The Corpse with the Silver Tongue (32 page)

Bertrand shrugged, looking at me attentively.

“I got my answer the moment Chuck popped his head out of his window. He could overhear every conversation on the Townsends' balcony, and possibly quite a few taking place inside. Chuck, the man obsessed by the Gestapo, the
SS
, and the occult mysteries of Wewelsburg Castle, and a man who would, no doubt, be desperate to own a necklace that had such an ancient history, and such a close association with the Gestapo.
He
could have heard all that Alistair had been told by Gerard and Beni and, like Alistair,
he
could have pieced together the whole history of the necklace. I suspect that Alistair managed to convince Madelaine to sell it to him quicker than Chuck could steal, or maybe buy, it from her. I also think that Chuck had a plan to steal the archives from the museum, but hadn't managed to get around to that before Beni robbed him of his chance.

“You see, I understood that Chuck might have the strongest motive to steal the necklace, and to kill Alistair to prevent its whole history from becoming public,
and
to kill Madelaine so he would have the portrait showing her wearing the necklace—but I still couldn't work out how he'd poisoned the snails. Luckily for me he invited me into his apartment where I saw a strange telescopic pole. He could have attached foxglove leaves to the pole and simply popped the leaves into the snail boxes which were, after all, stored for days just thirty feet below his window. Not quite guns in a basket, but the same sort of idea.”

“Guns in a basket?” repeated Bertrand quizzically.

I shook my head. “It's nothing, just something he'd written in a book once. It's not important—though it did get me going on a particular train of thought.”

Bertrand still looked confused. “Then . . . what?”

“Yesterday afternoon he realized that I'd seen the telescopic rod in his apartment, and that I knew he could overhear conversations on the Townsends' balcony. When I mentioned that I wanted cake he thought I'd worked out that bit too—which I hadn't at that time—it took some wakeful dreaming for me to be able to put it all together. He made a quick decision that I was a danger to him, drugged me, and dumped me in the wine cellars.”

I stopped and thought for a moment. “Now, this is where maybe
you
can help
me
, Bertrand, because that's where I get a bit lost.”

“You do?” asked Bertrand, surprised.

“Well, yes, because in the wine cellars I heard that English man's voice—Henry Tyler-Whyte, according to Moreau—and he was talking to someone who might well have been Chuck. But he was referring to ‘they.' He and the person with him weren't the ones who dumped me in the cellar. There
must
be more people involved. I honestly thought Chuck was acting alone. Do you know who ‘they' are?”

“
Oui
—
I
know,” said Moreau. He'd been standing just out of sight, beyond the doorway, and now stepped into the room. Bertrand shot up from his seat. Moreau motioned for him to sit again, which Bertrand was clearly not comfortable about. He did as he was told, and began to translate as Moreau spoke.

“The man Tyler-Whyte is a known neo-Nazi. Chuck Damcott, it seems, is a leader of such a movement here, in Nice. His home is a meeting place for the group, though everything is kept very quiet.”

“Of course. He's
not
gay!” I exclaimed.

Both Bertrand and Moreau looked very puzzled. I thought I'd better explain. “A neighbor of Chuck's said that it made a change to see him with a woman. I thought at the time that might mean he was gay. Sometimes, if a man or a woman works very hard at hiding their sexuality, or any other aspect of their persona, they
are
able to build a wall that is difficult to read through, so to speak. I just assumed I'd misread him. If the neighbor was seeing men coming to his apartment all the time, maybe they were members of his neo-Nazi group.”

“It is likely,” replied Moreau. “I expect quite a few of them were called in to help when he decided you were a danger, Professor Morgan. They had melted away when we got to the Palais. Only Tyler-Whyte was left. He couldn't run. He was too badly injured. We are searching Chuck Damcott's apartment now. Of course, he is saying nothing—except to tell us that we are all stupid because we are ‘inferior.' There are already some very interesting records that we have found hidden away at his place, which I believe will be of interest to many people outside Nice. There are also
SS
Death Head rings, swords, and medals—a whole array of things which are connected to his ‘interest.'” He paused and frowned.

“Before the Nazis came, my family name was Morpurgo, a Jewish name. It was changed to protect my father. My family was not alone in doing this. Neo-Nazis will not find much sympathy in our courts.”

Moreau brought his eyes back to me and continued. “Of course, we also have the telescopic pole for testing, as well as several possible sources of toxins in Damcott's apartment, and the necklace, traces of the birthday cake, and the photographic portrait of Mme. Schiafino. With respect to her death, I did not ‘refuse' to tell you what killed her, Professor Morgan; we simply do not know yet, though we have seen in the autopsy that an ingested poison attacked the central nervous system. As I am sure you know, toxicology reports take a little longer, especially when it is nothing we can guess at. With Alistair Townsend we knew he took digitalis, so it was checked during the first screening.”

“Does Tamsin Townsend know about Chuck Damcott?” I asked. I wondered how she would have reacted to the news.

“Ah,” said Moreau, smiling wryly. “She is a strange one, no? I interviewed her again this morning, with her lawyer present, of course, and I showed her the necklace that was stolen. She identified it as the one her husband had intended to present to her at the birthday party, but she seemed much more interested in how long it would be before she can have it back than in why Chuck Damcott killed her husband. Her focus in life seems to be
things
. Though I suspect she sees many people as merely things. She is young—and pretty—and I think she is much more focused than she allows people to think.”

“I couldn't agree more,” I replied. “I doubt she will be a widow for long,” I added.

“Maybe she will be one more than once,” observed Moreau wryly.

“And Gerard . . . how is he doing? Is he here, in this hospital?”

“Yes, he is just two floors below here. He is a fighter, that one. The surgeon told me he will take time to heal, but his new hip should last for many years. I confronted him with the information about the remains in the cellars, and he confirmed the old stories told of many people being buried there. He has made it his life's work to honor the dead there. I will do all that I can to ensure the local authorities protect those cellars and those gardens as a memorial to the people who silently gave their lives at the Palais during those terrible years. I do not think a swimming pool will be built, not while there are people alive who remember—or their children, or their children's children. Gerard can continue to oversee his gardens, when he is able. In the meantime, they make a beautiful picture for the news stories that are being filmed about the capture of M. Damcott.”

He spat out the man's name with venom.

“I'm glad that you caught him, Captain,” I said. “I think Chuck Damcott is a very dangerous man. People who are obsessive can lose all sense of perspective.”

“He has done this already. All this for a necklace . . .”

“It wasn't for the necklace
itself
, Captain, but what it stood for. I'll bet he believes it connects him to a great power, a power that exists across time, and which will allow him, in turn, to exert power over others. Like Himmler and
his
obsession with Arthurian legend and the Druidic Merlin, Chuck Damcott, grandson of a man who prosecuted the Nazis at Nuremberg, will do anything to connect himself with what he sees as some grand vision of the world, where power comes from
things
, relics that must be preserved.” I stopped as I suddenly remembered something.

“I can hardly believe that he put the Collar of Death on me. I can only imagine that he saw it as an act that would allow him to contribute to its history when he finally killed me. How did you get it off me? I hope the doctors didn't cut it off—it really is a museum piece, you know. Beni was right about that, at least.”

“The necklace was not cut off you, though you were most keen for it to be taken away. You kept shouting that it would kill you—that you would die if it stayed on you. You seemed very sure of this at the time, which is understandable, given the history of the piece and the circumstances that brought you to be wearing it. It has a very intricate clasp device. I was there when it was removed. We are now holding it as evidence, of course,” replied Moreau.

“Good,” I replied. “Though I still cannot remember anything after the bang to my head. It's very odd that I was frightened that I was wearing the necklace. I don't believe in curses, and, even if I did, this one wouldn't have affected me.”

“Why not?” asked both Moreau and Bertrand in unison, one in French, one in English.

“Well, I don't believe in curses because—well, I just
don't
! And when Beni told me what was written inside the necklace, I understood what it meant. He told me it said three things: ‘Before Luentinum,' which I took to mean that the gold from which the necklace was made was taken from what is now called the Dolgellau Mine, before the Romans gave it a Latin name; it also had ‘Arawn Sees' written on it—Arawn is a god from Welsh mythology—a Death Lord. Presumably, that meant that he'd be keeping an eye on any of the wearers.”

“This does not sound good,” commented Bertrand, looking worried.

“Don't worry, Bertand. The third inscription said ‘True Blood or Spilled Blood.' Now, the curse that was supposedly uttered—anyone of non-Celtic blood would die if they wore or owned the necklace—leaves me out of the realm of being cursed. I am Welsh, through and through, on both sides of my family, for many, many generations. You don't get much more Welsh than me—so, you see, I had no need to be afraid of the collar. If I was ranting about you having to take it off me, I was clearly not acting logically.”

“Had you been drinking?” asked Moreau, unexpectedly.

“It feels like I've hardly stopped since I got here.” I smiled sheepishly. Then I added more seriously, “Yesterday I drank coffee, the beer that I'm assuming was drugged, and about half a bottle of champagne while in the wine cellars.” Moreau raised his eyebrows in surprise. “It was all I could find, and I was
very
thirsty at the time. Why?”

Moreau stroked his chin. “It might be that there was a reaction between this alcohol and the drugs you were given. The doctor tells me that this is possible—that a violent reaction might occur. Perhaps this is why you were acting illogically. Maybe this is why you beat the man.”

So, we were back to that. “Is there any news about him? Will he be alright?”

“The doctors tell me he will keep his eye, but he will be scarred. He will make a full recovery otherwise.”

I was glad, but I knew I still wasn't out of the woods. “Will I be charged with assault?” I asked, unsure about the correct terminology in France for beating a man about the head with a broken bottle.

“It is for my office to decide if you committed a crime,” replied Moreau, meaningfully. “I believe you were under the influence of drugs administered to you by the group to which Tyler-Whyte belonged, and that you believed yourself to be in mortal danger. I do not think charging you would be a good use of the Court's time. We have people to deal with whose intent was to kill. It is better we use our resources on them.”

I felt a tidal wave of relief wash over me. Given what I'd been through, I knew tears wouldn't be far behind. “So am I allowed to fly home tomorrow?” I asked, with some trepidation.

“Yes. You may leave. You have a good friend in Vancouver who needs you now, I think. You should go to him.”

He was right. How I wanted to see Bud. To comfort him, and to thank him for helping to save me, at what must have been the worst time of his life.

“Thank you, Captain. And thank you, Pierre Bertrand. You saved my life, young man. I will never forget that.” I reached out and took his hand. “Let's keep in touch by e-mail when I'm gone. Okay?”

Bertrand smiled back at me and said, “I would like that very much. I have been pleased to meet you—though I wish the circumstances had been better.”

“Me too,” I replied. “And you, Captain Moreau. Will
we
be keeping in touch?”

“I think I might have some more questions for you, but this, too, we can tackle by e-mail. Please give my best to Commander Anderson. He speaks very highly of you, you know.”

“Thanks,” I replied quietly. “I think the world of him too.”

“I can see that,” said Moreau, as he walked out of the room.

I'VE ALWAYS THOUGHT OF VANCOUVER
International Airport as stunning. As I stood on the escalator carrying me down into the passport control area, I enjoyed the freshness of the air given off by the waterfalls, marvelling at how exhilarated I felt to be back home. It was hard for me to believe I'd been away for less than a week—though, to be honest, the flight I'd just got off had felt about that long. I couldn't wait to crawl into my own bed and feel the comfort that comes from being in familiar surroundings.

It's not easy flying with a broken wrist, but at least the sight of the plaster gets you sympathy. Of course, the big chunk of hair I had missing and the obvious wound on my scalp drew a few odd glances. It had been impossible for me to rest my head throughout the whole journey. I was exhausted. Totally drained, physically and mentally.