Читать книгу The Poisoners - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 16

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Jacquetta, the Italian girl, lay in a closet close to her mistress's bedchamber, a rich but gloomy little room with old-fashioned furnishings, which included a dark tapestry in indigo blue and mignonette green of a hundred years ago, showing a hunt—a monstrous fat beast being pursued by lean hounds through a dense vegetation of enormous leaves and flowers.

The overcast light of the March day had receded early from this northward-looking chamber; the curtains had been drawn over the window and a lamp lit. The girl lay in a narrow bed, the curtains of white serge, embroidered with fox-gloves and acorns in russet and purple wool, were drawn back; a nun in a dark robe knelt praying beside the bed; at the end of it stood a middle-aged man, whom Desgrez took to be the Doctor; the perfume of incense hung heavily on the enclosed air.

Jacquetta lay stretched on her back, her hands outside the white woollen quilt, a cloak of white fur round her shoulders, her eyes closed and her black hair twisted on the pillow.

Desgrez glanced at the Doctor, who raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

"I have come to question her," whispered the police agent. "You are perhaps M. Aquin?"

The Doctor nodded and replied in a law tone: "I am here by special request of His Majesty, but I can do nothing. This is a terrible affair, I hope M. de La Reynie will spare no pains to investigate it."

"I am here," returned Desgrez still whispering, "because of his sparing no pains. You, Monsieur, who are attending her, you know her injuries. What truth is there in her story?"

The Doctor, whose eyes showed swollen and tired from behind his heavy spectacles, replied in one word: "None"—then laid his fingers on his lips.

"We knew as much," said Desgrez drily, "but I must find out what I can."

"You will be lucky if you discover anything from her," said the Doctor. "She's dying—a question, perhaps, of a few hours."

He bowed and moved towards the door. "I am here by the direct command of His Majesty, to whom I must now make a report. One of Mademoiselle Fontanges's doctors has been attending the young lady. Doctor Rabel."

"Who lectures at the Sorbonne and lives in the Impasse des Fleurs?" asked Desgrez.

"Yes," replied the Doctor. "The very man. He is extremely clever."

"Extremely," agreed the police agent quietly. To himself he added: "They work in a very close ring."

He stepped to the bedside of the young girl and, addressing the nun, said courteously: "My Sister, I am sent by M. de La Reynie, Lieutenant of Police. Will you leave me alone for a few minutes with Mademoiselle Jacquetta?"

The nun looked up from her prayer, which she was reciting to a pear-wood rosary, and bowing without speaking was about to leave the room when another voice caused Desgrez to startle; it came from the corner behind the curtained bed and asked, with a hint of sarcasm: "Am I also to leave the chamber? I am this unfortunate young woman's father, Agostino Malipiero."

Desgrez showed nothing of the surprise that he felt at the presence of this man, which had been effectively concealed by the shadow of the bed curtain.

"If you please, Monsieur," he said coolly. "I have to speak to your daughter alone."

"It seems," sighed the Italian apothecary, rising, "that she is in no condition to speak to anyone. Maybe she will die without opening her lips."

As he spoke the girl unclosed her eyes and turned her mournful gaze slowly from her father to Desgrez.

"Mademoiselle Jacquetta," asked the young police agent, "can you understand me? I am here to help you. We want to discover the cause of your misfortune. Terrible things like this must not happen in the King's palace."

The girl gazed at her father, who remarked drily: "She might answer my questions—she will hardly answer yours."

"Please leave us," commanded Desgrez sternly, then to the girl: "Mademoiselle, I think you have received the Last Rites of the Church, you have confessed to the priest—what you have said I do not know, but it is not enough. You must confide your secrets not only to God, but to me, who represent His Law on earth."

"Yes, yes," whispered Jacquetta from the pillow, "I should die happier if I were to speak. Father," she added on a note of poignant appeal, "leave me. I have so little time left, let me have that to myself."

At this the Italian slowly and reluctantly moved to the end of the room and stood with folded arms in the curtained window-place.

"Further than this I refuse to go," he remarked. "She is my child and she is suffering. I have the skill, the right to help her. Unless you use force you will not make me leave her chamber."

Desgrez hesitated, then decided that the Italian had won this move. To eject him forcibly would be to cause a tumult and a scandal, which might cost the patient her remaining strength. He knew by the 'ghastly change that was taking place in the girl's features that he had arrived almost if not quite too late.

Kneeling down on the bed-step, he said impressively:

"Mademoiselle, you are shortly to appear before God. Do so with a pure conscience. You are now beyond all earthly fears, for the sake of others who may be in danger—tell me the truth."

"For the sake of others," the girl repeated. She tried to turn her head and to sit up. Desgrez placed his arm underneath the pillow and raised her gently. "I know so little," she gasped. "They never told me much. My mistress knows nothing at all."

"No one suspects her," said Desgrez. "Quick, Mademoiselle, tell me all you can."

"My father," whispered Mademoiselle Jacquetta, "is he still in the room? I cannot see, the lamp gives such a poor light."

"He cannot hear what we say," whispered Desgrez. "Is it your father of whom you are afraid?"

"Of him, and others—most of all the Master."

"Yes, the Master? Whom do you mean? Who is hidden under that name?"

The girl tried to shake her head; she stared intently into Desgrez's anxious face with her dark, half-veiled eyes.

"He is not French—an Italian—an Englishman. They need the children for the Mass—everybody must make a sacrifice—if I had not loved him! He always promised to take me away—save my mistress—I think they intend—" She paused, struggling with her fluttering breath. "Was it a crime? I was deceived!"

"Mademoiselle, in the name of God," urged Desgrez anxiously, "explain yourself. I can make nothing of your broken sentences—all is incoherent. Give me a name, a clue!"

"The cock," whispered Mademoiselle Jacquetta, "did you hear the cock?"

Desgrez thought the unhappy creature's mind was wandering and again passionately exhorted her to tell him the truth, to give him at least, as he repeated, a name, a clue. He saw that she was desperately eager to respond, willing to exhaust her last strength. There was an expression of anguish in her eyes and she made a convulsive, fluttering movement towards him—but in vain. He felt her slender body relax on the pillow that he supported. She gave him but one word, and that of no use; it was the name of a flower—"carnation-pink."

The young man laid Mademoiselle Jacquetta back on her bed. Her father with his cat-like tread, who had been intently watching them conversing, as he could not contrive to overhear, came from the shadows by the window.

"So you see, Monsieur," he sighed, "she is dead."

"And it is the business of the police," replied Charles Desgrez glancing up sharply, "to discover who killed her."

"I hope you will," replied the apothecary with what appeared to be sincere distress. "She was my only child and very dear to me."

He bent over his daughter, composing her hands over her breast, closing her eyes, smoothing back her tangled black hair with reluctant, tender movements.

A quick and trained observer, Desgrez was glancing round the room to see if he could discover anything that might be of help to him in his business, when the door opened violently and Mademoiselle de Fontanges entered. She was quite unnerved at the loss of one of her favourite maids under circumstances so mysterious and horrible; she stumbled to the bedside and stood crying like a child, wringing her hands and biting her handkerchief, calling upon her lost Jacquetta to look at her, to speak to her, one word, one glance!

"Mademoiselle, she is dead," said the Italian apothecary with sad calm; he drew the sheet up over his daughter's face. "Let her rest in peace. It is gracious of you," he added gently, "to be concerned over one so insignificant."

Mademoiselle de Fontanges did not appear to hear these words, at least she took no notice of them: throwing herself on the embroidered bed she rested her fair head on the white coverlet and sobbed out in an excess of almost hysterical weakness:

"Save me, save me! Oh, God, do not let this happen to me! No, no, I will not, I will go into a convent, I will go to the ends of the earth!"

"What is she afraid of?" asked Desgrez, and touched the distracted lady on her satin-clad shoulder. "Mademoiselle, you must not speak so freely in front of me, in front of your apothecary. Have you no friend here, no one in whom you can confide?"

She raised her smooth, pearl-like face disfigured by tears and stared at him for a moment as if she did not realize who he was, then muttering: "Oh, yes, the police agent," she allowed him to assist her to her feet; he had to hold her, she was trembling so violently.

"Can you tell me anything?" he asked. "Mademoiselle Jacquetta is dead, it might be possible to save others from her fate. Can you throw any light upon this mystery?"

Mademoiselle de Fontanges shook her head; her blonde hair had fallen on to her fine lace collar, her pale satin dress; she looked like a white rose drenched in a storm; the young man felt an immense compassion for her; M. de La Reynie had said that she was so lonely, so high-placed, subject to such temptation...

"Let me take you out of this room, Mademoiselle."

"No, no, I will stay, I want to watch by Jacquetta." She looked half-timidly, half-defiantly at the Italian apothecary. "You, Monsieur, must leave us also. After the good nun comes back she and I will pray together."

"Come," said Desgrez to the Italian.

The two men left the room together; the grey nun slipped back to her place and Mademoiselle de Fontanges's voice could be heard coming in sobs from behind her clenched fingers: "Save me, save me! Oh, God, save me!"

In the noble, dark corridor was Doctor Rabel, hastening towards the sick-room. Desgrez greeted him with a dry smile.

"Odd that we should meet again so soon, Doctor." He touched his plastered forehead. "I am very grateful for your care. You see it has quite put me on my feet again."

Doctor Rabel, who was by daylight a little owl-like man, grey and mildly staring, said in an unconcerned tone:

"Ah, Monsieur the police agent! Well, I suppose you are here investigating the mystery of poor Mademoiselle Jacquetta. I heard that Doctor Aquin was attending her, and I have been at the hospital."

Desgrez interrupted: "It is too late, Doctor, she died a few minutes ago."

Doctor Rabel did not appear in the least surprised; he lifted his shoulders to his ears: "Well, I can spare you the trouble of investigating this case any further," he said in a confidential tone, pointing his finger at the young man's chest. "It was a love affair, you understand, and it was rather badly bungled. Mademoiselle Jacquetta was desperate to save what young ladies term their honour, so she made up, with her father's help, that rather stupid story. Just that," repeated the doctor with a deepening smile, "a love affair and no more."

"A common sort of affair to ask the police to help in," said Desgrez drily.

"Ah, indeed." The Doctor took a pinch of snuff. "It's a pity it should happen in the household of Mademoiselle de Fontanges. It was very badly managed. The little Italian girl might have kept her lover, her baby and her honour, if she had made her preparations a little more carefully. As it is, my dear sir, I am afraid you have wasted your time."

"Mademoiselle de Fontanges seems much distressed," said Desgrez. He looked out of the window by which he stood at the grey rain over Paris and the grey river, in which were reflected the sparse lights of the lamps far set on the parapet.

"One understands that," said Doctor Rabel genially. "Poor little Jacquetta fell a victim to temptations, to the lures of some charming lover. Mademoiselle de Fontanges, here, might find herself in a like case. She is in a difficult position, there is no one to protect her." The Doctor again shrugged his neat, rounded shoulders. "One understands this tragedy would make a great impression on her."

"What do you know of the father, the Italian apothecary?" asked Desgrez, standing in the narrow corridor in such a position that the other could not pass him.

"Quite an inoffensive fellow," replied the Doctor blandly. "Able too, in his ways. He supplies me with many useful drugs which he gets from Italy."

"He is with his daughter now," smiled the young police agent. "No doubt, Doctor, he will be glad of your consolation."