The Devil's Cave: A Bruno Courrèges Investigation (Bruno Chief of Police 5)

we know of the dead woman who floated through our town yesterday replicates very closely the Black Mass performed on the naked body of Madame de Montespan over three centuries ago.’
    Jérôme suddenly spoke, a curious, almost greedy light in his eyes. ‘You know, this gives me an idea. We’ve been thinking of expanding the theme park, and this might be just the thing for a new exhibit. Louis XIV, a royal mistress, a Black Mass – it would certainly bring in the punters.’
    The Mayor quelled Jérôme with a glance. ‘Any such proposal for an expansion would not be welcomed by the
Mairie
,’ he said, and glared around the table. ‘Now you know why I’m so cross at all this talk of Satanism. You, Father, should have known better.’
    ‘I’m aware that some of you may wish to criticize me for the remarks quoted in the newspaper this morning, but the history cannot be gainsaid,’ the priest replied equably. ‘And it is my duty, when I see Satan’s works unfolding, to take up arms in the name of
le bon Dieu
.’
    The priest looked around the table, seeing scepticism replace fascination on several faces. Bruno saw him weighing each one, dismissing those who were known to be devout Catholics since their support was to be expected, and looking for those who occupied that middle ground between mildagnosticism and a vague, traditional loyalty to the teachings of the Church. The priest’s eyes finally alighted on Bruno.
    ‘You may never have come to confession, Bruno,’ he said. ‘But I know that some of the things that you saw in Bosnia showed you that evil still stalks the world.’
    ‘The evil was done by men, Father, not by any supernatural being,’ Bruno replied.
    ‘How are you so sure? You of all people, my dear Bruno, must know that there can be love and kindness in the midst of such horrors. Is that not a proof of the presence of God?’
    Bruno wondered how much Father Sentout knew of his time in Bosnia and his tragic, aborted love affair with Katarina, the Bosnian schoolteacher whom his unit had rescued, along with some other women, from the Serbian military brothel where they had been imprisoned and forced into prostitution. It was a deeply private memory, of which he very seldom spoke. But each year when the dampness of autumn came, the ache in his hip where the Serb bullet had knocked him spinning into the snow took him back to that nightmare time in the hills around Sarajevo. He sighed inwardly, thinking how few secrets anyone could keep in a small town.
    ‘Love is what happens between people, Father,’ he said. ‘I don’t know that we need God to explain it.’
    ‘It is because, my dear Bruno, some of those same people who committed the greatest evils are also capable of great acts of mercy and gentleness,’ the priest said. ‘They are forever at war within us, God and Satan, and our souls are never in greater danger than when we forget that. Whatever themotives of those who dabble in Satanism, real evil is at work here. We ignore that at our peril, and while my fear is for your immortal souls, you must think of the danger to our town if this wickedness thrives unchecked.’
    The priest sat back, slumping as though suddenly exhausted, and then spoke from deep within his chest. ‘This is not the end of it, you mark my words,’ he intoned.
    The Mayor cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, Father, for that very interesting historical perspective, but I’m not sure the intrigues of the court of Louis XIV are our particular concern. I think it’s clear that we’re probably dealing with the suicide of an unbalanced woman, and that is the line we should all take, including you, Father, in the event of further inquiries from the media.’
    ‘Just one more thing,
Monsieur le Maire
,’ said Bruno, and went on to explain the results of his search of the river. ‘We have three likely spots for the launch of the boat and a couple of possibles. I’ll be visiting each of them from the land side with a detective from the staff of Commissaire Jalipeau of the
Police Nationale
.’
    Bruno described the lagoon by the Red Château, a busy boathouse and landing dock near Les Eyzies and a small creek with a crumbling landing stage below the Maison-Forte of Reignac.
    ‘The Red Countess,’ said the Mayor, sitting back with a wistful smile on his face. ‘I haven’t heard that name in years. Whatever became of her? She must be well into her eighties.’
    ‘Not dead, that’s for sure,’ said Montsouris.