The Saint-Florentin Murders (17 page)

‘What’s going on?’ asked Nicolas.

‘Oh, Monsieur Nicolas,’ moaned Marion, ‘our master was taken ill when he came back from Saint-Eustache. As you know, he’s a churchwarden of his parish. This evening there was a
meeting of the council. He came back completely red in the face, with the veins sticking out on his forehead! He collapsed in the doorway.’

‘I went to fetch the doctor,’ said Poitevin, ‘the same one who tended Monsieur when he was attacked.
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God be praised, Dr Dienert was at home in Rue Montorgueil, and came running immediately. At first, he suspected an apoplexy. We laid Monsieur down – he had already regained consciousness. We made him take some drops of
alcali fluor
diluted in water, as well as a decoction of tamarind, and we also made him tighten his garters to slow down the rush of blood to his head. He’s much better now. He asked us not to bother you with his condition, he says he’ll receive you with Monsieur Bourdeau as soon as you’ve finished eating. That’s bound to cheer him up.’

Despite this advice, Nicolas was already rushing upstairs. Catherine stopped him with an emphatic look.

‘Don’t move, he’d only think he’s worse than he is. He’s quite all right. I should know. He’s just too edgy. Something got on his nerves. Bourdeau was there, he’ll tell you.’

Nicolas sighed, telling himself that Catherine, a former canteen-keeper in the King’s armies and something of a witch, possessed the skill and the means to treat many illnesses, and that he himself had often benefited from her care.

‘I gave him some liquid to counter it, the kind that you know,’ she whispered in his ear.

He went upstairs to change after this day of constant errands, following Mouchette up the concealed staircase that led to his quarters. As usual, she kept putting her head between the bars and giving provocative little cries as she slouched up the steps. Every
time he made a move to grab hold of her, she leapt out of his reach. Feeling fresher, he went back to the servants’ pantry and discovered an unusual spectacle.

Bourdeau was hopping on the spot and moaning as he placed some steaming puffed-up rolls, which gave off an appetising odour, on the large table in the pantry. Once he had divested himself of his burden, he blew on his burning fingers and rubbed them on the vast apron that enveloped his paunch. Meanwhile, Catherine was bustling at the stove. Nicolas’s nose quivered: the aroma of roast poultry reminded him how hungry he was.

‘Oh, oh!’ moaned the inspector. ‘It’s hotter than hot.’

‘Your little creatures seem done,’ said Catherine. ‘I’ll take out the pot.’

‘Please don’t lift the lid – the taste would escape with the steam. You should leave them to cool in their own juice.’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ cried Nicolas. ‘What feast is being prepared here? Is this some gluttonous annexe of Ramponneau’s?
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Have we been transported to Gargantua’s pantry or to his “painted cellar” of Chinon?’

‘He doesn’t know how right he is!’ cried Bourdeau, delighted.

Marion put a finger to her lips. ‘My God, how noisy you all are. You’re going to wake Monsieur.’

‘A cousin of mine from Chinon is visiting my house,’ explained the inspector. ‘As a feast was expected and I didn’t want to take Marion and Catherine by surprise, I plundered Madame Bourdeau’s preparations and brought what we needed. Catherine lent me a hand baking the
pâtons
.’

‘The
pâtons
?’

‘Yes, here they are, all hot. Where I come from, they’re called
fouées
.’

Bourdeau brought out a vast wicker basket from under the table. From it, he extracted an earthenware pot covered with an oiled paper tied with straw, and three bottles of wine.

‘
A fouée
,’ he went on, ‘is like bread but much better. Ground flour, leaven, salt and water. Knead it well then let it rest. After that, you just have to shape the
pâtons
by hand, then into the oven with them. They pretend to ignore the heat, they move, shake, rise, swell, form bubbles, climb, collapse, rise again, relax, and finally turn golden brown, and you take them out and burn your fingers. That’s the whole story!’

He grabbed one of these little treats, cut it with a knife, and opened the earthenware pot to reveal an immaculately white layer of fat. This he removed, then took out some crushed
rillettes
with which he stuffed the roll. Nicolas’s mouth was watering at the mere sight of this operation. He only took a mouthful: it melted in the mouth, so well did the whole thing combine the crusty and the soft. The heat loosened the meat, which in turn moistened the bread with its juices.

‘The secret of good
rillettes
,’ said Bourdeau with his eyes lowered, ‘lies in matching the pieces of pork used. These are of my own invention. I put in shoulder, loin, tenderloin, and belly, and add plenty of salt, pepper, herbs and spices. Plus my secret, which I shall reveal to you: a spoonful of honey and a splash of white wine! Add water until everything is covered and leave for six hours. When the whole thing has cooled down, I knead it and mix the meat and the fat.’

‘You’re a saint, my dear Pierre …’

Bourdeau continued stuffing the
pâtons
.

‘And still the
fouées
keep coming!’

‘Indeed,’ a sepulchral voice suddenly proclaimed, ‘it’s not a fairy tale but a
fouée
tale!’

Monsieur de Noblecourt had appeared, draped in an indoor robe of wine-coloured calico, his head wrapped in a knotted madras.

Everyone laughed and cried out. A chair was brought forward and the newcomer dropped majestically onto it. Marion began complaining loudly about his foolhardiness, but Catherine, delighted by the turn that the evening had taken, calmed the old nurse.

‘I’m starving,’ said Noblecourt. ‘My bedroom was gradually filling with sweet aromas that tickled my nose. Cyrus’s nose, too, I think!’

The dog, who was lying under the armchair, barked happily at his master’s voice. Bourdeau and Nicolas sat down in their turn. More
fouées
were prepared, which the magistrate gobbled up. He demanded wine.

‘Where is this nectar from?’

‘From a small, well-exposed vineyard, covered with flint gravel. Small peach trees grow between the vines. Their fruit with its pink and white flesh bursts with a thick, delicious juice …’

‘Talking about fruit,’ continued Noblecourt, ‘no prunes and sage tea for me tonight. I’m eating and drinking. Does that good Dr Dienert think I don’t know he suspected apoplexy? Why should I be living on light and not very nourishing food, and depriving myself of strong liquor, spicy and tasty food? From now on, I am going to stuff my face, and seek out violent passions, excessive heat and excessive cold!’

He looked around provocatively at his audience.

Catherine clapped her hands. ‘Where there is appetite, there is no danger!’

‘In truth,’ said the procurator, ‘the joy of finding myself surrounded by my friends tempers my irritation.’

‘Tell us what happened,’ said Nicolas. ‘Nothing is likelier to calm the temperament and dispel an anxiety than to talk about it freely.’

‘How right you are. You all know that I am a churchwarden of my parish, Saint-Eustache, and that I’m the oldest on the council. At six o’clock, I was there, dealing with council matters, when a man named Bouin suddenly appeared and demanded to be heard immediately. He was kicking up such a fuss that in the end we agreed to see him. All puffed up with arrogance, he introduced himself as a former timpanist of the company of the King’s gendarmes.’

‘There’s that one,’ said Nicolas, ‘plus four companies of bodyguards: Charost, Noailles, Villeroi and d’Harcourt.’

‘He continued in a shrill tone and told us quite bluntly that the King having granted, through the edict of 1756, the right of commensality to the timpanist of his gendarmes, after twenty years of service, of which this Bouin fellow felt justly proud, he should therefore enjoy the honours, prerogatives, privileges, franchises, freedoms, pledges, rights, fruits, profits, revenues and emoluments befitting his status. He peppered his speech with words which aroused the ire of the assembly, words so brazen I prefer to pass over them in silence.’

‘Today’s a day for petty quibbling,’ sighed Nicolas.

‘And toads who want to inflate themselves,’ replied Noblecourt,
his hearing as sharp as ever. ‘Without getting off his high horse, and without drawing breath, he commanded us, the company of wardens of Saint-Eustache church, to make sure that he enjoyed full honours, was given precedence in assemblies immediately after the King’s magistrates, and had the privilege of being brought in by the above-mentioned churchwardens … by us, would you believe it …’

He was choking with anger, and beating his chest with his clenched fists, startling Mouchette, who called him to order with a determined blow of her paw, her final warning before she retaliated by scratching him.

‘Calm down, my darling, I’m not angry with you! Being brought in, as I was saying, by the churchwardens and presented with the consecrated bread immediately after the choir and the nobility, and before everyone else. Not content with this demand, he added the obligations of his rank in parish assemblies and processions, citing in support of this claim a royal decree of 1686. In short, I thought I was hearing again the bitter recriminations of my friend the Duc de Saint-Simon, fulminating against the disputes over precedence at the Court of the great King. But he was an eagle!’

He emptied his glass in large gulps and peered into the pot, which was still emitting little hissing noises.

‘How could such an insignificant individual ever imagine that all this was possible? Did he really intend to appear with the characteristic insignia of his former state? Why not with his timpani? Does the scoundrel not know that the consecrated bread is always distributed indiscriminately, without any fuss, depending simply on the place occupied by each person in the church? Did
Our Lord, when he distributed the bread, establish a list of privileged people? Did he not say, “The first shall be last”? What nonsense to maintain, as this Bouin does, that in such an assembly, such a great throng of people, one should oblige each person to state his name and status, and assign him a chair to sit on, somehow describing oblique and circumflex lines, offering each parishioner a particular oblation according to his claims, while trying not to humiliate some nor arouse the jealousy of others.’
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‘Who on earth put such an idea in his head?’ asked Bourdeau.

‘Do you need to ask? An outstanding casuist in the
parlement
: Président de Saujac, to name but one. Just when we needed it, his proverbial bad faith has blossomed into a cause without rhyme or reason. Although he versifies pleasantly enough, so I’ve been told. But he’s taking poor Bouin for a ride, because for him the prose verdicts of that herald are gospel truth!’

‘And, just like a young man, you’re falling into the trap of this provocation! Your blood has been stirred and there’s sweat on your brow!’

‘That’s how I’ve managed to stay so young,’ said Noblecourt with majestic pomposity. ‘Everyone thinks so, and you yourself just confirmed it.’

A new burst of laughter punctuated his words.

‘But,’ he continued, stirring in his armchair, ‘isn’t there something else to get my teeth into? This moaning, steaming pot is afraid, I think, of being neglected.’

‘Oh,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that’s my masterpiece. You will consider it as such after you’ve tasted it. Here are a couple of hens from my province. My cousins raised them lovingly. Last night, Madame Bourdeau poached them in a thick, well-conditioned poultry
stock. Today, I braised them in the oven in a good-sized pot with the lid firmly closed. This method has the double advantage of not drying out the meat while at the same time giving it a crispy skin.’

‘And I,’ said Catherine, ‘in order not to leave these poor beasts alone, have made some noodles from
my
province, some
spaetzle
gently fried in butter, with a touch of Muscat.’

Bourdeau took out the fowl with a delicacy unusual in this big, fiery man. He carved them with a silver knife handed to him by Poitevin. With each incision of the blade, little jets of juice and grease spurted out, like so many fragrant fountains. The three guests threw themselves on their plates. A great appreciative silence fell over the room, broken only by the snapping of bones, Cyrus’s moans and Mouchette’s imploring cries: both animals were trembling with envy and demanding their share of the feast.

‘See how reasonable I am,’ said Noblecourt, who had contented himself with a wing. ‘I shall be the first to speak. Let us give thanks to Bourdeau for this delight. Assure your wife of our ravenous gratitude. I am your humble servant. That said, my children, where are we with our investigation?’

Bourdeau smote his head. ‘I should have told you, Nicolas …’

‘Is there some news? You’re forgiven in advance. The hens plead in your favour.’

But Bourdeau’s expression was sufficient indication that the joking was over.

‘This morning in Rue Glatigny, at the bottom of the steps leading to the river, at the corner of the priory of Saint-Denis-
de-la
-Chartre, the watch discovered the body of a young girl.’

‘Alas,’ said Nicolas. ‘Every day …’

‘Except that this one had had her throat cut. I saw her in the Basse-Geôle. Exactly the same wound as the Pindron girl! A curious funnel shape and a great loss of blood …’ 

Everything had frozen in the room, where, a moment earlier, the greatest merriment had reigned. It was Nicolas who broke the silence.

‘Many crimes are committed in this city,’ he said in an unsteady voice. ‘It could always be a coincidence.’

‘Highly unlikely. I went to the Basse-Geôle, where the body had, of course, been taken. I was able to proceed with the usual observations and Sanson, back from a session using the boot, was quite happy to help me. After much reflection, he went out and came back soon afterwards with a quarter-pound of plaster. He quickly prepared a paste and turned his attention to the body from the Saint-Florentin mansion.’

Marion gave a cry of horror.

‘Catherine,’ said Noblecourt, ‘I think it’s time for Marion to rest. She’s been exerting herself far too much today … These evenings aren’t good for her at her age; they’re only for young men like me. Go, and may the night be kind to you.’

‘The things I’ve seen on the field of battle without whining,’
muttered Catherine, who was dying to hear the rest of Bourdeau’s story.

But she obeyed and led Marion to her quarters. She was soon back.

‘Why was Sanson so interested in the body of Marguerite Pindron?’ asked Nicolas. ‘What did he want with it?’

‘With his plaster, he took a cast of the wound to the neck. The way they do with death masks.’

‘Aren’t they usually cast in yellow wax?’

‘You’re both right,’ Noblecourt said, smiling wickedly. ‘Before they bought themselves into the nobility of the robe, my ancestors were master wax moulders …’

There was a general cry of surprise.

‘Now I understand why you’re so interested in those theatres of corruption in your cabinet of curiosities,’
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said Nicolas.

‘An ancestor of mine helped to take the death mask of King Henry II in 1559, after he was mortally wounded by Montgomery’s spear. It made a big impression on him, as the mask, cast only a few moments after death, cruelly revealed all the suffering that had preceded it. To go back to what I was saying, to make this kind of mask, you need to use thick strips of cloth, which surround and pull together the oval of the face, from the skull to the chin. You pour in the plaster paste, which, once solidified, gives a cast of the features, from which you can make a copy in wax.’

‘What do they do with these masks?’

‘Are you unaware, gentlemen, that the bodies of our kings are put on display except for the last one because of the risk of contagion from smallpox? Actually, they’re just models wearing wax masks and the royal insignia, and the people troop past them to
pay tribute. The impressions are preserved at Saint-Denis, where you can admire the collection.
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But we’re getting off the point.’

‘There’s always something to learn, Monsieur, from your wide experience.’

Noblecourt nodded, at the same time grabbing from the plate which Catherine had placed on the table a few quince pastries freshly removed from their moulds and put onto small lozenges of unleavened bread.

‘It’s a good thing Marion isn’t here!’ muttered Catherine.

‘Let’s get back to our corpses,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Sanson took the impression he’d made from Marguerite’s body, and placed it on the wound of the unknown girl from Rue Glatigny. There was no room for doubt. Remember, Nicolas, that horrible funnel? The impression matched it almost exactly, with identical tears and compressions of the skin, looking for all the world like a shapeless hand.’

‘Anything else?’ asked Nicolas.

‘Yes. The victim bears a strong resemblance to Marguerite Pindron. I mean, she’s the same type of young woman, even though the two may differ in certain details.’

‘An interesting comment. Do we have any idea of the time of death? It’s vital to determine that. We already have many suspects for the murder in the Saint-Florentin mansion. Now we have another murder using the same method, with the added curiosity that the victims resemble one another. We need to find out if any of the possible suspects for the first crime could also have been the perpetrator of the second. If we know when death occurred, we can then check each of the suspects’ whereabouts at the time.’

‘It’ll be no easy matter, Nicolas,’ replied Bourdeau. ‘The body
is in very poor condition. It’s not so much that it’s been submerged in water at times, but rather that dogs, rats and crows have been at work on it. All things considered, Sanson estimates that death could not have occurred more than twenty-four hours earlier. We examined the corpse at one o’clock this afternoon.’

‘Could it have been thrown in the river and then washed up?’ asked Noblecourt.

‘I don’t think so. I went to the place. There are traces in the mud, tracks rather, suggesting that the body had been brought from the Cité, and before that from town. That bank of the island, opposite Quai Pelletier, is almost deserted at night.’

‘All right,’ said Nicolas. ‘But nothing that would tell us more? Footprints, the marks of shoes?’

‘Yes, lots, because people had started to gather before the watch arrived. I had a good look around. The mud is thick, and the backwash from passing boats and barges doesn’t help. However …’ He searched in his coat skirts. ‘I did find this on the steps leading down to the river.’

He handed Nicolas a small stone that shimmered in the candlelight. The commissioner lifted it to his face.

‘The button from a garment. It could be a gemstone, or—’

‘An imitation gemstone,’ Bourdeau hastened to say. ‘I had it checked by a jeweller. Nothing but coloured glass.’

‘It may have nothing to do with our case.’

‘That’s possible. We’ll see.’

Nicolas slipped the button into his pocket.

‘In the meantime,’ resumed Bourdeau, ‘I investigated a little more. There wasn’t a body on the steps by the river between eleven o’clock on Monday night and about six o’clock this
Tuesday morning, when it was discovered. As the murder was not committed on the spot—’

‘How do you know that?’

‘By the fact that there’s hardly any blood around. That gives us, let’s see … one in the afternoon, take away twenty-four hours … Yes, a period on Monday between two in the afternoon and eleven o’clock in the evening, when there was still nothing on the bank.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘A man who lives in the area and walks his dog there every evening. Someone above suspicion, I checked.’

‘And the victim?’

‘Not many clues. A handkerchief, a key, a comb made of bone. A girl of lower class. However, I did find twenty-five
livres
and six sous in her pocket.’

‘Good Lord, that’s quite a lot for a girl of lower class. Was she wearing shoes?’

‘No, we looked. Of course, so many people had been hanging around the corpse that they may well have been stolen.’

‘Who found the body?’

‘The old gardener from the priory of Saint-Denis-de-
la-Chartre
. He’d gone there to fetch water.’

‘Doesn’t the garden have a well?’

‘It recently caved in.’

‘Was the victim pretty?’

‘Judging by what remained of her face, probably.’

‘A prostitute?’

‘The victim was dressed modestly but smartly.’

‘Put your spies on the case,’ ordered Nicolas. ‘Speak to
Tirepot. He’s getting older, and doesn’t get around as much as he used to, but his network of informers is still unequalled. I need everything on this girl, and fast. For the rest, my dear Pierre, I rely on your discernment. I’ll leave you the chore of checking our suspects’ alibis for the time period you’ve mentioned. For my part, I have to go to Versailles tomorrow.’

‘Are you seeing His Majesty?’ asked Noblecourt.

‘The King if I can, the Queen if I must, and two gardeners. I’ll also pay my respects to Monsieur de Maurepas.’

‘All the powers of the day united,’ Bourdeau said, gently sardonic. ‘You’re young Court now!’

‘Don’t mock,’ said Noblecourt. ‘It’s wise to conduct oneself well. Remember me to Monsieur de Maurepas. I knew him when I was young. In the thirties, he and I, along with the Chevalier d’Orléans, the legitimate son of the Regent and the Comtesse d’Argentan, d’Argenson, the minister of war and Caylus, would go, disguised in frock coats and round hats, to watch the parades at the Saint-Germain fair …’

He poured himself a full glass of wine and swallowed it in one go. ‘Especially,’ he went on, dreamily, ‘when the strolling players took scenes from plays and parodied them. They were hilarious, with their bawdy ways and their strange pronunciation. God, how we laughed. With our mouths wide open and our breeches unbuttoned …’

But Nicolas was in a hurry to get back to the new case. ‘Anything else, Pierre?’

‘I thought I’d draw up a detailed chart of the activities of the various suspects on the night of the murder.’ He moved his apron away from his coat skirts and took out a bulky document, the
sheets of which were tied together by pieces of sealing wax. Seeing this, Nicolas stood up and, taking Bourdeau in his arms, kissed him on both cheeks, much to the amazement of the company. The inspector blushed with pleasure at this rare and unexpected demonstration of esteem from his chief.

‘I tell you this,’ proclaimed Nicolas, ‘when it comes to
rillettes
, hens and investigations, he’s irreplaceable. Now he even anticipates what I’m about to ask him to do!’

‘Fourteen years of working together will do that,’ said Noblecourt, clearly moved.

‘Here in the first column,’ resumed Bourdeau, ‘you will find the names of the victim and the witnesses, including’ – he lowered his voice – ‘the Duc and Duchesse de La Vrillière.’

‘Good for you,’ remarked Nicolas. ‘I have it on good authority that the duc was not at Versailles on Sunday evening as he claimed. And that he spent the night in Paris.’

‘With the Beautiful Aglaé?’

‘That would be surprising, given that she’s in exile.’

Bourdeau nodded with a knowing air. ‘The second column indicates the whereabouts of each person from ten o’clock to midnight on Sunday evening. The third shows their various activities the following morning. The fourth has each person’s observations, the fifth my own observations, the sixth the clues found at the scene of the crime, the seventh the various opinions of the victim, and the eighth and last column the doctor’s diagnosis of Jean Missery and his wound.’

Nicolas spent a while looking through the document. ‘This is a very striking picture you paint. What are the first conclusions you draw from it?’

‘Nothing really fits, neither the times, nor the testimonies. How to distinguish in all this what is the truth and what is a careful concealment of the truth? It all seems to me like one big conjuring trick.’

‘I’d say the same,’ said Nicolas, ‘about the major-domo’s sister-in-law, the nun. It’s impossible to believe a word she says. She appears to tell the truth the better to lie, spends the night away from her convent but conceals the fact, and, note this, had a long conversation this very morning with the Duchesse de La Vrillière. What does it all add up to?’

‘Is she a Carmelite?’ asked Noblecourt.

‘No, a Daughter of Saint Michel, a Eudist. Why do you ask?’

‘The great King said one day to Monsieur, his brother, that he was well aware that the Carmelites might be deceivers, intriguers and weavers of yarns, but that he did not think they were poisoners. Admittedly, they had almost killed his niece with one of their medicines!’

Nicolas then recounted his day and his discoveries at Popincourt.

‘Heaven,’ said Noblecourt, ‘has chosen you to untangle the most complex but also the most dangerous cases. Listen to a man who, although a recluse, lives with men …’

‘And may on occasion be imbued with their prejudices, as Rousseau says,’ Bourdeau cut in.

For the second time that evening, the inspector went red in the face as his two friends turned their appreciative gaze to him.

‘So you read and esteem Jean-Jacques?’ exclaimed Noblecourt.

‘I admit I am quite infatuated with his work. Believe me, his ideas will change our world. There is a fervour in him, the fervour of the citizen. “The great man becomes small, the rich
man becomes poor, and the monarch becomes a subject. We are approaching a state of crisis and a century of revolutions.”’
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‘That may be so,’ said Noblecourt. ‘Our philosopher Bourdeau should, however, beware for, if the passionate man reasons badly and contrary to the laws of logic, the fool finds reason in the same source, for his passion is cold. My children, I am grateful to you for this evening, but I am feeling sleepy now.’

He stood up and walked to the staircase, escorted by Cyrus and Mouchette. On the top step, he turned.

‘In this case of yours, remember that you have to look for the least likely solution, even if it seems to you highly unusual. Goodnight, gentlemen, goodnight …’

As soon as the familiar figure had disappeared, Bourdeau turned to Nicolas with a touch of anxiety in his voice. ‘Didn’t he strike you as strange this evening? That parting shot … the things he was saying …’

‘Don’t look so worried,’ replied Nicolas with a laugh. ‘You don’t know him as well as I do. He has a surprising ability, of which I have often been the fortunate beneficiary, of seeing through to the kernel of a case even before we have all the facts. He cannot even explain it himself. It manifests itself, as it did a moment ago, in sententious phrases whose primary meaning escapes us, but which always conceal a truth that has somehow been revealed to him. In addition, thanks to your Chinon wine, he drank more than usual this evening. That’s why he was so cheerful and so talkative.’

They conversed a little more, constructing hypotheses each of which fell short because of some detail they had neglected. No sooner were they formulated than they collapsed like so many
houses of cards. Beside the stove, on a straw chair that looked more like a prie-dieu than any other piece of furniture, Catherine sat darning, her head drooping from time to time with tiredness. Old pains were reawakened, memories of long bivouacs in the icy rain on the battlefields of Europe. Her hearing, however, was still sharp, and, without appearing to, she was listening out to make sure that the stock she had prepared for next day’s meals from three meats and some roots was boiling away nicely. Bourdeau took his leave, and Nicolas walked with him along Rue Montmartre. He was laden not only with the basket containing the pot and the bottles, but also with a lantern. The commissioner had insisted in spite of Bourdeau’s refusals: at this hour, the spaces between the street lamps were wide enough to attract prowlers who were only held at bay by the watch and by a light, however feeble.