’s suggesting, Hermann, that if we were to discover who it was, we were to tell the thief that Madame Chevreul would keep on asking even if we didn’t confide that information and that soon Cérès would give her the answer.’
‘Léa has her uses, Chief Inspector.’
‘But has Cérès been more forthcoming?’ he asked.
‘Chief Inspector, surely you are as aware as I that there are those who steal and those who attempt to.’
‘And those who will accuse without sufficient evidence while demanding their anonymity.’
‘Precisely! And how, please, am I to differentiate?’
Had she led them into admitting that the séances might well have their uses? wondered St-Cyr. ‘If not by placing a suspect and her accuser before you and asking Cérès enough questions to settle the matter.’
‘But Cérès only speaks with the voices of those who have passed over and I have no knowledge of what is said through me.’
‘But Léa Monnier does?’ he asked.
‘As do others of my staff.’
‘Are the sitters always different?’
‘There are the regulars, there are those who have been summoned, those with special needs and requests, and those, as in the cases of Colonel Kessler and Mary-Lynn Allan, who were initiates passing through to becoming regulars. Each séance needs its core of believers. They give the whole process backbone, but even then, many sessions fail because of a doubter. Unfortunately I cannot always weed these out beforehand. Nora Arnarson had her doubts but came, and was allowed to sit, since her dear friend Mary-Lynn required her
‘ Ah, bon, ’ said Louis, ‘you mentioned setting a date, but there is none on the card.’
Of the two, was he the stickler for details? If so, she had best keep it in mind. ‘A date, you ask? None was necessary. It was to have been for tonight at 2200 hours sharp.’
‘But death intervened,’ grumbled Hermann, not believing a word of it.
‘Precisely, Inspector, and I shall, in tonight’s séance, be asking Cérès to contact that poor child so that she can speak through the goddess to me.’
‘And reveal who her killer was or what she wanted to tell the new Kommandant?’
‘Hermann. . . ’
‘No, please, Chief Inspector, let me answer. Caroline was convinced Mary-Lynn Allan’s death was not an accident. Things had been stolen. . . little things; seemingly worthless things. When women have so little, even the smallest, most insignificant item to male eyes could well be the most treasured: the essence of a cherished memory, the feel, the touch, the smell of an object, a bit of cloth, a seashell perhaps—all such things can have their intense value to a woman, no matter how coarse or common she might appear to you men.’
A seashell. . . ‘Caroline was asked to bring what she had,’ said Kohler. ‘Be so good as to tell us what that was?’
Had she said too much, gone too far? wondered Élizabeth. ‘Always, for every sitter, the invitation says the same thing: They are to bring something—anything—that will form a bridge to what they most desperately want to know. Cérès needs such items upon which to focus, but as a result of these continual thefts, a degree of bitterness and viciousness far beyond the measure of each loss has entered our community, our two houses, if you like.’
‘And the thefts?’ asked Louis.
‘They happen in an instant. None are planned—I’m sure of this. The thefts are random and governed totally by impulse, and I am certain too, that whoever is doing this, that poor soul is in torment and unable to resist the impulse yet exceedingly clever at accomplishing it and hiding her identity.’
‘And her hiding place?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘Though there are those who search, no one, insofar as I have been told, has ever found it.’
‘Hence Madame Monnier’s suggesting, Hermann, that if we were to discover who it was, we were to tell the thief that Madame Chevreul would keep on asking even if we didn’t confide that information and that soon Cérès would give her the answer.’
‘Léa has her uses, Chief Inspector.’
‘But has Cérès been more forthcoming?’ he asked.
‘Chief Inspector, surely you are as aware as I that there are those who steal and those who attempt to.’
‘And those who will accuse without sufficient evidence while demanding their anonymity.’
‘Precisely! And how, please, am I to differentiate?’
Had she led them into admitting that the séances might well have their uses? wondered St-Cyr. ‘If not by placing a suspect and her accuser before you and asking Cérès enough questions to settle the matter.’
‘But Cérès only speaks with the voices of those who have passed over and I have no knowledge of what is said through me.’
‘But Léa Monnier does?’ he asked.
‘As do others of my staff.’
‘Are the sitters always different?’
‘There are the regulars, there are those who have been summoned, those with special needs and requests, and those, as in the cases of Colonel Kessler and Mary-Lynn Allan, who were initiates passing through to becoming regulars. Each séance needs its core of believers. They give the whole process backbone, but even then, many sessions fail because of a doubter. Unfortunately I cannot always weed these out beforehand. Nora Arnarson had her doubts but came, and was allowed to sit, since her dear friend Mary-Lynn required her
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