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thinly banded by silvery-grey magnetite; there was a sapphire …
    Three spare rings hung around her neck on a fine gold chain. There was a zodiacal ring on the fourth finger of her right hand, with garnet rings placed before and after it. This fourth fingernail had been broken, a painful tear she had not had a chance to attend to. What had she torn it on?
    â€˜I don’t even know your name,’ he said apologetically. ‘Forgive me.’ And lifting the hem of the cote-hardie, the gown and sheath, examined her hose for tears, for pulled-down garters, for bruises and scratches.
    There were none, and the hose, which came to just above her knees, was also of the very early Renaissance, of a soft, crocheted wool and white in colour – grey had been preferred for practicality but this one had spared no expense. She had come to the Palais, to a rendezvous perhaps, and had worn nothing but the finest of raiment.
    But how had she come by such clothes in these times of extreme shortages, and who had she really been?
    â€˜You lived in your imagination,’ he said. ‘You were a creature of it. You must have been.’
    â€˜Her name was Mireille de Sinéty, Louis.’
    â€˜Ah! Hermann. You took your time.’
    â€˜It’s nearly five a.m. The photographer and fingerprint artist is waiting. The flics have brought a van with two of the sisters to guard her virtue.’
    â€˜ Bon . I’m staying with this one. I’m not letting her out of my sight until I’m satisfied we have a record of the trinkets she wears and where they are located. Each item may have meaning.’
    â€˜And you don’t trust others, not even the sisters?’
    â€˜Avignon is like Lyon, a city of the hidden, Hermann. They play games here and we must never forget this. Petrarch wrote of it in his secret letters to Rome in 1346 or thereabouts, but it is Victor Hugo we have to thank for the statement, “In Paris one quarrels; in Avignon one kills.”’
    The Latin temperament. ‘Any sign of a dog?’
    â€˜Why?’ Louis had been startled by the question.
    â€˜Because, mein lieber französischer Oberdetektiv , there could well have been one.’
    A dog …‘Is there a priest with the sisters?’
    â€˜The bishop himself, who else?’
    â€˜Then he has had a long night and is very stubborn.’
    â€˜I’ll show the photographer in first, shall I, Chief, and then the others when he’s finished?’
    Their voices were rebounding from the walls and would be heard. ‘You do that. You tell His Eminence we will allow the Sacrament of the Death but his anointing the body with oil is definitely out until after Peretti has seen her, unless, of course, Extreme Unction has already been given and we have not been informed of it.’
    â€˜To not anoint the body is a sacrilege, Inspector. What harm can it possibly do?’ came a voice, firm and determined, the traces of langue d ’oc as old and stubborn as the hills.
    He stood alone, this Bishop of Avignon. He wasn’t tall but was as if cut from stone, the nose so fiercely prominent it would dominate his every expression. The dark brown, steely eyes were hooded and empty of all else beneath bushy iron-grey brows that feathered thickly to the sides. The forehead was blunt, a stern and unyielding prelate whose grimly set lips were turned down at their corners.
    â€˜Bishop, why is there secrecy with this one?’ asked St-Cyr.
    â€˜There is no such thing.’
    â€˜Then please be good enough to tell us who found her and when?’
    â€˜Salvatore awaits your pleasure in the guardroom near the entrance. He’ll tell you what you need to know. Now if you don’t mind, I must give this poor child the release you spoke of. Her soul has already been forced to wait too long.’
    The bishop removed a black woollen overcoat and a grey scarf, and thrust these at Hermann. Dressed simply as a