Madrigal Read Online Free PDF

humble priest in a black cassock, he found his kit and opened its little leather case as he knelt beside the victim.
    St-Cyr brought the lantern close, recording distress in the bishop’s questioning gaze at the affront of such an intrusion, the slight trembling, too, of short, thickset fingers whose nails were closely trimmed.
    â€˜Inspector, have you no conscience? This is a matter between Mireille and her God.’
    Not ‘Mademoiselle de Sinéty’, or even simply, ‘the mademoiselle’, but Mireille. ‘Murder is never private, mon père . God is as aware of this as He is of her needs.’
    â€˜How dare you?’
    He wore no ecclesiastical rings, this bishop, not even a wrist-watch. The Cross he used was of black iron. ‘My child,’ he said, turning to the victim, ‘God forgives your sins as He forgives the one who did this and the one who intrudes upon our sacred moment.’
    He closed her eyes but couldn’t stop his fingers from lingering. Tender … did he think this of the touch of her skin? wondered St-Cyr. Seen from above, the bishop’s hair was thick and grey, cut short and unruly below and around a tonsure which hid neither blemish nor birthmark but was in need of a razor.
    Bishop Henri-Baptiste Rivaille anointed her body with the oil, made certain her soul was consigned to Heaven. He would take an hour at least to do it if necessary! he swore to himself. The rings were there on her fingers, the decade with its ten projecting knobs so that she could privately say an Ave as she touched each of them and then a Pater Noster at the bezel. Had she done so in her darkest moment? he wondered.
    A gimmel ring was there too – a pair of circlets and bezels that interlocked when worn together as now, but which could be separated so that each half of a couple could wear one as a sign of true affection, but would the Sûretè who was watching him so closely understand its meaning?
    The fleurs-de-lis of twin brooches were on either side of her wounded neck and mounted high on her chest to clasp the mantle she wore beneath her over-cloak. The brooches were of champlevé , with polished cabochons of ruby, emerald and sapphire which were set in collets or mounted à jour with claws to let the light shine through them.
    On a gold chain, fastened to her girdle, there was a pendant box, of two foiled crystals mounted in silver gilt, and Rivaille knew he mustn’t let his eyes dwell on the box, knew precisely what it contained.
    A jasper ring drew him as he continued, his lips so familiar with the sacrament that his eyes and mind could search undisturbed for the slightest detail of her person.
    The dark red jasper was banded with silvery-grey magnetite and he knew it was a type of loadstone and associated with earthly love, the stone worn so as to attract another.
    But would the one from the Sûreté discover this?
    Her kirtle was of Venetian silk, the colour of the finest La Mancha saffron. Her belt was of the softest suede but he mustn’t examine it too closely, mustn’t tremble at the sight of it.
    From high on her left hip a trail of gold and silver, of precious and semiprecious stones fell to lead buttons and pearls but began with her own sign. And he knew then beyond question that she had defied God and the Church and had left a rebus among the enseignes and talismans, the cabochons and zodiacal signs. But would the detectives be able to decipher it?
    Making the sign of the Cross over her, he gave a sigh whose sadness he hoped would not be misinterpreted. He touched her hair, her lovely hair …‘My work here is done, Inspector. The sisters are to stay with her until she is released for burial.’
    â€˜They may have a long wait,’ said St-Cyr.
    â€˜That does not matter. This one was special.’
    * The works of Thomas Mann and 841 others, including those of all British authors except for the classics. Spy novels were