The old church of St. Laurent
„Who aspires must down as low/ as high he soared, obnoxious first or last/ to basest things"
Paradise Lost
He had found the entry he was looking for ere Frances could follow him into the parlour. His eyes ran over the meagre column of information whilst his brain converted the French into words more natural to him. Then, his head raised, and he met Frances` gaze as she watched him diffidently, her lower arm resting against the door frame.
„Mr. `olmes? Did ya find - anyfink?"
He wrinkled his forehead, thoughtfully. „The church St. Lazare was constructed in the 15th century, in what is today the 10th arrondissement. And what is more - „ and he slapped the page of the Paris address book with his palm, „ - the whole area was the stronghold of a medieval christian community whose members called themselves Lazaristes and nursed lepers during the era of the crusades."
„That`s it." She drew a deep breath. „That must be it!"
He shook his head with regret. „I'm afraid not, Frances. The church was demolished more than sixty years ago, when part of the area was sold to an investment company."
„But Mr. `olmes! Everything fits! I trust this is the place Madame meant me ter go. St. Lazare….and prayer…and the talk about health…"
„No, no, no." He tried to subdue her enthusiasm. „Look, Frances, there's nothing left there. The old infirmary was turned into a prison during the terror, and its archives were destroyed in the religious wars. The old church is gone altogether; it had long been decrepit."
„I am sure…I am sure…"
Shaking her head and muttering, Frances started to rummage the shelves. He wondered what she expected to find there, but did not intervene. It was too much of a relief she was not crying anymore, and he was exceedingly grateful for the change.
Her search did not take her long. Climbing onto a chair, she reached for the very highest shelf. He observed the soft curve of her elongated spine, the strain she imposed on her arm, her tip-toed feet. Her skirt lifted a little to show her ankles, clad in thin, gauzy fabric. He tried not to think of the stockings he had stripped off her legs twenty-four hours earlier, the same white, gauzy stuff.
„Here!" She had managed to snatch the book - a colossal doorstopper - and pursed her lips to gently blow off the dust. „Le`s `ave a look in there. There's gotta be another clue in `ere, somewhere. I jus` can't imagine Madame letting me poke in the dark…"
She lowered the tome onto the floor, and, flipping it open, bend over it, her long hair cascading over her shoulders and streaming down onto the pages. It began to slightly irritate him.
„I suppose you wouldn`t care to let me participate in your perusal", he observed snappily.
She looked up. „I am so sorry, Mr. `olmes! Forgive me rashness, but I recall Madame brooding over this illustrated history of Paris, and so I thought there might be some fink ter be found about these Lazaristes and their fortification in `ere."
„It's possible", he conceded morosely. Lowering himself onto his knees, he inclined his head to get a better view of the page. It was not unusual for him to do his research in this posture, only Mrs. Hudson's carpets offered more comfort than Madame's naked planks, and the fact that his forehead was in constant danger of colliding with that of Frances provided additional grounds for distraction.
Internally, he shook like a wet dog in order to regain a clear head and be able to focus on the text, but before he had come anywhere near this state, Frances pointed out a printed paragraph. „Ya sees! The St. Lazare crypts are still in their original state, albeit communal debate is rife with plans to close them with masonry. This project has up to date been hindered by the circumstance that a tunnel connects them with the newly restored parish church of St. Laurent, which would be adversely affected by the construction works."
He raised his brows. „Whereabouts is this St. Laurent?"
„Ahm…" She browsed the page, brows knit. „Rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin, at the square St. Laurent. Apparently, the building was erected at the same period as the church of St. Lazare. It is as old as the hills."
„Well, we don't intend to buy it, do we? Come now, it has grown late. The hour and the darkness should afford us ideal cover."
He rose from the hard floor with aching knees, aiming for the cane and top coat he had left in the kitchen. A craven exclamation made him linger briefly: „Where are we going, Mr. `olmes?"
„What do you think? We'll have closer look at this crypt. Do you know whether Madame keeps a torch or something of the sort anywhere?"
„There's a paraffin lantern in the kitchen cabinet….but surely you don't mean to…."
„I mean exactly that. Get me the light, Fanny, there's a good girl. And something akin to a crowbar would be most welcome, if you could find something like that."
„A tool kit is kept under the siphon…but Mr. `olmes, is it really wise ter break into a church, of all plaices? What if we are caught?"
„Indeed, we will be trespassing, but we can do no better unless we engage the help the official forces. If you have scruples, you would be well advised to abandon the strictures of your Irish Catholicism, and for once rely on the house owner's faculty for forgiveness. The Church of England would have it that forbearance is his personal forte."
He foraged for the kit beneath the kitchen sink, and having found it, took out pliers, a screw-wrench and a joint-cutter. She watched mutely as he wrapped everything in a tea towel and together with the paraffin lamp stuffed it into the large basket Madame had apparently used for shopping groceries. The wicker work faintly smelled of onions. He held it out for Frances to take.
„Are we ready for departure?" He asked perfunctorily, aiming a strict gaze at her.
„Yes, but….!" Contrary emotions could be seen waging a conflict on her face. He waited calmly, maintaining his glare.
„Awright, Mr. `olmes", Frances sighed her acquiescence, and accepted the basket. „Le's go."
Mechanically, he threw open the door for her to pass through first, but went down the stairs in front of her as he had been taught to do, in what seemed another life. In the street, he waived at a cabby and as he reigned in his horse to come to a halt, let her go ahead again.
With some satisfaction, he saw her slip into the cab before he followed suit. So far, it had been a piece of cake. He had his approved methods for bending people to his will. It had only been a matter of time for Frances to succumb to them.
oooOOOooo
„Mr. `olmes? Don't you fink it'll look rather suspicious fer me ter walk around wit this `ere basket? It is enormous", Frances skeptically observed as they rattled along over the cobble stones.
„Pshaw! In the dark, people will take you for a market woman who has spent her earnings in a beer tavern and returns home late. Besides, I am with you in case any complications should arise", he replied loftily.
She lowered her eyes. „Ya knows I wish her avoid trouble wiv the coppers. Also, I doubt they would be happy ter discover you forcing yer way into an old an` venerable church wivout their license."
„My dear Fanny, what the police would or would not be happy about is not a concern that must weigh very heavy with me. The French Government giving me carte blanche as it were, there is nothing in that for us to worry about. What we need to worry about, on the contrary, is recovering the Orb and clearing the mystery that surrounds your missing friend. And to do this, we have to follow the fresh clues you supplied. So, no more nonsense about the police, if you please."
She fell silent, and looked out of the window, albeit her own reflection in the glass was probably all she could see in the gloom. She looked tired, he thought absently - well, it had been a long working day for her, and the preceding night, he remembered with a renewed bout of shame, had not offered her many opportunities for sleep. It was late now, midnight, as a distant belfry informed him, but she would have to last another couple of hours. Her personal acquaintance with Madame gave her knowledge he had no access to, information she could not consciously single out as important. He could not afford to miss any hint that might offer itself.
He also fleetingly thought of his interview with Président Faure, and his question whether the involvement of Frances would cause any inconvenience. But it did not, did it? Now that the girl had ceased her hostilities and had even admitted him into her confidence, there was no need to beat about the bush. They could talk now without reservations. They might even cooperate well. The other thing hanging in the air was better forgotten, and quickly, too.
He had told the cabby to drop them at an address a few streets away from St. Laurent to avoid attracting attention. Despite his averment to Fanny, he was not quite sure what the reaction of the authorities might be to an undertaking of his sort, and neither did he care very much. Still, it was better not to fly in their faces, and allow the intrusion to be put down as an act of willful vandalism.
Having paid the fare, he drew Frances into the shadow of the houses that lined the narrow throughfare. It was indeed an old part of Paris, one of the oldest of all the city. The rough, uneven plaster beneath their feet might well be medieval, and the houses were so crooked they seemed to meet above their heads, like trees whose crowns tangled. Some facades were adorned with fearful gargoyles, and he could feel Frances gathering her shawl closer about her person.
The square St. Laurent consisted of a bit of public green, enclosed by a high, wrought-iron circumference. Beyond, the church itself loomed: Ancient and hoary, of late gothic origins, with a large rose window above the massive portal, and a pointy spire topping the jagged structure. Frances inhaled as if to bring herself to carry out a determination, and seemed about to cross the square, but he held her back with a motion that was completely disproportionate to the resolution she had mustered.
„No", he murmured, still looking about in case there were onlookers. „A postern is preferable for our undertaking."
They had to navigate a little through the winding streets in order to approach the building from the rear side. Taking a little detour was acceptable though; it seemed advisable to keep under cover instead of moving in the open. The hour rendered it unlikely that they be seen, and yet the possibility of passers-by could never be safely excluded.
They reached the far end of St. Laurent without any contretemps. The large, bulbous outgrowth on the back of the church he took to be the apse. Left of it, there was an angular oriel, possibly the vestry. The only door to be seen was conveniently hidden in the nook between apse and oriel. He decided to try there.
„Light the lantern", he quietly told her, taking the unconventional tool kit he had fashioned from the shopper. Frances obeyed. The small flame flared up like a blaze in the darkness, and she hurried to shade the lamp, always afraid of detection.
Meanwhile, he had singled out the screw wrench as the most likely implement to overcome the latch. It was large, heavy, and, if inserted between door and latch, could be used for leverage. It was hard work, though. He fought against the lever full weight to pry open the door, but it did not seem to give just an inch. Breathing hard, he rested against the door and scrutinized his nails, most of which had been broken in the process. Damnation!
Frances watched him anxiously. She evidently wished to be gone, or, better still, not to have come in the first place. He gave her another glare. Now that the going got tough, she had better show that famous grit of hers, provided it was good for more than hurling insults at him! Catherine would not have been so chicken-hearted.
With a deep inhalation, he put his shoulder to the wheel again and worked the wrench against the wooden bar that barricaded the door. It was bulky, but worm-eaten and brittle with countless years of exposure to all weather conditions. Maybe it had not been renewed in a century - for how often did a church actually become the target of burglary? Except for some devotional objects, there was probably nothing in there worth while - for most people.
He felt the bar give a little, and forced the wrench down with renewed zeal. There was a lengthy sound of breaking wood. Frances gasped, the light in her hand danced nervously and cast bizarre shadows on the massive grey masonry. He let go briefly to massage his aching hands. One more try. Splinters rained down to the ground that was green with lichen.
The bar was now close to splitting in two. He paused again to appease his lungs; burning as if he had run for miles on end at top speed. His breath went at a quick rate, too shallow though to provide him with sufficient oxygen. What a nuisance, growing old! Ten years ago, he would have mastered the task single handed. But now, it seemed as though his iron constitution were failing him altogether.
A tentative hand offered him a handkerchief, gleaming ghostly white in the shadows, and he accepted it gladly to dab the sweat that had collected on his brow.
„We're almost there", he informed her in a hoarse whisper barely recognizable as his own voice. „Keep the light low, and screen it with your shawl, lest passers-by shoulder see the reflex on the wall."
She obeyed, and for the third time, he engaged all the strength at his disposal to force the huge hunk of wood to fall in two. When that was done, the rest was mere child's play. He removed the vestiges from the iron attachments, and motioned Frances to hand him her hat pin, which he inserted into the old and rusty lock. A few expert movements of the hand, and the task was accomplished. The wooden door swung open, more darkness yawning beyond its opening.
Frances faltered, but he had not intended to allow her precedence. Taking the lamp from her trembling white hand, he strode into the black cavern, never hesitating for a second.
Hullo!
Here we are among the remnants of medieval Paris, gargoyles and all….and what may they not hold in store for our detective duo? They should hurry a little to find out, as the situation of Fanny's friend hasn't changed for the better!
Expect you back for more darkness and old stones!
Love, Mrs. F