Free A Provençal Mystery by Ann Elwood Page B

document, even obliquely? Agatha was right ---I should keep the diary to myself. Fitzroy had a reputation for appropriating the work of historians farther down the professional ladder than he. His nickname was Dr. Hegemony; he knew, as did powerful nations, how to overshadow others and swallow them up. Those who liked him said it was largely because he was a master of the “big picture.” He could take many small, ordinary ideas and incorporate them into a grand theory. Those who disliked him said he was just a thief. “He can turn your whole dissertation into nothing but a footnote,” someone once told me. What if, after hearing about the reliquary, he decided to concentrate next on relics? It sounded as if he had already started.
    Before I could marshal a diversion, Rachel asked Agatha a question that served the same purpose. “Are lay people permitted to do research at your convent’s archive?”
    “We have no archive,” Agatha replied. “Just some old records of no interest that are stored in the cellar. It’s closed to the public.”
    “I would like to be able to do some research there,” said Rachel. She leaned forward like a negotiator. “Perhaps there’s something important to me in those old records. Can you not make a special dispensation for me?”
    “I don’t have the authority,” said Agatha.
    “This doesn’t make sense to me. What secrets are the nuns trying to keep?”
    “That’s not the problem,” Agatha said.
    “Then what is the problem?” Rachel asked. She reached her hand back to push her hair off her cheek. It was just a nervous gesture; her hair had not been out of place at all—it never was.
    “We are still enclosed,” Agatha said, “as we were in the Old Regime. Some of the space in the convent is holy space.”
    “Why do you work in the archive, in the world, if your order is enclosed? Are not enclosed nuns supposed to stay within the convent walls?” By asking the question, Rachel was crossing a boundary. I was surprised. Rachel was direct, but rarely impolite.
    “A dispensation.”
    “No dispensations exist for researchers ?”
    Agatha sighed. “You might write a letter to the bishop outlining what it is you want to research and asking permission.”
    “And you can’t make an exception for me? A historian?” Rachel was not letting go.
    “No,” Agatha said. “I’m sorry.”
    “All right. I will send a letter to the bishop,” Rachel said in a discouraged yet angry voice.
    It was an opening to bring up a question I had wanted badly to ask: “What is it you want to study that makes you so anxious to get into the convent? What could it possibly have to do with your subject? Was a movie filmed there? Did an actress become a nun?”
    “I’m not ready to talk about that now,” Rachel replied.
    A movement at the window caught my eye—it was Madeleine, who stared in for a second, then walked quickly on.
    “That was Madeleine,” I said to Agatha. “She didn’t come in.”
    “She had errands,” Agatha replied smoothly. “Tell us more about the biography.”
    It was my opportunity to turn attention away from Rachel’s rejection of my question—and, by implication, of her—and I took it. In the flattest voice I could muster, I described the mort-ification scene, knowing, because I had read scenes like this before in convent documents, that it was not unusual, though more graphic than most.
    “That is a repellent example of the perversion of the Catholic religion.” Jack said. He lit a cigarette, looking at me over the match, which for some reason irritated me.
    I didn’t reply. Buffaloed by my silence, Jack stared at me for a moment, then said in a voice that was challenging but held a bit of obsequiousness around the edges, “It speaks of the underlying misogyny of. . . .” He broke off and gestured for the restaurant owner, Michel, who took his time wandering over.
    “Come on, Jack. You’re becoming much too overwrought,” Fitzroy said.
    “Leave