Читать книгу The Saint-Florentin Murders: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #5 - Jean-Francois Parot - Страница 16

It was neither tumult nor calm, but a silence like that

of a great fear and a great anger.

TACITUS

Like a rider facing a hurdle, Nicolas liked to give himself a lull before launching into the thick of the action. He considered this pause necessary to keep a clear head. He asked to be dropped at Place Louis XV and, anxious to contemplate the Saint-Florentin mansion, where he might well have a date with destiny, he sat down on a bollard. Having kept him waiting for three months, they could certainly wait a few more minutes. He admired the classical trappings of the building, which extended the splendour of the Garde-Meuble. For a moment, the past paraded before him: images of that terrible night in 1770, the cries, the smoke, the crushed bodies, and the statue of the King looking down on the disaster of that failed firework display.1 The facade overlooked a small square with a fountain from which it was possible to reach the Tuileries gardens. It had two large noble floors and a roof crowned by a balustrade and decorated with carved panoplies and two monumental urns. On Rue Saint-Florentin was a splendid gate adorned with a stone coat of arms held aloft by two deities. The coat of arms was divided into four quarters, combining the blue of the Phélypeaux family, strewn with gold cinquefoils and ermines, and the three red mallets of the Mailly family.

Nicolas had known Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, who was now the Duc de La Vrillière, since he had joined the police force. He pondered that remarkable career which had begun fifty years earlier in the King’s councils and which had been built on a stubborn loyalty to the person of Louis XV. The man was not exactly popular, either at Court or in the city. Many envied his influence while condemning his weakness and timidity. He was also responsible for many arbitrary decisions and lettres de cachet. Madame Victoire thought him stupid, whereas others emphasised his gift for conciliation, his ability to appease dissenting parties without compromising the authority of the throne. On many occasions, he had demonstrated his trust in Nicolas, but a recent case in which his cousin the Duc d’Aiguillon had been involved seemed to have contributed to his current low opinion of the commissioner.

Nicolas again looked at the house, which had all the grandeur and nobility of a small palace and gave anything but a small idea of the fortune of the man who had built it. He recalled certain pieces of gossip concerning the minister’s dubious morals. He lived a dissolute life in Paris, surrounded by women of ill repute, and neglected his wife in favour of a mistress, Marie-Madeleine de Cusacque, the Marquise de Langeac, whom he called ‘the Beautiful Aglaé’. It was claimed at Court that this woman made use of her lover’s influence and traded lettres de cachet, and there was good reason to believe that this was true. The duc had set up all the lady’s children, despite their dubious lineage, but since the King’s death he had had to conform to the new, stricter morality and give up seeing her. She had continued to appear, however, even provoking a gentleman to a duel and insulting a tribunal. Eventually, she had been ordered to remain fifty leagues from the Court and had withdrawn to an estate near Caen. As for her lover, his health had declined since this forced separation.

Nicolas finally decided to enter the mansion. A monumentally tall Swiss Guard, covered in silver braid, received him haughtily, softening only when he gave his name and occupation. He was led across the main courtyard and then up some steps into a vestibule where a valet greeted him. He was surprised by the lack of hustle and bustle in the house at this hour of the day. Several servants passed him without looking at him, with inscrutable expressions on their faces. On the great staircase, he noted a fine painting, an allegory of Prudence and Strength. On the first floor, a succession of antechambers led him to the minister’s study. The valet tapped at the door. A familiar voice responded. The valet stood aside to let him in. The Duc de La Vrillière sat slumped beside the big marble fireplace, wearing a grey coat and no wig. He glanced at Nicolas expressionlessly. The man had certainly changed since their last encounter. Thin, stooped, hollow-jowled, he looked quite unlike the chubby little man Nicolas had known.

‘Hmm, here’s young Ranreuil,’ he grunted. ‘Quite cold, isn’t it?’

He sighed, as if the name alone could summon up the ghost of the late King, his other passion in life. Things could have got off to a worse start, thought Nicolas.

‘Monsieur,’ said the minister, ‘I have always held you in great esteem. I understand that you may have thought that you – how shall I put it? – did not have my trust. But that was a complete misunderstanding on your part.’

‘I did indeed think so, Monseigneur,’ replied Nicolas. ‘In fact, I was quite convinced of it, even though I found it hard to explain. Others took it upon themselves to reinforce the impression.’

‘Now who could that have been? Lenoir? Yes, that may well be what he thought. A word from me will disabuse him. It is no longer possible to do without your services. Monsieur de Sartine long ago convinced me of that. Today, I need you again.’

Nicolas had been right: he was indeed back in business. ‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘I am at your service.’

The minister raised a hand clad in a grey silk glove and brought it down hard on the armrest of his chair. He sat up, and for a moment the image of the man he had been reappeared, an image of easy-going but real authority.

‘Let’s get straight to the point. Yesterday I was at Versailles. I came back early this morning to find my house turned upside down. The fact is, Monsieur, my major-domo has been killed.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘No, I’m wrong! One of my wife’s maids has been killed, and my major-domo was found wounded and unconscious with a knife beside him. It would seem that, having killed the girl, he tried to punish himself by committing suicide.’

‘What measures have so far been taken?’ Nicolas enquired coldly, once again the professional who did not like other people to draw hasty conclusions for him.

‘What? What? … Measures? Oh, yes, measures … I forbade anyone to touch the maid’s body. The major-domo was taken to his room on the mezzanine, still unconscious. He is being watched by a doctor. As for the kitchens where the crime took place, I have forbidden access to them and the doors have been bolted while waiting for you to inspect the place.’

‘Did you know the victim?’

The duc gave a kind of start. ‘A chambermaid! One of the last to have entered my house. How could I? I don’t even know her name.’

Nicolas thought to himself that servants were often regarded as furniture. Most of the time, their names were changed and their master was unaware of their real name, knowing nothing of them but the particular function for which they were paid.

‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘may I be so bold as to demand full authority in this affair, which is all the more serious for having taken place in your house? No meddling, no interference, the possibility of questioning all the occupants of the house, and I mean all, and permanent permission to move around and to search.’

‘All right, all right,’ grumbled the duc, ‘I suppose it’s necessary. Sartine did tell me how inconvenient you can be.’

‘The facts are more inconvenient than I. That’s not all, Monseigneur. I should like to be assisted by Bourdeau. I trust you will consent.’

‘The name sounds familiar. Isn’t he one of our officers?’

‘One of our inspectors, Monseigneur.’

‘That’s right,’ said La Vrillière, striking his forehead, ‘he’s your loyal deputy. I like loyalty. Of course I consent.’

‘What about Monsieur Lenoir?’

‘Leave it to me. I’ll reconcile the two of you. He’ll be informed that this is my affair and you answer entirely to me. It’s a private matter, and requires the greatest discretion. The Lieutenant General of Police will have to accede to your demands for any help or support that you may require. I hope that you will show the same zeal and efficiency in this affair as you have in others. A study has been set aside for you on the mezzanine, and orders will be given that you must be obeyed in all matters. My valet, Provence, will be your guide in this house. You can trust him, he’s been with me for twenty years. Now do your work. Monsieur, I am at your disposal.’

The minister’s tone was certainly in keeping with the circumstances. Nicolas had often noted in this unloved little man, lacking in personal prestige, a kind of unexpected grandeur which occasionally appeared, its roots constantly irrigated by the will and trust of the monarch. Thus, in a few short moments, the Duc de La Vrillière had been transfigured, animated by the concerns of State and the order it was his task to impose upon it. Everything vital having been said, Nicolas bowed and left the room. The valet was waiting at the door, and asked Nicolas to follow him. They took the same route by which they had come. Back on the ground floor, they came to a large hall that led to a succession of antechambers. In the third room on the right, the valet pointed out the entrance to a large study, which Nicolas judged to be situated more or less beneath that of the minister. The valet closed the door behind him. A fire was blazing in a white marble hearth, above which stood a bust of Louis XV. He stood for a moment contemplating it, suddenly overwhelmed with memories. Then he sat down at a small desk inlaid with bronze and lacquer and equipped with paper, quill pens, ink and lead pencils. He took out his little black notebook, an indispensable tool of his investigations. He was swept by a wave of excitement. It was the habitual thrill of the hunter setting off on the trail, the same ardour that sent him galloping off into the thickets of the forest of Compiègne. Already his mind was revolving around this case with which he had been presented, and his intelligence and intuition were on the alert.

Out of curiosity, he opened a door, which revealed to him a magnificently prepared bedroom. Behind this room were a fine bathroom and water closet in the English style, such as he had not seen since his return from London. He went back into the study and rang the bell. The valet appeared. The man was about fifty, with a crumpled, colourless face and faded eyes. He wore a grey wig, and his silver-trimmed blue livery hung loose on his slender frame. The only thing striking about him was how nondescript he was.

‘What’s your name, my friend?’

‘Provence, Commissioner,’ the man said, avoiding his gaze.

‘What’s your real name?’

‘Charles Bibard.’

‘Where were you born?’

‘In Paris, in 1725 or 1726.’

Nicolas had been right about his age. ‘Why Provence, then?’

‘It was my predecessor’s name. Monseigneur’s father, by whom I was subsequently engaged, didn’t like change.’

‘Well, Provence, can you tell me what happened here this morning?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know much. Just before seven, I was busy making Monseigneur’s apartments ready for his return from Versailles when I heard cries and screams.’

‘Where were you?’

‘In the bedroom. I went downstairs to the ground floor. The kitchen boy, the one who opens up in the morning, was screaming in terror and wringing his hands.’

‘Was he alone?’

Nicolas noticed a slight hesitation.

‘Everything was so chaotic … I think the Swiss Guard was there. Yes, I can see him now, just buttoning up his livery.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Jacques – Jacques Despiard, the kitchen boy – was kicking up such a fuss, it was impossible to understand what he was on about. He was stamping his feet like someone possessed. The caretaker arrived and helped us restrain him, then we left the caretaker to watch over him and went down into the servants’ pantry.’

‘So the door was open?’

‘Yes. That was where Jacques had come from. The key was still in the door at the end of the passage.’

‘And what did you find?’

Nicolas waited intently for the answer. Experience had taught him that a witness’s first observations often turned out to be the most enlightening.

‘It was still dark and the kitchen boy had dropped his candle. We went to look for another candle and lit it. There was nothing to see in the kitchen except some bloodstained footprints, but as soon as we got to the door of the roasting room we discovered Monsieur Missery lying face down on the floor in the middle of a pool of blood. We rushed to him, and I noticed there was a kitchen knife next to him.’

‘What was the position of his head?’

‘His right cheek was against the floor.’

‘And where was the knife?’

‘Also on his right. He was still breathing and, just as we were going to help him, the Swiss Guard turned and saw, slumped to her knees against the draining board, the body of a young woman. Her head looked as if it was detached from her trunk. The wound was terrible, Monsieur, she was like a pig that’s been bled.’

‘What happened then?’

‘We carried Jean Missery to his room on the mezzanine.’

‘The floor where we are now?’

‘That’s right, Commissioner, but on the other side of the courtyard, where you find the service rooms, the linen room, and accommodation for the Swiss Guard and the caretaker. The caretaker went to fetch a doctor from Rue Saint-Honoré. At that moment, Monseigneur arrived and took matters in hand. He immediately went down to the servants’ pantry.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes. Then he came back up and asked for the key I’d taken from the door and double-locked everything. Here it is – he gave it to me to give to you.’

Nicolas recognised the minister’s way: his insecure character did not exclude a certain decisiveness and the greatest concern for detail. The valet handed him a thick envelope bearing the Saint-Florentin family seal.

‘What did the doctor say?’

‘That he’d recover. He bandaged the wound in his side, and told us to let him rest and to keep an eye on him.’

‘We’ll continue this conversation later. These initial facts are enough for the moment. Please show me to the kitchens.’

As they were leaving the room, Nicolas noticed that the valet’s shoes, and their heels, were immaculate. He recalled a quip by Semacgus, although he did not immediately see its relevance to his observation. His friend liked to say that the doors of gilded salons were not closed to those whose minds were full of dirt, but that those same people would be turned away if there was dirt on their shoes. It was an interesting detail, which it would be worthwhile investigating further. The man led him down a smaller staircase, no doubt used by the servants. Nicolas, who had lowered his head in order not to miss the poorly lit steps, noticed some brownish prints still visible on the wood. His first reaction was to make an ironic remark on the poor maintenance of this area, so out of keeping with the gleaming splendour visible elsewhere in the mansion. On the ground floor, they walked across a small inner conservatory, then through some pantries, and found themselves in a passage which emerged into a larger one leading on the left-hand side towards the courtyard of the mansion and on the right to the door of the kitchens. Nicolas opened the envelope and took out a large key. He would have to check if there were any duplicates. His concern for details like that, which were often the most significant, was what made him a good policeman. He unlocked the door and entered the first room, where the light came in through large high windows.

‘This is the kitchen itself,’ said Provence, continuing towards another room. ‘And this is the roasting room, this is where—’

Nicolas did not let him finish. ‘Thank you,’ he said with an amiable smile. ‘I’d like to be alone now. Oh, there is one thing, though. Could you get a message to the duty office of the commissioners and inspectors at the Grand Châtelet?’

He tore a page from his notebook and, leaning against the wall, quickly wrote a note to Inspector Bourdeau, asking him to join him immediately at the Saint-Florentin mansion with a wagon, some officers and all the material necessary to transport a corpse. He knew that for the past few weeks his deputy had been spending every morning at the old prison in the always disappointed hope of a mission to be expedited. He searched in his pocket, found a piece of sealing wax, and used it to close his message. He wrote his signature across it with the lead pencil, in order to discourage inquisitiveness, and handed the whole thing to the valet, who seemed upset at being excluded from his exploration of the scene of the crime. This reaction seemed to him surprising. In his experience, witnesses connected with a violent crime usually preferred to avoid as far as possible the place where it had occurred. Once again he made a mental note of the fact. Perhaps, he thought, the man had been given the task by the minister of reporting back to him on Nicolas’s first observations.

The floor of the roasting room was like that of a butcher’s shop after an animal has been slaughtered. It was impossible to draw any conclusions from the prints still visible in the mire of blood on the black and white tiles. What did seem clear, though, was that a body had been dragged across the floor, presumably that of the major-domo, Jean Missery. On the floor, a kitchen knife with a wooden handle and a single rivet drew his attention: it was one of those common objects known as an eustache. It was of medium size and its blade measured a little more than a hand in length. The mustiness in the room reminded him of other situations dominated by the sickly-sweet, metallic smell of blood. Nicolas climbed on a stool to get an overall view.

The picture Provence had painted of the scene proved exact. First of all, the body of a young woman, slumped, as if kneeling, at the foot of a draining board. Her head was at a curious angle in relation to the rest of the body, and she had lost a lot of blood, which had spread, brown and glutinous, all around her. He noted an incongruous detail: her two feet, as white as ivory, as if spared by the outpouring of blood. A few steps away, another pool of blood, this one redder. You did not have to be very knowledgeable to realise that the two pools were of different origins: one from each of the two victims. Time, perhaps a long time – he would have to determine how long – had passed between the two effusions. He tried again to seek answers in the complex pattern of footprints, but was unable to discern anything other than a wild trampling. He went back to an examination of the body.

The young woman was wearing a skirt, a loose blouse, and an apron knotted at the waist and above all – the distinguishing mark of a chambermaid – at the bib. The hair was held up in a bun, revealing a narrow neck, almost a child’s. The lace cap had slipped to the floor and lay in the blood. Nicolas was struck by the sight of two slippers lying a few paces from the body. These were not objects commonly associated with a young servant girl, but luxurious, even expensive items quite out of place here. He got off the stool and walked up to the body, making an effort to control his mixed feelings: apprehension at contact with a corpse and pity for a murdered human being. It was up to him to observe the state of the body and estimate the time of death. He realised that he had left his watch in Rue Montmartre. He had always been a stickler for accurate timekeeping, but, having had little to hurry him these past few months, he had become absent-minded. In his head, he tried to calculate how much time had gone by. He had left Noblecourt’s house at nine, his shopping expedition had taken two hours, after which he had strolled idly among the second-hand bookstalls and had even indulged in a little reading. It must have been about midday that the officers had intercepted him. The carriage having been delayed by traffic on the way to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, he must have entered Monsieur Lenoir’s office at about half past twelve. Interview, cab, a conversation with the Duc de La Vrillière, another with Provence. It must now be about two o’clock in the afternoon.

He knew that rigor mortis only set in gradually. The longer it took to appear, the longer it lasted. You had to take the conditions and temperature of the place into account. Kitchens were usually cold at night, when all the lights were out and there was adequate ventilation. It was October now, and starting to feel distinctly cold. The duration of rigor mortis was supposedly shorter in damp, warm air than in dry, cold air. In addition, it was a constant feature that rigor mortis took a long time to appear when death was sudden, as seemed to be the case here. Touching the body, he noticed that there was still some residual stiffness. He estimated that the murder must have taken place between ten and midnight.

He leaned over to examine the terrible wound at the base of the neck. If a piece of wood had been driven in just below the right ear, the flesh could not have been any more bruised and shattered than it was. It was still possible to see, deep inside the wound, a piece of lace from the blouse. Life had fled from the poor girl’s body in an endless haemorrhage. Her eyes stared unseeing, the corneas already obscured by a slimy membrane. He shuddered at the sight of that face, contorted in death: the forehead was lined, the nose was pinched, the lips hung over an open jaw, and the skin, dry and livid, gave the whole face a twisted appearance, as if frozen in a cruel, dazed stupor. He searched in the pockets of the apron and the skirt, and found nothing except a handkerchief and a cross on a small, broken metal chain, which had slipped into a fold in the fabric.

There was nothing else to do while waiting for the arrival of the stretcher which would take away these remains to the operating table in the Basse-Geôle. Whatever observations were made there could well open up new paths for the investigation. He still had to undertake a delicate experiment. As there was nothing to be learnt from the bloody mire on the floor, he would have to examine the surroundings. There, doubtless, there would be fewer traces and he would be able to read them more precisely. The kitchen and the roasting room were full of footprints: that was quite normal, given the servants who had come to take the wounded major-domo to his room on the mezzanine. In the kitchen, he found a whole series of knives identical to the one he had found on the floor. Was this latter a utensil that belonged to the mansion, or had it been brought in from outside? This was a good house, and the gleaming state of the whole area showed that it was well maintained. Perhaps an inventory … With one thought leading to another, he realised a startling fact: the broad, deep, prodigious wound to the young woman’s neck could not have been caused by the eustache. He would have to examine Jean Missery’s wound to see if the same knife had been used on him as on the maid. The result of this examination might point in a different direction.

He came back to the problem of prints. He was still obsessed by those found on the staircase between the mezzanine and the ground floor. He walked on tiptoe, trying to avoid the soiled areas, but still managed to add a few of his own prints to those already existing. A brownish trail took him to the passage leading to the courtyard. He took off his shoes to cross a section that was apparently untouched. He saw nothing in the wash house, in the small adjoining courtyard, or on the steps down to the cellars. He decided to go back along the route he had taken with Provence as far as the staircase. Nicolas carefully cleaned the soles of his shoes with water from a watering can he found in the small conservatory, then hesitated a moment. Should he continue to the first floor, where the minister’s apartments were located? But where was the risk? Nobody would blame him, and besides the lead might turn out to be pointless. Provence, who had discovered the bodies, might have taken that staircase and, noticing that his shoes were dirty, immediately changed them. While he was thinking this through, a small inner voice whispered in his ear that he was right to persevere and to listen to his intuition, which, in all these years as a police officer, had stood him in good stead, on an equal level with his reason.

The trail continued, becoming increasingly indistinct. But Nicolas knew that blood, being thick and viscous, took a long time to vanish completely. He reached an empty room furnished with two old red velvet benches, with a stock of logs piled up against the panelling. He immediately realised that this was not the way to the Duc de La Vrillière’s apartments, but rather a kind of halfway stage before you got to the upper parts of the mansion, given over, in this kind of dwelling, to the servants’ rooms or to storerooms. He immediately began examining the state of the staircase, this time with a piece of candle he found lying in a corner. He lit it, and the flame illumined the steps. He looked as hard as he could, bent down, even lay down, his nose almost against the oak, but could not find any traces of blood. On the other hand, he did find some on the floor of the room, a trail leading to the French window at the corner of the building. As he approached, a cold draught made him shiver.

Why was it open? He saw that the catch was up. He opened the window, and immediately a keen wind lashed his face. The window led out onto a balcony with a balustrade, facing Rue Saint-Florentin. His heart beat faster: there were clear traces of blood on the stone. Bloody footprints led to the corner of the building, in the direction of the gate in the main courtyard. He followed them and leant over. Here, another surprise awaited him: he observed that there were also spots of blood on the narrow cornice of the wall, which was supported by columns. He decided to go and see at close quarters where that might lead. Luckily, unlike his friend Semacgus, he did not suffer from vertigo. During all his travels on the King’s vessels, Semacgus had never been able to climb the top mast. Admittedly, he would say with a laugh, his functions as a surgeon rarely required this kind of exercise from him. Nicolas dreaded confinement and enclosed spaces, but, faced with a drop, he was as agile as a cat. Pressing his back up against the wall, he slid to the cornice above the gate. As he placed his feet on the projecting edge, he was struck by a stronger gust of wind and almost lost his balance: throwing his head back steadied him. He obtained a foothold on the cornice, holding on to the top of the upper parapet with his hands. There, the traces petered out. He sat down with his legs dangling, then lay on the edge to examine the underneath. He immediately realised that by putting his legs around the top of the column, he could easily get down as far as the spikes of the iron gate – they were only a few feet below him – and from there slide to the ground. There was one point where it could be dangerous, but the rest was child’s play. He decided, however, not to go all the way with his experiment, as the flagstones, being muddy, seemed unlikely to reveal any further clues.

So someone had left the scene of the crime, gone up to the first floor of the mansion, opened the French window, and had escaped by performing a feat of acrobatics. That suggested several things: that the unknown person had a precise knowledge of the layout of the house, that his escape had taken place in the middle of the night, when there was less risk of being surprised, and, above all, that the individual was young, capable of such a difficult exercise, in which you might either fall or be impaled on the spikes of the gate. That raised some interesting questions about the sequence of events, and seemed to contradict the initial hypothesis of a murder committed by the major-domo, followed by an attempted suicide.

Nicolas put his feet back down on the balcony, but, as he was about to enter the room, he realised that, during his brief absence, the French window had been closed from inside. Whether this had been caused by a gust of wind or a human hand, he was faced with the problem of getting back inside. He thought for a moment of taking the perilous route adopted by the mysterious acrobat. He soon gave up the idea: that was all he needed, to be crushed to death in the street! He could not take the risk. He took a few steps and glanced in through the next window. There, in a kind of boudoir, was the Duc de La Vrillière, motionless and lost in thought. Unless he broke a pane in the first French window, the only thing he could do was make his presence known as naturally as possible. It took him several attempts to attract the attention of the minister, who eventually opened to him.

‘Monsieur, Monsieur,’ exclaimed the duc, ‘I’d heard that you went out through the door and came in through the window! Well, no need to explain. That’s your business.’

He appeared to reflect for a moment, then turned with a sigh to a large portrait of Louis XV, the cartouche of which indicated that it was a gift from the King, presented to Monsieur de Saint-Florentin in 1756.

‘What a good master he was,’ he murmured, in a tragic tone. ‘He loved us, he really did. What a career you would have had, Marquis, if …’ He left the phrase hanging. ‘What he especially appreciated about you,’ he resumed after a moment, ‘was your handsome face, your very rare gift of being able to distract him, and an even more unusual quality: the fact that you never asked him for anything. I shan’t even mention the services you rendered, performing miracles in difficult, delicate circumstances, even at the risk of your own life. Not many have been as valiant and loyal as you …’

Nicolas tried to take advantage of the duc’s current good disposition towards him. ‘Monseigneur, allow me to ask you a question. What is your opinion of your major-domo, Jean Missery?’

‘To say that he keeps a firm grip on my household would be an understatement,’ replied the duc. ‘He’s been with me for fifteen years, having succeeded his father. Everything concerning the general expenses of the mansion is his responsibility. He chooses the kitchen staff and the other servants, and he has full authority over them, including dismissing them if need be. It is also his job to buy bread, wine, meat, vegetables and fruit from the suppliers. For example, he buys wine by the cask and hands it over to the wine waiter to distribute, and the latter will report back to him on the state in which he has received it. He also has to deal with a grocer for sugar, candles, torches, oils and Lord knows what else! Wood, crockery, oats, hay, straw: all that’s his province. Last but not least – by no means least! – he has to lay out the service for the lunches, dinners and midnight suppers which I give.’

‘Do you think he’s honest?’

‘I believe he is, but, even if he were not, I would not trouble myself to constantly check up on a servant, however corrupt he might be. When we depend on others, we sometimes have to know when to close our eyes if we want to be well served. Now leave me, I still have some work to do.’

Nicolas knew there was no point in insisting. He retraced his steps to the antechambers and the great staircase. Deciding to visit the wounded man, he stopped on the mezzanine. He thought he knew his way around the house quite well by now, but realised that it was not possible to go from one wing to the other except via the ground floor. There, he had no difficulty in finding, to the left of the grand staircase, a small staircase leading up to the mezzanine. After several minutes during which he wandered through dark corridors, he at last came to a room with its door open.

It was a large room, with bergame hangings and three windows that looked onto an inner courtyard. A good fire was blazing in the hearth. The marble mantelpiece was adorned with a small pier glass with three mirrors set in gilded wood. On a bed with red flowered damask curtains, his legs half covered with a counterpane of quilted calico, lay a corpulent man, his torso wrapped in bloodstained sheets. On the floor, to the left of the bed, were a coat the colour of dead leaves, a matching pair of breeches, a white shirt, and a yellow cravat. The rest of the furniture consisted of a large oak wardrobe, a marquetry table, two armchairs upholstered in yellow serge, a chest of drawers, and a small writing table covered with papers. The overall impression was one of comfort, and even luxury, enhanced even more by the presence on the parquet floor of a Turkish carpet. On a chair with a dust cover sat a man in a black coat and grey wig, apparently dozing. Nicolas realised that this was not the case, and that what he was in fact doing was taking Jean Missery’s pulse. The man turned. A fine pastel face, thought Nicolas, about sixty, perhaps a little more.

‘Monsieur, whom do I have the honour of addressing?’

‘Commissioner Nicolas Le Floch. I am in charge of the investigation. And you are Monsieur …?’

‘Dr de Gévigland. I was sent for this morning to attend to this disaster. There was nothing I could do for the young woman. As for this man, as luck would have it, the blade of the knife missed a rib and did not harm any vital organs. In my opinion, he will recover.’

‘Has he regained consciousness?’

‘No – which is the only thing that worries me. The wound in itself was not the kind to put him in such a state. I fear there may be something else. He may have hit something in his fall, or it may be an inflammation of the cerebral humours. I really don’t know. When it comes to this kind of symptom, our knowledge is far from complete.’

Nicolas was pleased to hear these remarks. It was comforting to know that at least one doctor was devoid of the pedantic arrogance of many of his colleagues, made no attempt to spin yarns, and approached with simple modesty and praiseworthy level-headedness the unfathomable mysteries it was his job to diagnose and treat.

‘May I see the wound?’

‘There is no reason why not. You will observe that the blood loss is clearly defined and that the wound is clean. If you lift the bandage a little, you can see how clean it is.’

The commissioner bent over the supine body. There was a bevelled cut across the abdomen, between the lower ribs. No comparison, he thought, with the gaping hole in the maid’s neck. The kitchen knife perfectly matched the appearance of the wound. To set his mind at rest, he asked the question. The doctor’s answer did not surprise him.

‘The kitchen knife, which is of the sharp kind, was certainly responsible for this. That’s obvious.’

‘And the young woman’s wound?’

‘It’s up to you, my dear fellow, to find the stopper that would plug up that hole!’

‘I have a specific question to ask, Doctor,’ said Nicolas. ‘Does your observation of your patient, Monsieur Missery’s, wounds point to a suicide, as some witnesses suggest?’

The doctor made a face and shook his head. ‘As always, people talk without knowing what they’re talking about. I have only one comment to make, but it’s an important one. Would a man who intends to commit suicide strike himself on the right-hand side and risk injuring his liver and dying in terrible pain? The choice of death by a knife implies that you strike the heart, in other words on the left. Please note that I don’t have all the facts that would allow me to plump for one hypothesis over another. However, let’s imagine that someone attacked him from behind and, holding his head in a vice-like grip, struck him with a weapon held in his right hand. In the heat of such an attack, he may well have missed and struck the wrong side. The wounded man, having certainly lost a lot of blood, fainted and his attacker may well have thought he had killed him. Even if he didn’t, the desired aim might have been to stop him escaping, thus ensuring that suspicion would fall on him.’

‘Monsieur, you have clearly thought this through carefully, and what you say is very enlightening.’

Dr de Gévigland had articulated what Nicolas had already been thinking. As he had spoken, the commissioner had seen in his mind’s eye, like the images in a magic lantern on the boulevards, Marguerite Pindron on her knees at the foot of the draining board in the roasting room. Were she and the major-domo both victims of a single attacker, whose steps he had detected and followed as far as the monumental gate of the Saint-Florentin mansion? Could it be that the same person had struck twice in succession in the same place? But in that case, why were the two wounds so different and apparently caused by such dissimilar objects? And why had one of those weapons been found on the floor while the other, still of an unknown nature, appeared to be missing? Was someone trying to convince them of a different theory? Nicolas’s mind was racing. Someone had worked hard to create a situation so clear-cut that it would be accepted completely: a man kills a woman and then commits suicide. The two pools of blood in the roasting room, so different in appearance, flashed through his mind. He pulled himself together. An autopsy on the chambermaid’s body was essential, and he expected a great deal from its conclusions. Then the refining fire of reason would clarify the various hypotheses.

‘I would be grateful, Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘if you could inform me as soon as your patient has regained consciousness. An officer will soon be here to keep an eye on him and make sure that he has no contact with anyone. For the moment, he remains our only suspect.’

‘I only hope, Commissioner, that this won’t take too much time. I’m needed back at my practice. If he regains consciousness, the wound itself will be a mere detail. A little rest, a good dressing, and everything will heal up nicely.’

Nicolas was back in the great vestibule on the ground floor when several carriages entered the courtyard. From one of them, Bourdeau emerged, rubbing his hands with glee. He was followed by a number of officers with a stretcher. Nicolas walked down some steps to greet his deputy.

‘Good Lord,’ said the inspector, ‘this really is the high life! The Saint-Florentin mansion! Our minister’s house! It seems we haven’t been dismissed after all.’

‘What you say is right, my dear Pierre,’ replied Nicolas with a laugh. ‘They can’t do without our services, and I assure you that the case we are dealing with is not a trivial matter.’

‘And our friend Lenoir in all of this?’

‘I fear he has been overtaken by events. But we’ll be good chaps and keep him informed. We must never insult the future.’

‘You’re very indulgent today!’

‘It’s the joy of having something to get my teeth into.’

He ordered the officers to wait, and led Bourdeau towards the stables. There, surrounded by the odour of horses, he related the facts of the case in detail. The inspector’s first reaction was that the drama would turn out to be a trivial one, in which case recourse to such experienced authorities as themselves was like using a ton of gunpowder to open the door. Nicolas pointed out the ambiguous clues, the prints and other incongruous and suspicious details which had caught his attention. The inspector agreed that there was plenty to think about and added that it could turn out to be a distinctly tricky affair, given the place where the tragedy had occurred. He concluded with a laugh that, devil take the difficulties, here was a way to re-establish themselves in favour as long as luck was with them as they made their way through the thickets of this new investigation. Nicolas was delighted to see him looking so cheerful again and told him, embroidering the truth somewhat, that it was the Duc de La Vrillière himself who had wanted him to assist in the case. Bourdeau made no response to this, but the air of pride he immediately assumed spoke for itself. The commissioner loved him all the more for being so forthright and simple in his emotions.

With the officers, they proceeded to the kitchens. Before the body was taken away, Nicolas asked Bourdeau to examine the scene of the crime, in the hope that a fresh pair of eyes might spot some details that had escaped him. Like him, the inspector was struck by the very unusual nature of the wound to the young woman’s neck. He also observed that she was wearing two small garnet earrings. Their presence might be of some significance, for a chambermaid on duty would never wear such ostentatious jewellery. This suggested that Marguerite Pindron had been more conscious of her appearance that evening than usual. Which in turn suggested that she might have had a rendezvous with a suitor … The quality of the slippers also intrigued Bourdeau. They would have to find out the provenance of these luxury items. As for the rest, his observations tallied with those of the commissioner. He searched the place meticulously, anxious to find the object that could have caused such a terrible wound. But to no avail. As he was coming to the end of his search, he stopped and looked at the corner of one of the draining boards. He bent down and delicately picked up between two fingers a small piece of metallic thread, which he held out to Nicolas.

‘Looks like silver thread to me,’ said Nicolas. ‘What do you think?’

‘I agree. Someone knocked against this wooden corner. Look at it, it’s a nest of splinters. The embroidered garment they were wearing got caught and this came off. It must have been a sudden knock, and in his haste the person who was wearing the coat didn’t notice.’

Who, could Nicolas remember often wearing a coat with silver embroidery? The late King, of course! But who else? He racked his brains. The figure of the Duc de La Vrillière emerged. He often copied his master’s manner of dress. The commissioner had talked to the minister twice since arriving. The man had indeed been wearing a grey coat, but Nicolas could not recall the nature of the embroidery. Even if it had been silver, that would prove nothing: the duc had visited his kitchens, and in all the excitement of discovering the crime his coat might have caught on the draining board. But he would have to make sure. One thing was certain: the thread had not come from the major-domo’s coat, for that was a quite different colour. He carefully slipped the little piece of silver between the pages of his black notebook, then gave the signal to take the maid’s body away. Nicolas decided to go back up to the mezzanine and install himself with Bourdeau in the study that had been set aside there for him. They would carry out their interrogations there. In the antechambers, they came across Provence, who was pacing up and down in the shadow of the walls.

‘Monsieur Bibard,’ said Nicolas ‘what was your master wearing when he got back from Versailles this morning?’

The man assumed an indefinable expression which might have escaped someone less accustomed than the commissioner to examining faces. ‘A black cloak over a black silk coat, Monsieur. We are observing Court mourning to the letter.’

‘But this morning? It seems to me …’

‘This morning, as soon as he returned, Monseigneur changed into a grey coat.’

‘Was this coat embroidered?’

‘Yes, with silver flowers.’

‘Of course! You see, Bourdeau, I wasn’t wrong. The late King had one exactly the same. The minister’s loyalty is really touching. Thank you, Provence.’

The man bowed, apparently relieved.

‘One more thing,’ said Nicolas. ‘Would you please have the Swiss Guard, the caretaker and Monseigneur’s coachman come to my study, to start with. I should like to question them in the company of Inspector Bourdeau.’

They reached the study, whose splendours Bourdeau examined half admiringly, half sardonically. The commissioner waited for one of those acerbic remarks Bourdeau was in the habit of making, but none came: the pleasure of being plunged back into action, he thought, had certainly had a most beneficial effect on his deputy’s character.

‘By the way, Nicolas …’ Bourdeau said, reverting to the commissioner’s first name as soon as they were alone. ‘Did you notice our chambermaid’s curious underwear? Please don’t see anything licentious in the question.’

‘God forbid, I know you too well!’ said Nicolas, somewhat surprised. ‘But what exactly do you mean?’

‘Well, look. We live in strange times, and you know better than I that the honesty of women takes on some quite curious aspects these days. If an elegant woman, getting out of her carriage to enter a theatre or go for a stroll, lets curious idlers see the whole of her legs, she is in no way considered indecent. Showing one’s calves is regarded as something so natural that, far from precautions being taken to prevent the sight, it is made all the easier. So, when she dresses, any woman of quality would fix a long ribbon to her belt to hold up her chemise from behind so that the legs are uncovered all the way up to the back of the knee.’

‘I follow you,’ said Nicolas with a smile, ‘but I’m not sure how far you will climb.’

‘Oh, I’m stopping there! I’m simply trying to say that our chambermaid wears drawers, a sure sign of dubious or dissolute morals. Add to that the presence of those unusual slippers, and I think you’ll see where these observations are leading me.’

‘I suspect our investigation will reveal a great deal about the poor girl. This house is a closed world. I already know what’s going to happen. They’ll all be on their guard, resisting the temptation to gossip. Silence and mistrust will be our lot. But in the end, the hurdles will fall and everyone will have something to say, for good or ill, about everyone else. You know how servants are. The world of service is, like others, filled with hatreds, jealousies, resentments and love affairs. We’re entering a fertile field, and we just have to harvest it. Everything will come together, all we have to do is wait and not frighten anyone off.’

‘I’m sure of that,’ said Bourdeau.

‘In the meantime, Pierre, get a message to our friends Semacgus and Sanson. I hope the victim’s body can be opened up as soon as possible: I need to have their opinion on that strange wound. I’d also like you to send an officer to keep an eye on the room where the suspect is.’

The inspector was away for a short time. No sooner was he back than the door leading to the suite of apartments burst open, and a fairly elderly woman entered at an angle, hampered by the wide pannier of her old-fashioned dress. She was in Court mourning. She wore a jade necklace round her already emaciated neck, her face was blotchy, without rouge or ceruse, and her expression was one of barely contained indignation. A black silk fan, which she was shaking violently, accentuated the impression produced by this dramatic entrance.

‘Madame,’ said Nicolas with a little bow.

‘Monsieur, I am told that you are a commissioner at the Châtelet, and that you have been given the task of investigating the horrible death of that unfortunate creature. My God, how is it possible? What was I saying? Oh, yes, you are investigating, Monsieur. Your name is not unknown to me. Were you presented to the late Queen? Or to Mesdames?’

‘I had the good fortune to serve Madame Adélaïde, who often honoured me by inviting me to her hunts.’

‘That’s it! You’re young Ranreuil, who was so appreciated by the King. How fortunate we are, Monsieur, to be dealing with someone so well born, even though … Monsieur, you must hear me.’ She threw a fierce glance at Bourdeau. ‘Who is this gentleman?’

‘My deputy, Inspector Bourdeau. Fully the equal of myself.’

‘If you say so! Monsieur, this is all so terrible, but it was bound to happen. I had been dreading it for a long time. One cannot live like this without running the risk of such a tragedy one day.’

‘Madame, may I ask you to tell me whom I have the honour of addressing?’

‘What, Monsieur? I am the Duchesse de La Vrillière and this is my house.’