The Strange Case of the Composer and His Judge by Patricia Duncker Read Free Book Online Page B

mother-of-pearl, family portraits by once famous artists, stiff sofas covered with replicated material, exactly matching the original patterns but too bright to be genuine. The Domaine teetered over the edge of fading splendour; the baroque fountain was beginning to lose its shells, moths had nestled in the drapes. Lay not up for yourselves treasure upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal. Madame Laval sat quietly in a corner of her depleted elegance, weeping over the corruption of all earthly things. Her sole desire was to bring her brother’s body home. Where your treasure is there will your heart be also.
    Schweigen had indeed called upon Madame Laval the very day before he first met the Judge in the flesh, and those days, which he now thought of as the first days, seemed private, secret. Madame Laval lurked in the middle distance, an unknowing, silent witness to what had taken place between André Schweigen and the Judge. Two weeks after that first meeting in May 1995 the Judge called him at work.
    ‘Monsieur Schweigen? Dominique Carpentier à l’appareil. Thank you for the map of the stars. Very clever of you to get hold of the original.’
    ‘Well, that wasn’t hard. The Swiss didn’t want it.’
    There was a pause. Schweigen clenched his left fist. He had sounded ungracious. How could he keep her on the line? But she had already moved on to the next step of the dance.
    ‘I’ve discovered that Madame Laval has at last managed to secure the release of her brother’s body and she is bringing him back to the Domaine for burial. I thought we might attend the funeral together and pay our respects.’
    ‘The funeral?’
    ‘Ah yes. She is holding a full-blown Catholic requiem Mass at the church in the village, then the cortège will retreat to the family mausoleum for a private burial in the vaults. The curé is up for the full Mass with choir and speeches, because she hasn’t asked for burial in the graveyard. I’m not sure he could have accepted a suicide.’
    ‘How do you know all this?’
    ‘The curé is my uncle.’
    ‘You actually know the Laval family?’
    ‘Not so well any more. But I did once. My family are also vignerons – in the same commune. Everyone will be there at the funeral, including my parents. It would look very odd if I wasn’t.’
    ‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ Schweigen snapped. He felt cheated. He suspected that his temper might not be reasonable, but he couldn’t stop himself. The Judge sounded faintly amused.
    ‘It wasn’t relevant before. Now it is. So I’ve told you.’
    Schweigen became even more incensed. His investigation had been hijacked. ‘But you knew who Marie-Cécile Laval was and you didn’t say anything.’
    He was stamping his feet like a child. Regarde-moi. Occupe-toi de moi. I’m the person who’s important here, moi, moi. The Judge ignored his enraged squeal.
    ‘Can you come?’ An immense patience flooded the line. Schweigen caved in.
    ‘Mais bien sûr. Where shall I meet you?’
    ‘At the church. The funeral is at 15 . 00 heures. Can you get there by 14 . 30 at the latest? I will already be there and I want to be inside the church.’
    *  *  *
     
    Unexpected, aggressive and ferocious, the heat assaulted his black suit and bound him fast as he teetered off the plane at Nîmes. None of the hired cars within his budget had air conditioning. He roared sweating through the vineyards with all the windows open, the hot air rushing past. Already the land seemed parched and gasping. Cicadas rattled in the trees; a glassy haze coated the green. He never took his family south in the summer, no matter how hard his wife pleaded with him; the heat was simply unendurable.
    The little square in front of the church glimmered in a leopard skin of light and shade, shadowed with great plane trees. A café colonised the paving. The village smouldered quietly behind closed shutters. He heard the chink of plates being