The Châtelet Apprentice (29 page)

He was struggling to speak, sighing after every word, as if he were short of breath.

‘Cutting up a horse in the dead of night? Stop fooling around, Bricart. You know very well it wasn't a carcass but a corpse.'

Bricart was picking at a brownish scab on his bald skull, making it bleed. He was shaking his head as if trying to escape from a cruel and haunting thought.

‘I'll tell you everything,' he sighed. ‘You don't look a bad sort. Rapace and I were caught stealing wood in the warehouses of the port of La Rapée. To keep us warm, of course. Winter is hard on the poor.'

‘Go on.'

‘The man who arrested us seemed to know Rapace. He offered us a deal. He asked us to do a favour for one of his friends. He knew everything about us: our names, the barn … He was the devil with a face like an angel. As he talked he had a grin on his face that scared the wits out of us. There was no way out of it. On Friday evening at around ten o'clock we were to be waiting next to the building site of the new square at the bottom
of the Tuileries, with a cart and two barrels. We were promised a good reward for a few hours' work. He even gave us an advance, in
louis d'or
!'

‘So on the Friday …?'

‘We turned up as arranged with the cart. What could we do? At ten o'clock precisely we were at the corner of the building site, on the town side. There we saw three people arrive in masks.'

‘And the man who'd arrested you, was he there?'

‘I don't know. There were three in masks with big black capes. It was Carnival.'

‘Did you notice anything in particular?'

‘There was a devil of a cold wind. One of the masks nearly fell off. The hood of the cape swelled out. I thought I saw a woman.'

‘Then what?'

‘They took us to Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré and left us there. An empty cabriolet arrived at about half past eleven. It was driven by a negro. He was the one who had to do all the work while his master was having a good time in a nearby brothel, he told us. He lay in ambush. A man also wearing a mask came out of a house. The negro jumped on him, knocked him unconscious, dragged him into the carriage and stabbed him. Then we went to the edge of the river. He cut up the body on the riverbank. Rapace helped him – he used to be a butcher. We put the pieces in the two barrels. Then he ordered us to dump everything in the knacker's yard and paid us our dues.'

‘Did you see the dead man's face?'

‘Yes, a bourgeois, of about fifty.'

‘Then what?'

‘Off we went to Montfaucon. There was a hell of a wind; it looked as if it was going to damn well snow. An awful place. Once we got to the knacker's yard we emptied the barrel and, to be frank with you, we even messed up the head a bit, like the negro wanted us to.'

‘Was he there?'

‘No, no. He'd left us by the river. He had to disappear to pretend he was the one who'd been killed.'

‘Did he say anything else?'

‘Rapace did try to find out who the dead man was. All he said was it was a married man who'd got in his master's way.'

‘Very well. What time was the meeting on the building site of Place Louis XV?'

‘Around ten o'clock, I told you. Then the man was killed at around midnight. After he'd been moved from the riverside we set off for La Courtille. Half past two was sounding on a bell tower. One hour later everything was finished.'

‘What did you do with the cart and the barrels?'

‘Your men must have found them, if they know how to look.'

‘Bricart, your version of events will be checked and you'll be faced with witnesses. I hope for your sake you've been telling the truth. Otherwise I can assure you you won't escape torture.'

The man did not reply. He was lost in thought. Now all Nicolas had before him was an old man on whom he could have taken pity, except that the horror of what he had reluctantly admitted to suggested he was capable of even worse. Nicolas picked up the lantern again and banged on the door for the gaoler to let him out. The cell was left in darkness once more.

This interrogation left Nicolas feeling frustrated. Many aspects of Bricart's account seemed odd. If the old soldier were to be believed, then Semacgus was once again the main suspect. In that case Saint-Louis, who was still alive and was acting as his master's accomplice, had run away or was hiding somewhere. Who was this angel with the look of the devil, a description that inevitably suggested Mauval? And what about those three mysterious masked figures who had ordered the murder and its macabre enactment? Was it really a woman that Bricart had seen? The timescale tallied very well with all the witness accounts. He remained puzzled, however, and wanted to be quite honest with himself. Was it possible that his friendship with Semacgus had affected his judgement and was preventing him from admitting that the navy surgeon might be guilty? What worried him about Bricart's account was that it was too polished, too perfect in its detail. Furthermore, it seemed unlikely that the motive for Lardin's murder should have been so clearly expressed, with the risk that the two
accomplices
might use it against those behind the deed to blackmail them, or to defend themselves if accused … As for Mauval, whose baleful influence was again evident, he was so well protected that nothing could be expected from him as a potential witness.

In the end Nicolas kept coming back to Semacgus. Was it possible that passion had led him to crime? Was Louise Lardin his accomplice? Or Descart? Anything was possible, and the worst thing was that everything was inextricably linked. All this uncertainty made his heart pound.

To calm himself he began to write a detailed account for Monsieur de Sartine, just in case he was not able to have access
to him the following day. In fact this exercise enabled him to marshal his ideas. Some things had still not become clear in his mind. He tried to pick up the thread of his dialogue with Bricart, remembering what had struck him in passing, what was missing from the account, and the fleeting impressions that had gone through his mind. He was just dozing off with his pen in his hand when Bourdeau appeared with that characteristic expression of his when he was the bearer of news.

‘Bourdeau, you've got something to tell me …'

‘Yes, Monsieur. We have, in the course of our search …'

‘Found a cart and two bloodstained barrels.'

Bourdeau smiled.

‘Congratulations, Monsieur. Bricart talked.'

‘Oh, don't celebrate too soon. What he told me doesn't simplify anything, it only makes our task more arduous. Any other discoveries?'

‘The place is full of items, stolen no doubt. I've searched Rapace. Apart from odds and ends I only found a broken brass watch.'

Bourdeau handed him a large handkerchief which, once untied, revealed a few sols, a small dark-wood snuffbox, a ball of string and the watch in question. Nicolas immediately launched into the account of Bricart's interrogation. Three o'clock soon struck and they decided to take some rest. Nicolas returned by cab to Rue Montmartre.

He had a short night's sleep. He was up by six o'clock. After a quick wash he went down to the pantry where a horrified Marion
helped him to change his dressings. He had time for a cup of chocolate and a freshly baked roll. The old housekeeper told him that the day before Monsieur de Noblecourt had suffered a severe attack of gout, as he had predicted. He had been forced to stay in his armchair with his foot wrapped in wadding. It was only towards morning that he had been able to lie down and have some rest. According to Marion it wasn't so much his appetite for food as the white wine which was at fault, and the thirsty prattler had drunk it in copious quantities. She knew from experience its harmful effect on her master's health.

Nicolas went on foot to Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin. He derived a childlike pleasure from leaving his footprints in the overnight snow that was still virgin and clean. On arriving at the Hôtel de Gramont he asked a manservant if the Lieutenant General of Police were available, and was shown in almost immediately. Monsieur de Sartine, who wore a morning gown, was staring at a large open wardrobe containing dozens of wigs. Nicolas knew that every morning he enjoyed admiring and handling his collection.

‘As you have disturbed me so early, Nicolas, you are, I take it, bringing me what I've been waiting for. Don't worry, I am joking. If that were the case I'd know already.'

‘No, Monsieur, but I've made progress. I'm following several leads.'

‘Several? That means you must think none of them are definite.'

‘It would be more accurate to say that we are dealing with several plots, all of them interconnected.'

He gave a brief summary of the latest developments in the investigation. The Lieutenant General listened with his back to
Nicolas, busily grooming one of his treasures with a small silver brush.

‘You're trying to pull the wool over my eyes, Monsieur. Everything is crystal clear. Semacgus is in your hands, and what's more he's the suspect in both cases. The circumstantial evidence, not to say the proof, is mounting.'

He swung round and continued his train of thought.

‘If everything is connected and if Lardin is dead it should be easy to find you-know-what.'

‘I think, Monsieur, that nothing in this investigation is simple and I doubt whether Bricart told me the whole truth.'

‘Threaten him with torture and use it if necessary.'

‘He's an old soldier …'

‘First and foremost he's a gallows bird. So none of this sensitivity for him or for Semacgus, who I know is a friend of yours. Don't forget that this involves the King and the State. Leave the sentimentality to our philosopher friends. The very things they criticise in their own country are commonplace in the states of the foreign princes they praise to the skies and expect pensions from. By the way, Bourdeau spoke to me about your accounts. I've ordered my officials to allocate you more funds. Don't economise. The stakes are high. You don't have much time left but you seem to be making progress. Thank Bourdeau on my behalf for having kept you with us.'

Nicolas went back to the Châtelet, his head full of Monsieur de Sartine's words. Should he subject Bricart to torture? The decision was his and it tormented him constantly. He had already been present at some sessions – like other things it had
formed part of his apprenticeship at the Châtelet – and he knew that very few of its victims could endure it and all too often it led to false confessions. He remembered having had a long
discussion
with Semacgus on this subject. The surgeon considered that excessive pain destroyed the ability to reason in those who suffered it, and that torture, which was inhumane in itself, should be abolished like all abuses inflicted by man on his fellow creatures. Nicolas had not been able to find convincing
arguments
to counter these observations that further undermined his already shaky belief in the practice. The worst thing was to imagine Bricart tortured, his body swollen by water he had been forced to swallow, or his only good leg imprisoned between wooden planks. They would not even be able to drive the wedges in. Nicolas was quite prepared to accept that the old soldier was a criminal, but he still imagined him as a raw recruit, torn from the bosom of his family. Today he was merely an old man who might be experiencing remorse, but Nicolas could see the desperate adolescent that the royal militia had cast into the horrors of war.

With this thought he arrived at the Châtelet where he found Bourdeau putting the finishing touches to his report on the events of the previous night. When he looked up at Nicolas, the young man was struck by the unusual gravity of his expression.

‘Monsieur, I have some bad news for you. Bricart hanged himself during the night in his cell. The gaoler discovered the body this morning when he was doing his rounds.'

Nicolas remained speechless for a moment.

‘What did he hang himself with?' he stammered at last. ‘He'd been searched when he was admitted …'

‘A leather strap.'

Bourdeau turned away to avoid the look of horror on Nicolas's face. The young man pictured himself again untying the prisoner's hands. At the end of the interrogation he had forgotten the long leather strap that had fallen to the floor. The narrow beam of light from his lantern had prevented him from seeing it.

Bourdeau handed him his report along with the tied handkerchief containing the items found on Rapace. He slipped it all into his coat pocket mechanically.

I
N
the cell nothing had been touched. They gazed at Bricart's body, hanging at the end of its rope like a dangling puppet. The strap, which had been slung around a bar, had been tied with a slipknot. The prisoner had hoisted himself on to the plank-bed, then flung himself backwards with the help of his wooden leg, which remained jammed at right angles to the wall. This accidental arrangement added a grotesque touch, as if the old soldier had been in the process of climbing up the wall. Bourdeau shook his head and put his hand on Nicolas's shoulder.

‘This is one of those misadventures that are common in the job. Don't fret about it and don't blame yourself for this mistake.'

‘A mistake is just what it is, though.'

‘That's not the word I meant to use. Let's call it fate. Destiny offered him a way out. There was no dignified solution for him because he was bound to be tortured and sent to the gallows. As for the rest, let me tell you as a friend that a
proper interrogation should never be conducted by one person alone. Haste is a bad counsellor. Another person can see what's been forgotten. You simply thought you were doing the right thing at the time. And, another thing, remember that a man who wants to die will always find a way. In this case it was that wretched strap that served the purpose.'

‘Bourdeau, are we certain at least that it was suicide? Someone might have wanted to stop him talking.'

‘I did wonder about it. However, I've seen a lot of people who have hanged themselves because I've been involved in dozens of cases of suicide. Without being an expert like our friend Sanson, I do know something about the subject. And it is, I must admit, a tricky one. There's been a great deal of scholarly discussion about how to decide whether someone found hanged committed suicide or was murdered.'

‘So what are your conclusions?'

Bourdeau went up to the body and turned it round. The wooden leg fell back down. The body seemed both fatter and shorter.

‘Look carefully, Monsieur. The face is bloated and purplish, the lips twisted, the eyes protruding and the tongue seems swollen and clenched between the teeth. The position of the strap has left a mark on the neck, with bruises under the throat. Lastly, the fingers are bluish and tensed, as if the hand was continuing to clutch something. These details are conclusive. There is no doubt that this was suicide.'

‘You're right, Bourdeau,' Nicolas sighed.

The situation had to be accepted. Thanks to the understanding way in which the inspector had couched his criticism in the form of advice, Nicolas felt less remorseful.

‘Anyway,' said Bourdeau, ‘if he hadn't killed himself this way, he would have found another. He had the means.'

He pointed to the bottle of brandy and the cup that had rolled onto the floor.

‘I've learnt my lesson,' said Nicolas, ‘and I'm more determined than ever to see this through.'

He felt the anger rising within him at this waste of a life that had been shattered twice, but was now destroyed for ever. He vowed to find those responsible for pushing Bricart to the brink. A cold determination now overcame his sense of bewilderment.

‘This death, as well as Rapace's, must remain a secret,' Nicolas decreed. ‘In the latter case I'm afraid it might already be too late; the real culprits are spying on us. It's essential for them still to believe that Bricart is alive: they'll feel threatened by his evidence or his confessions. We must go on the offensive and take them by surprise.'

‘How do you intend to proceed?' asked Bourdeau.

‘Let's take stock. We have two definite murders. The first may be Lardin's; the second is Descart's. We have one person who is missing, dead or has run away: Saint-Louis. We have two women. The first is Louise Lardin, married to one of the missing men, and brazenly just pretending to mourn him. She is also the mistress of one of the dead men, Descart, and of two of the suspects, Semacgus and Mauval. The second, Marie, has been sent away or is missing, and it's difficult to know whether she should be classified as a suspect or a victim. Notice that Louise Lardin seems at once to be involved with everything and sure of being beyond the reach of the law. As for Semacgus, his name crops up with disturbing regularity.'

Nicolas was beginning to have his doubts about the surgeon.
He thought back to the initial lies, which discredited everything that had followed, and the repeated protestations of sincerity. Semacgus did not have a solid alibi for either the first or the second murder. He could also be a suspect in Saint-Louis's disappearance since, if he were dead, his master had been the last person to see him. In addition Descart had clearly accused him of his coachman's murder. Nicolas felt he had to free himself from Semacgus's hold over him. The man was all the more elusive because he lived alone and no one knew anything about him.

The last but by no means least of Nicolas's concerns was to get his hands on the King's papers. This was what he would be judged and assessed on. It would be just about acceptable to abandon to their fate some obscure individuals whose presumed guilt could not be proven. The failure to find letters that compromised those in power would never be forgiven. Sartine had made this quite clear to him.

‘If I follow you correctly,' said Bourdeau, ‘Rue des
Blancs-Manteaux
requires our close attention.'

‘You understand me perfectly. That is where we must concentrate our efforts. On Madame Lardin and then Semacgus. Don't forget those strange reports from our informers positioned around the commissioner's residence, all those unexplained comings and goings. But for us to be effective we need to act quickly. The element of surprise will have the greatest impact and will combine the advantage of the well-laid trap with the thoroughness of a proper search.'

Nicolas had Bricart's body taken to the back of the vault in the Basse-Geôle. It was the third body to be deposited there in a
week. What exactly was the connection between the remains found in Montfaucon, Descart's body and that of an old soldier who'd lost his way in life? Once he had worked that out, the mystery would almost be solved. Bourdeau had gathered his men together. Several officers and guards would accompany them. Three cabs set off noisily from beneath the porch of the Châtelet. They had to make their way through congested streets and crowds of people had to move out of the way as the convoy approached.

They closed off Rue des Blancs-Manteaux and men were sent round to the back to prevent anyone escaping through the garden. Accompanied by two officers, Nicolas and Bourdeau went up to the door and knocked loudly. There was a long wait before Louise Lardin appeared wearing a morning gown, with her hair undone. She looked as if she had only just got out of bed. There was a sharp exchange of words between her and Nicolas, but when he informed her of the official nature of the search she seemed to calm down. Bourdeau whispered to Nicolas that she was using delaying tactics. She was presumably attempting to give someone else time to escape. And yet the latest report by one of the spies had said that she was alone in the house.

After requesting her to stay in the dining room under guard, he asked Bourdeau to go up with him to the first-floor bedrooms. Louise's room was a complete mess. The bedclothes were rumpled and the pillows still showed where two heads had rested on them. Bourdeau put his hand under the cover; the bed was still warm on both sides. Madame Lardin had not been alone when they entered the house.

An officer was sent to search the house from top to bottom, beginning with the attic. He came back empty-handed. Nicolas
systematically emptied the chests of drawers and the wardrobes. He seized a cape and a black silk mask, as well as some shoes, and put them all into a sheet, which he tied up and sealed. Amongst the commissioner's belongings he could find no sign of the leather doublet or the other cape. Marie Lardin's bedroom did not look any different. However, there was one surprise in store for him: on opening the wardrobe whose contents had puzzled him on his last search, he discovered it was almost empty. Dresses, skirts, mantles and shoes had disappeared. Had Marie returned? Or else … He vowed to question Louise about this. In one final inspection he discovered the young woman's missal at the bottom of a drawer in a small marquetry table. He had often noticed this little book with its blue velvet binding, which she took with her to Mass. Why had she left it behind? She was very attached to it because it came from her mother. Intrigued and moved, Nicolas began to leaf through the little book. A note fell from it, identical to the commissioner's mysterious messages. This one said:

So Lardin had put a third message in a place where he was sure his daughter would find it one day. Had that been the case? Marie only used her Book of Hours when she went to Mass, at least that was what Nicolas assumed. Bourdeau had not noticed the discovery; he put it away in his pocket. He would need to compare this message with the other two in his possession. He was fervently hoping that the reference to the King might relate to the letters that he had been given the task of finding.

Next Nicolas took Bourdeau up to what used to be his private domain on the second floor. He felt a little nostalgic on seeing it again, but he found nothing suspicious there. They went back to the ground floor for a careful examination of the library. Inside a copy of the poems of Horace they found an invoice from a craftsman, a cabinetmaker, for some work that had been paid for on 15 January 1761. The recent date intrigued Nicolas and he took the document. Had it been deliberately hidden in this book, or was it simply used as a bookmark? It would be no trouble to check what this invoice related to. He kept quiet about this clue, too.

They joined Louise Lardin in the dining room. She was sitting bolt upright on the edge of a chair.

‘Madame, I won't bother to ask if you were alone. We know you weren't. The area is under surveillance. Your visitor won't get far.'

‘You are very offensive and presumptuous, Nicolas,' she replied.

‘That is irrelevant, Madame. I would be grateful if you would tell me what has happened to the clothes belonging to your stepdaughter, Mademoiselle Marie. I would advise you to reply without protest, otherwise you will be made to do so forcibly in the Conciergerie.'
1

‘So I'm a suspect, am I?'

‘Answer my question.'

‘I gave away my stepdaughter's old clothes to the poor. She has decided to enter a nunnery.'

‘I hope for your sake that this point can be confirmed. Now, Inspector, we're going to search the kitchen.'

Louise was about to react but quickly restrained herself.

‘You won't find anything there.'

‘Bourdeau, give the lady your arm. She will act as our guide.'

The kitchen was freezing cold. Nicolas would have bet that the stove had not been lit for several days. Bourdeau began to sniff with a disgusted look on his face.

‘What a stench!' he exclaimed.

‘What!' said Nicolas ironically, ‘Don't you find this aroma pleasant? Ask Madame Lardin, then, the reason for this filthy smell. She'll tell you, I think, that she's very keen on game that's been well hung.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘There's some big game down below, in the cellar, just rotting away. How do you explain that, Madame?'

For the first time since they had arrived, Louise betrayed some signs of anxiety. She leant against the sideboard.

‘I got rid of my cook,' she replied, ‘and I still haven't found anyone to replace her. You, Monsieur, are in a good position to know how skilled she was at her job. I do not stoop to menial tasks around the house. I leave that to the skivvies. As soon as I find someone, everything will be cleaned up.'

‘And does the smell not bother you?' Bourdeau asked.

Louise ignored the question and made as if to go out.

‘Don't leave us, Madame,' ordered Nicolas. ‘Officer, keep an eye on this woman. We're going down to the cellar.'

Nicolas poured some vinegar from a china container. He moistened his handkerchief and suggested Bourdeau do the same. The inspector refused and waved his pipe, which he quickly stuffed and lit.

‘I think we're ready. Let's take this candlestick.'

As soon as they were downstairs and despite their
precautions, the smell became unbearable. The boar was in a state of putrefaction. Strips of flesh had fallen onto the ground and were smothered in a slowly moving layer, a wriggling mass of crawling creatures. Nicolas stopped Bourdeau as he was about to move on. He took off his boots, crouched down and with the light from the candle examined the floor. His search led him to a wooden frame with bottles arranged along its shelves. He grasped something and showed it to Bourdeau. It was the squashed stub of a church candle. He stood up again, put his boots back on, called Bourdeau to help and began to clear the bottles off the shelves. Leaning against the wooden structure, Bourdeau suddenly saw it slide along beside the wall to reveal an old door.

‘What would I do without you?' Nicolas said. ‘You're like Alexander the Great. While the rest of us are struggling in vain, you cut the Gordian knot.'

‘I didn't do it deliberately,' the inspector replied, ‘but I have a feeling this door has a lot to tell us. You are the one who deserves the credit, Monsieur. All I did was to follow you. You give a very good imitation of a bloodhound on the scent. You really know how to sniff things out.'

‘At this very moment I wish I couldn't sniff at all,' Nicolas said, putting his handkerchief to his face again.