bin from a distance; he smiled at the accuracy of his aim. Then he sobered and turned. ‘I knew Ghislaine Quoinelles. He was, perhaps, a little haunted by his surname.’
‘How so?’
‘His grandfather was a famous scientist.’ Another moue of a shrug. Rouvier was looking ready to leave. ‘I do not know much more. But I often wondered why he came south, to little Lozère. In France a famous surname can be a wonderful advantage. We are meant to be a meritocracy, the great republic! But enarques descend from enarques. The sons of small Hungarians in the Élysées get to run La Défense at the age of twenty-three. Quoinelles was rich and clever and descended from famous men, politicians, scientists – yet he came here to tiny Mende where literally nobody lives! For a Parisian, the Lozère is like Siberia. Maybe he tried to escape the shadow of his surname.’
Julia absorbed the sudden information. It attained a sort of logic. A hint of a pattern. Perhaps.
‘Oedipal. Yes. But what is that got to do with the murder?’
Rouvier smiled, in a valedictory way. ‘ Helas. Nothing. Probably nothing. But we have no clues and no witnesses and no suspects, so I will try anything. Perhaps you can help us?’ He warmed to his own theme. ‘Ask Madame Annika, maybe, she may know more, you are her friend. She is a difficult woman to prise open, like an oyster. Find the pearl. And now I am talking rubbish, is it not so?’ He laughed, quite cheerily, and reached in the pocket of his smartly dark uniform. Then he produced a card with a debonair flourish. ‘Call me, telephone me. Any time. But now it is late, I go, I must drive a long way home. You live in Mende? You need me to drive you?’
She declined.
‘My apartment is near.’
‘ D’accord . This is a sad day.’ He glanced up at the weeping sky. ‘And now it is raining. Il pleure dans mon Coeur, Comme il pleut sur la ville .’
Julia nodded. ‘It rains in my heart like it rains in the city? I know that line . . . Rimbaud?’
‘Ah no. It is in Verlaine, in the works of Verlaine.’
His smile was good natured and sad; it was obvious he really wanted to leave. But she risked one more question. She had so many questions, but there was one question she needed to ask now, she felt it was important, she didn’t know why.
‘Monsieur Rouvier –’
He was actually walking away; but he turned.
‘ Oui ?’
‘You said Ghislaine’s grandfather was a famous scientist. What was he famous for?’
The officer was standing beneath a streetlight; rain tinselled in the glow as he pondered the question. Then he smiled faintly, his face illuminated by an answer:
‘I might be wrong, but I think it was breeding. Yes, something audacious . He had a bold theory, about cross-breeding . . . between men and animals? OK, Miss Kerrigan, au revoir .’
She watched him disappear across the badly lit car park. Then she began the walk to her flat, through the biting cold of the rain. Her own footsteps were a soft backbeat to her thoughts, her deep deep thoughts. Puddles on the grey pavement reflected the Mende streetlights, they reflected her pensive face; and the revelation was the reflection of a sudden moon, emerging from behind the clouds, large and startling.
In Verlaine, that’s what Rouvier had said. In Verlaine.
And that’s what Ghislaine had said, in his own way. You’ll find it in Prunier. The same way Rouvier had said in Verlaine .
You’ll find it in Prunier!
Could this be the answer? To the puzzle? Was this why she was stymied?
She had presumed when Ghislaine had said ‘in Prunier’ he meant ‘in Prunier, the village in north Lozère’; and last week she had visited the place, and found nothing.
But maybe when Ghislaine had spoken that day on the Cham he meant his phrase in the same way an academic might say ‘in Shakespeare’, or ‘in Darwin’. Ghislaine’s meaning must have been: you’ll find it in the works of Prunier the scholar.
Yes!
Quickly, she
‘How so?’
‘His grandfather was a famous scientist.’ Another moue of a shrug. Rouvier was looking ready to leave. ‘I do not know much more. But I often wondered why he came south, to little Lozère. In France a famous surname can be a wonderful advantage. We are meant to be a meritocracy, the great republic! But enarques descend from enarques. The sons of small Hungarians in the Élysées get to run La Défense at the age of twenty-three. Quoinelles was rich and clever and descended from famous men, politicians, scientists – yet he came here to tiny Mende where literally nobody lives! For a Parisian, the Lozère is like Siberia. Maybe he tried to escape the shadow of his surname.’
Julia absorbed the sudden information. It attained a sort of logic. A hint of a pattern. Perhaps.
‘Oedipal. Yes. But what is that got to do with the murder?’
Rouvier smiled, in a valedictory way. ‘ Helas. Nothing. Probably nothing. But we have no clues and no witnesses and no suspects, so I will try anything. Perhaps you can help us?’ He warmed to his own theme. ‘Ask Madame Annika, maybe, she may know more, you are her friend. She is a difficult woman to prise open, like an oyster. Find the pearl. And now I am talking rubbish, is it not so?’ He laughed, quite cheerily, and reached in the pocket of his smartly dark uniform. Then he produced a card with a debonair flourish. ‘Call me, telephone me. Any time. But now it is late, I go, I must drive a long way home. You live in Mende? You need me to drive you?’
She declined.
‘My apartment is near.’
‘ D’accord . This is a sad day.’ He glanced up at the weeping sky. ‘And now it is raining. Il pleure dans mon Coeur, Comme il pleut sur la ville .’
Julia nodded. ‘It rains in my heart like it rains in the city? I know that line . . . Rimbaud?’
‘Ah no. It is in Verlaine, in the works of Verlaine.’
His smile was good natured and sad; it was obvious he really wanted to leave. But she risked one more question. She had so many questions, but there was one question she needed to ask now, she felt it was important, she didn’t know why.
‘Monsieur Rouvier –’
He was actually walking away; but he turned.
‘ Oui ?’
‘You said Ghislaine’s grandfather was a famous scientist. What was he famous for?’
The officer was standing beneath a streetlight; rain tinselled in the glow as he pondered the question. Then he smiled faintly, his face illuminated by an answer:
‘I might be wrong, but I think it was breeding. Yes, something audacious . He had a bold theory, about cross-breeding . . . between men and animals? OK, Miss Kerrigan, au revoir .’
She watched him disappear across the badly lit car park. Then she began the walk to her flat, through the biting cold of the rain. Her own footsteps were a soft backbeat to her thoughts, her deep deep thoughts. Puddles on the grey pavement reflected the Mende streetlights, they reflected her pensive face; and the revelation was the reflection of a sudden moon, emerging from behind the clouds, large and startling.
In Verlaine, that’s what Rouvier had said. In Verlaine.
And that’s what Ghislaine had said, in his own way. You’ll find it in Prunier. The same way Rouvier had said in Verlaine .
You’ll find it in Prunier!
Could this be the answer? To the puzzle? Was this why she was stymied?
She had presumed when Ghislaine had said ‘in Prunier’ he meant ‘in Prunier, the village in north Lozère’; and last week she had visited the place, and found nothing.
But maybe when Ghislaine had spoken that day on the Cham he meant his phrase in the same way an academic might say ‘in Shakespeare’, or ‘in Darwin’. Ghislaine’s meaning must have been: you’ll find it in the works of Prunier the scholar.
Yes!
Quickly, she
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