Читать книгу The Châtelet Apprentice: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #1 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 24

Before us, Pierre Bourdeau, Inspector of Police at the Châtelet appeared one Jeanne Huppin, otherwise known as ‘old Émilie’, soup seller and garment mender, dwelling in lodgings in Rue du Faubourg-du-Temple, near La Courtille.

On being questioned she said in these very words ‘Alas, my God, to think I am come to this. My sins are the cause of it all.’

Asked as to whether she did go to the place known as ‘La Villette’, at the knacker’s yard in Montfaucon on the night of Friday 2 February, there to purloin the rotten meat found upon her, the which being illegal and contrary to regulations.

Replied that in truth she had gone to Montfaucon, there to seek sustenance.

Questioned as to whether this meat was intended for her purveyal of soup.

Replied that she had intended to use it for herself and that need and poverty had brought her to this pass.

Said that she would reveal matters providing she be promised it be taken into account, not for the excusing of her conduct but for acting as the good Christian that she was and for the cleansing of her conscience of a dread secret.

Said that being occupied in cutting with a great trencher a morsel of dead beast, she had heard a horse neighing and two men approaching. That she concealed herself from fright and fear of being surprised by what she took for a night round of the watch that surveys sometimes this place. Saw the aforesaid men empty by lantern light two casks of a matter that seemed to her bloody, all the which accompanied by garments. Added that she had heard a crack and seen something burn.

Questioned as to whether she could tell that which had burnt.

Replied that she was too afraid and that fright had taken away her senses. The cold having revived her, she had fled without seeking to examine anything whatsoever for fear of attracting towards her a pack of stray dogs that had gathered. She was crossing through the toll-gate of the city when the guards stopped and questioned her.

Bourdeau suggested going to Montfaucon straight away, in order to see what the situation was. Old Émilie needed to go with them to verify at the scene the accuracy and consistency of what she had said. If her claims were true, this would at least prove that a bloody incident had taken place during the night that Lardin had disappeared. Nicolas objected that at night there were plenty of sinister goings-on in the capital, and that there was nothing to suggest a link between this case and their investigation. However, he agreed to accompany Bourdeau.

Though generous by nature Nicolas was nonetheless thrifty with the funds entrusted to him, and he was reluctant to make a dent in Monsieur de Sartine’s finances by hiring a cab. Old Émilie was removed from her cell at the Châtelet but was not told the purpose of the journey. Nicolas was hoping that the agony of her uncertainty would make the destitute creature panic, and so undermine her defences. She was now sitting next to Bourdeau. Nicolas, seated opposite her, could observe this former woman of pleasure at his leisure. He had never seen a sorrier sight than this pathetic relic of past glories. The old woman was wearing a jumble of rags, one on top of the other. Did the poor creature fear being robbed or was she seeking to protect herself from the cold? This heap of torn and filthy clothes looked as if it were parcelled up in a sort of greatcoat made of some unknown material that might have been felt if the passage of time had not transformed it into a sort of fluffy blanket. The garment revealed in parts the splendid remnants of rich fabrics, bits of yellowed lace, of paste and embroidery in silver and gold thread. A whole past life was summed up in the layers covering this human wreck. Out of a shapeless bonnet tied with a ribbon peered a face at once narrow and bloated, in which two care-worn, mouse-grey eyes darted to and fro, unnaturally highlighted by a bluish black that reminded Nicolas of the moustaches he pencilled in with charcoal when he was a child. Her twisted mouth was half-open and revealed a few stumps of teeth and the tip of a tongue that was still surprisingly pink.

After a while, the solemn way in which Nicolas was staring at her began to intrigue old Émilie. Out of habit she eyed him in a way that made him blush down to the roots of his hair. He was horrified at what her expression might mean. She immediately realised that she was on the wrong track, and resumed her slumped position. Then she rummaged around in a sort of green satin handbag, which had known better days, and spread out on her lap her remaining treasures: a hunk of black bread, a broken black onyx fan, a few sols, a small horn knife, a brass rouge box and a shard of mirror. She dipped a dirty finger into the rouge and, looking at herself in the triangular mirror, began to make up her cheeks. Gradually she rediscovered the customary and touching gestures of the woman she had once been. She blinked, moved her head back to take better stock of the result of her efforts, pursed her lips, smiled and tried to smooth her wrinkled brow. Instead of the beggar-woman opposite him, Nicolas thought he could see the silhouette of a charming, joyful young girl, who forty years earlier had enjoyed the company of the Regent every evening. Nicolas looked away, moved by this spectacle.

Soon they were outside the city walls and old Émilie, who had for some time been observing the landscape through the carriage window, recognised the direction they had taken. Pitiful to behold in her anguish, she looked at each of them in turn. Nicolas immediately regretted not having drawn the leather curtains and swore that in future he would pay more attention to this type of detail. Thus he was creating his own method of investigation, as circumstances dictated; the unwritten rules of his profession were impressing themselves upon him day by day. He progressed in his understanding of criminal matters by bringing to them his sensitivity, his skills of observation, the wealth of his imagination and his instinctive responses, which were vindicated after the event. He was his own master, in charge of blaming or praising himself. Above all he had learnt that a flexible approach, based on experience, was the only way to get closer to the truth.

The carriage stopped and Bourdeau got out to speak to some labourers who had approached them, intrigued by their arrival. On a nearby hill a lone horseman watched them from near a great oak tree, whose branches were heavy with a multitude of crows. Nicolas noted the fact without dwelling on it and helped the old woman down. Her hand was clammy and feverish; she could hardly stand and seemed terror-stricken.

‘My God, I can’t …’

‘Come, be brave, Madame. We are with you. You have nothing to fear. Show us the place where you hid.’

‘I recognise nothing with all this snow, good Monsieur.’

The sky was clear but the cold here was keener than in Paris. The snow crackled underfoot. They edged their way forward and eventually came upon some shapeless heaps, from which emerged hooves covered in frost. Bourdeau questioned one of the knackers.

‘How long have these carcasses been here?’

‘Four days, at least. With Carnival we haven’t worked Saturday or Sunday. In any case the frost has set in in the meantime. Now we’ll have to wait for the thaw to be able to handle the dead meat.’

Old Émilie held out her hand and pointed to one of the piles. Bourdeau swept away the snow covering it and revealed the body of a horse. One of its thighs had been cut into.

‘Is it that one? Incidentally, what did you do with your trencher?’

‘I can’t remember.’

Bourdeau continued to work away, kneeling on the ground. A glint of blue flashed in the snow. He lifted up a butcher’s cleaver.

‘Would that be your implement by any chance?’

She grabbed it and held it tight against her as if it were something precious.

‘Yes, yes, that’s my knife sure enough.’

Bourdeau had to wrest it from her.

‘I can’t return it to you quite yet.’

Nicolas intervened.

‘Don’t fret. You’ll get it back. Just tell me where you were watching from.’

This calm voice reassured her. Automatically, she bent to the ground and huddled up to the carcass, peering towards the corner of a brick building situated a few yards away.

‘It’s over there,’ Nicolas said in a hushed voice, helping her to her feet and dusting the snow off her. ‘Don’t be afraid. The inspector and I will go on our own. Stay here and wait for us.’

They soon came upon several heaps covered with snow. Nicolas stopped, thought for a moment and then asked Bourdeau to go and find an implement to clear away the snow. It was quite obvious that these were not animal carcasses. While he was waiting he poked around in one of the piles. His fingers touched something hard, broken into several pieces, like the teeth of a giant rake. He forced himself to grip it with both hands and pulled hard. A heavy object came away from the frozen ground, and to his horror he saw rising up before him a lump of flesh that he immediately recognised as the remains of a human thorax. By the time Bourdeau returned with a broom, Nicolas, pale as a ghost, was vigorously rubbing his hands with snow.

A glance was enough for the inspector to grasp what the young man was feeling. Without exchanging a word they carefully cleared the ground all around, revealing a quantity of human remains mixed in with straw, and bones that were almost totally bare except for a few frozen and blackened scraps of clothing.

They placed the remains alongside each other and little by little reconstructed what had been a body. The state of the skeleton with its coating of snow showed well enough how savagely the scavenging rats and beasts of prey had attacked it. One didn’t have to be a great anatomist to notice that many bones were missing, but the head was there, its jaw fractured. Near the spot where Nicolas had made his first discovery they found some clothes, a leather doublet and a blackish, torn shirt which appeared to be blood-soaked.

Their last find confirmed Nicolas’s fears. Lardin’s cudgel was revealed, with its strange sculpted designs on the silver pommel and the snake-like creature curled around the stick. The inspector nodded; he, too, had understood. Other clues followed: a pair of grey calamanco breeches, some stockings, sticky with a black substance, and two shoes whose buckles had disappeared. Nicolas decided to add these items to everything else they had found, and to examine them in more detail later. He gave Bourdeau the task of finding something suitable in which they could carry away their macabre harvest. The inspector soon came back with an old wicker trunk bought from a knacker who had kept his apron and tools in it. They quickly filled it up, carefully wrapping the bones in the clothes.

Meanwhile Nicolas seemed to be searching for something else and was ferreting around, crouching, with his nose to the ground. Suddenly he asked Bourdeau to give him a piece of paper and he began to trace some small craters that pockmarked the ground. They had left their impression in the clayey soil before it had been covered up by snow and hardened by frost. Nicolas made no particular comment. He did not wish to pass on the fruits of his reflections, even to Bourdeau. It was not that Nicolas mistrusted him but he was quite happy to lend a certain air of mystery to a turn of events that put the inspector at a disadvantage. He did not enjoy having to be so cautious but he felt it advisable so long as he himself was unclear about things and had not found a satisfactory explanation for some of his own observations.

He responded to his companion’s quizzical expression with a toss of the head and a sceptical look. They carried the trunk away. They had forgotten about old Émilie who was watching them with a dazed expression and recoiled as they walked by. Nicolas grabbed her by the arm as they went past and took her back to the carriage. She was crying quietly and her tears made her make-up run, disfiguring her face so much that Nicolas took out his handkerchief and with infinite gentleness wiped away the black and red streaks that were streaming down her cheeks.

The return journey was gloomy. Nicolas remained silent, deep in thought. Night was falling by the time they went through the toll-gate. Nicolas suddenly ordered the coachman to drive into an adjacent street and to extinguish the lantern. As he jumped down he had just enough time to glimpse a horseman galloping along the main street; it was the same man who had been watching them in the knacker’s yard.

At the Châtelet Nicolas had the trunk containing the presumed remains of the Commissioner put away for safe keeping in the Basse-Geôle. He also decided to keep old Émilie in his care so that he could question her again and he paid for her to be put in a cell with special privileges, and served a hot meal. He then withdrew to the duty room to write up a brief report for Monsieur de Sartine recounting his visit to Descart and the journey to Montfaucon, but omitting the conversation with Semacgus. His conclusion, subject to further checks that he planned to carry out, stated that the remains discovered could well be those of Guillaume Lardin.