The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘In the bakehouse, I assume.’

  This, of course, suggested that he was not in the house.

  ‘No, Madame, he’s not there yet.’

  ‘What am I to make of all this, Monsieur?’ she burst out. ‘You force my door at the crack of dawn, you have me woken up, you torture me with questions which I find absurd and pointless. What does it all mean? I demand that you explain yourself at once. How dare you treat people so intolerably? Who do you think you are? What have I, a poor woman, done to deserve such abuse? Stop bothering me and go, or else explain!’

  He had been expecting an outburst like this for some time. Why had it taken her so long? Now was the time to strike the decisive blow.

  ‘All right, Madame, since you demand it, I shall answer all your requests … But first, I’d like you to go with me to the communicating door.’

  ‘That means going down into the cellar!’ she said with a shiver, folding the end of her mantlet over her shift. ‘It’s cold down there!’

  ‘It will only take a moment. I’d like to check something with you, and then I’ll be happy to supply you with the reason for my visit. Please, we’ll follow you.’

  Without a word, she held out a candle, which Bourdeau immediately took and lit. In the corridor, a low door opened onto a small stone staircase. Two cats passed between his legs, spitting as they did so. Nicolas understood why they were there when he saw the piles of sacks which, as was clear from the touch, contained, not flour, but grain. Madame Mourut seemed to take no notice of this examination. They reached the communicating door. Bourdeau directed the candlelight at it and turned in surprise.

  ‘The key is in the door.’

  In an instant, Nicolas gauged the significance of this observation. The consequences followed one from another in his mind. If it was established that the baker had been murdered, the fact that the bakehouse was closed on all sides would constitute further evidence of murder. If such were not the case – which seemed less likely by the minute – what interest would there be in making the death look like murder? If Mourut had locked himself in before dying with his head in the kneading trough, they would have found the keys, that much was incontrovertible. There was no other way out. All at once, he thought of the shop. Was it possible? Why had he not thought of it earlier? Often, in the jumble of details at the beginning of an investigation, an important point was overlooked.

  ‘Madame, how is the shop closed up? Is there a key?’

  ‘More questions! The shop is closed from the inside with iron bars drawn across it.’

  Everything was clear again: two keys, two doors, two ways out. They would have to go over the whole of the shop, the bakehouse and the storeroom with a fine-tooth comb. He took the candle, bent down and began examining the floor. He said a few words to Bourdeau, who quickly withdrew. Nicolas deliberately did not break the silence that had fallen. Madame Mourut was shivering with cold, or something else. After a moment, they heard some muted noises, and she recoiled as if in fright. The communicating door shook, then slowly creaked open and the heavy figure of Bourdeau appeared in the doorway. He passed the candle to Nicolas, who raised it above his head. The flickering flame spread a little light over the bakehouse and revealed the body lying on the floor. The inspector had removed the blanket concealing it. The candle sputtered, throwing the little group back into darkness for a moment.

  ‘My God, who is that?’

  Nicolas thought the question ill-chosen. ‘Alas, Madame, who could it be? I’m sorry to have to tell you that we found your husband dead in his kneading trough.’

  He had the impression that the news came as a relief. She suddenly began laughing nervously and was unable to stop.

  ‘Please forgive me, Monsieur … I’m suffocating …’

  Still giggling, she put her hands over her face. Nicolas decided to press home his advantage.

  ‘Who were you expecting to find?’

  She straightened up, as if cut to the quick. ‘Nobody. Monsieur, you are taking advantage of my grief.’ Her tone was stern but unconvincing. She looked him full in the face. ‘Monsieur, why would anyone kill my husband?’

  ‘But, Madame, who said anything about a killing? We have merely noted that he is dead. We now have to determine the cause of death, taking account of the circumstances. Were you being threatened in any way?’

  ‘The rabble of Paris have been making a great deal of fuss about the bakeries.’

  Once again, he was surprised by her words and tone. There seemed to be a discrepancy between her state and her language.

  ‘Was he ill?’

  ‘The work is hard. The heat, the damp … Always breathing flour dust.’

  She had quickly regained her composure. He thought about the best course to take. Should he have her, too, taken to the Grand Châtelet? He had decided to do so with the two baker’s boys because he had sensed in them a weakness and a fear which had to be taken into account and from which he had to protect them. It would, he hoped, be only a temporary measure.

  With her, it was different. If she were taken to prison, it would immediately set tongues wagging in the district. Nevertheless, it was vital that she should not be in a position to confer with anyone, especially the third apprentice, who had still not appeared. In such circumstances, it was preferable to confine her to her room and have an officer keep a close watch on her.

  ‘Madame, I’m terribly sorry, but I find that I am obliged to place you in solitary confinement.’

  She went red in the face, making him fear an explosion.

  ‘Please stay calm, Madame! I’m not arresting you, I’m merely confining you to your home. One of my officers will be here to make sure that my orders are carried out and that you are not in any discomfort. This decision is, I assure you, intended for your protection in case your husband’s death proves to be suspicious.’

  She did not say a word but her attitude was eloquent enough, if somewhat forced. Nicolas was not impressed. Although he could not have said exactly why, her pose as a martyr seemed as false to him as the calls used by birdcatchers to attract their prey.

  She was conducted back to her room, while Bourdeau went in search of an officer who would make sure that this confinement was correctly carried out. In the corridor, they found the maid sitting on a stool, leaning on her broom. She was eagerly watching all the comings and goings with a wicked smile on her lips. Nicolas chose not to tackle her directly. In vain: as soon as she saw him, she got to her feet and rushed to him, eager to speak.

  ‘What’s all this hullabaloo? At my age, it’s quite upsetting. All these people bringing mud and filth into the house, which I’m going to have to clean up. What has she done? I hope you treated her as she deserves! She ought to be locked up, and I know what I’m talking about. Where’s the master while his house is being searched? Let me tell him.’

  Her old lined face with its deep-set eyes was framed by a yellowed linen cap. A shapeless grey smock hung loosely on her. Nicolas noted once again how much the situation of domestic staff could vary from one house to another. He compared the lot of this poor, weary, embittered woman with that of Marion and Catherine, loved and respected members of the Noblecourt household. Was that just a way of salving one’s conscience? He imagined for a moment what Bourdeau would have to say on the matter. For the moment, the important thing was to calm her excitement, even though it was not without its interest, revealing a few curious nuggets in the lava flow of her words.

  ‘Wait! What’s your name?’

  ‘What? Eulalie, but people call me La Babine. I’ve been working here since I was a girl. Oh, I know you. A long time ago, you were quite the young dandy. And Marion, and Catherine. They’re the lucky ones, those two! I’m nearly seventy and I’ve been here for fifty years. I was born in Le Mans.’

  ‘Ah!’ muttered Bourdeau through clenched teeth. ‘Le Mans! How can we not trust her?’

  ‘What have you got against your mistress?’r />
  ‘You’d be surprised at the things I could tell you, Monsieur. As if I’d feel sorry for her over anything that might happen! To tell the truth, I’m delighted.’

  She was making no attempt to hide her feelings. But experience had taught Nicolas to distrust witnesses whose apparent honesty was the most subtle method of concealment.

  ‘To her, I’m no better than this broom I’m holding. In the days when the master was still a boy, I was well treated. And yet, seeing how far she’s fallen, she’d do better not to put on airs!’

  ‘How far she’s fallen? What do you mean?’

  She grinned eagerly. ‘It’s obvious you don’t know anything at all. She may have her nose in the air, that one, but the fact is, she’s come down in the world. Her father was an officer, an equerry, who got thrown out of his corps because of gambling debts, and fell among riff-raff. He’d placed his only daughter, the high and mighty Mademoiselle Céleste Julie Émilie Bidard de Granet, as an apprentice to a dressmaker in Rue Tiquetonne …’

  She let go of her broom and did a little twirl, holding the corners of her smock and mimicking a curtsy.

  ‘… The master fell head over heels in love with her, having spotted her at Sunday mass. He dragged her out of the gutter where I wager she’d have fallen eventually. The dressmaker decided to part company with her because she was corrupting the customers.’

  ‘The customers?’

  ‘I mean the husbands of the customers she called on to deliver the finished dresses. The master didn’t notice a thing, and she lied like the strumpet she’s always been. She makes herself out to be something great, but she is what she is, and I know what I know. You’re a clever young man, I’d guess, and I’m sure you’ll be able to sort out the false from the true. You’re not going to let yourself be fooled by appearances. But let’s not talk about that, I’m not one of those people who tell tales about their masters.’

  What would she have said if she had been, wondered Nicolas.

  ‘That does you honour, and I shan’t insist. A few more things: the third of the baker’s boys, the one who lodges here … By the way, what’s his name?’

  ‘Oh, him! That arrogant little hanger-on. The master lets him get away with everything. As for the mistress … His name’s Denis, Denis Caminet. If you see powder on his face, you can be sure it’s not flour!’

  ‘Let’s take things one at a time. Where is he?’

  ‘How should I know? Ask him. Frittering his time away, as usual. From dawn to dusk, he drifts from brothel to brothel, so I’ve been told.’

  ‘Told by whom?’

  ‘I know what I’m talking about. This city’s like a village. Everyone knows everything.’

  ‘Is that the normal conduct of an apprentice baker?’

  ‘I’m not saying a word about that,’ she said indulgently. ‘The master lets him do what he likes, and he must have his reasons for that. But as far as I’m concerned, Denis is a shameless parasite.’

  He had had many sparring partners in his career, but La Babine was clearly a formidable opponent. It was obvious that she knew more than she was willing to say. But he did not want to force her, convinced as he was that such tactics led witnesses to remain silent. What she had told him suggested so many different avenues to explore that, if his intuition about the nature of Master Mourut’s death proved correct, these would provide very useful pointers for the investigation.

  ‘You clearly don’t like him very much. Who are his parents?’

  There was a sudden gleam in her dull eyes. She screwed up her face and grimaced, seemingly reluctant to reply. ‘Nobody knows,’ she said at last. ‘He may not even have any.’

  ‘Yet someone must be paying for his apprenticeship.’

  ‘How should I know? Why are you badgering me? Ask the notary who pays his rent.’

  She definitely knew a great deal about the Mourut household, much more than she was prepared to say. Did she know that the baker was dead? So far, there had been nothing to suggest that she did. Why did she imagine the police had come here and questioned Madame Mourut? It was best to continue without insisting. They would find out soon enough. Of course, it was always possible that she had been eavesdropping.

  ‘And the other two, Parnaux and …’

  ‘Friope. Poor devils like me, easily exploited, badly housed, badly fed, badly treated. Caminet bullies them and the mistress treats them with contempt. Mind you, they ask for it … I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Eulalie, why do you think we’re here this morning? You don’t seem too concerned!’

  She looked at them with an inscrutable expression on her face. ‘I have no idea. Something to do with the mistress, I assume.’

  ‘Is there anything that leads you to assume that?’

  She came closer, looked behind her and lowered her voice. ‘She runs off at night.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  She lifted a finger to one eye and continued mysteriously, ‘Oh, don’t think I don’t know what goes on. She’s out at all hours, in a cloak and hood.’

  ‘Have you actually seen her?’

  ‘Yes, though not last night.’

  ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘Yesterday was Sunday, when I don’t work. I spent the evening with a countrywoman of mine who’s a portress in Rue Tire-Boudin, not far from here.’

  ‘So you didn’t serve dinner to your masters last night?’

  She looked at him, a touch uncertainly. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Told us what?’

  ‘That I served dinner to my masters last night.’

  In Nicolas’s opinion, it was not up to her to ask the questions. He said nothing, which was the simplest way to force the witness to continue.

  ‘I couldn’t have. I didn’t get back until early this morning.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Half past five, just as the bells were ringing in Saint-Eustache.’

  At that point, the baker was already in the bakehouse.

  ‘And presumably your mistress was still asleep?’

  ‘I doubt it! I wager she’d only just got back.’

  ‘And Master Mourut?’

  ‘At that hour, he’s already at work, or rather, the two boys are.’

  ‘So you didn’t see anything to worry you?’

  ‘What kind of thing? It’s been a long time since I last cared about anything in this house. Nothing ever happens to bother me – or make me happy, for that matter. I used to, oh, yes, I used to care a lot, but that’s passed with age, fortunately. They don’t care about me and I don’t care about them!’

  ‘Eulalie, I have to inform you that a dead body was found in the bakehouse this morning.’

  Not a single muscle in her face moved. He had drawn near her and was looking hard at her emaciated, unprepossessing face, with its yellow skin and little black spots.

  ‘So,’ she said at last, in a low voice, ‘they finally made up their minds to do it … It’s the person who fears too much for his own skin who risks it the most … Threaten the rats too often and they’ll get you … once they’re released. It was bound to happen …’

  She was talking to herself, a cruel little smile on her lips. She grabbed hold of his arm, and her hand felt like a claw.

  ‘She knows, does she? She knows. Tell me, for God’s sake, does she know?’

  ‘Wait a moment!’ said Nicolas, freeing himself. ‘Who do you think died?’

  ‘Why, Caminet, of course! They paid him back for his threats. God protect them!’

  La Babine’s words and attitude strengthened Nicolas in his conviction: this was a house of secrets, a place oozing with crime. The further he went with this preliminary enquiry, the more certain he became that a murder had been committed. Bourdeau’s expression was testimony to the fact that he was thinking the same thing. They had known each other for so long that they understood each other without having to exchange a word.

  ‘You’re mistaken, I’
m afraid. We don’t even know where Caminet is. Alas, it is your master, Monsieur Mourut, who has died.’

  A dull look came into her eyes and she began trembling. ‘What?’ She gave a kind of croak, then started weeping silently.

  Bourdeau approached the commissioner and whispered in his ear, ‘Either she’s telling the truth or she’s a consummate actress. Either way, if what we’re both thinking turns out to be correct, she should be confined to her room like the baker’s wife.’

  ‘Inform the officer, Pierre. He’ll keep an eye on the house, which is to be closed up until further orders. If Caminet returns, have him taken to the Grand Châtelet with the others. Unfortunately, I have to leave you as I need to get to Versailles as soon as possible, so I’m entrusting you with the rest. Report to me upon my return. The important thing now is the autopsy. All these other measures are intended to preserve the evidence. Make enquiries in Rue Tire-Boudin and at the house where the two boys live. And don’t forget to inform Commissioner Fontaine. I shall see you very soon.’

  He went back to the Noblecourt house, leaving a stunned La Babine in the hands of the inspector. It took him only a short while to get ready. Ensuring he took both Maria Theresa’s letter and the medallion with him, he made his way through a small, hostile crowd and found a cab in front of Saint-Eustache to take him to police headquarters in Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin, where he intended to find a horse that would get him to Versailles. There was no portmanteau to weigh him down, and whenever he stayed at Court now, he had a room at his disposal at the d’Arranet mansion where he kept his hunting costume, his rifles and his Court attire.

  The city was almost unrecognisable. As in Rue Montmartre, silent groups of men and women had gathered, not only outside bakeries, but also at the corners of the streets, where they were being harangued by grim-faced individuals who seemed out of place in this everyday scene. For the moment, however, there was no indication that these gatherings might lead to violence, although the city seemed to be in a mounting fever of expectation.

  At police headquarters, he was pleased to find a large dapple-grey mare with high withers, which greeted him with a rippling of the skin and a joyful whinny that indicated that they would get on well. The horse’s good mood was also manifested in a few caprioles and croupades, which Nicolas was easily able to control. Rider and mount were clearly made for one another. They were soon passing through the walls of the city to Pont de Sèvres. A light mist hovered like steam over the surface of the river. Through it, boats and barges seemed to be gliding in the air. The first rays of the sun were striking the freshly cut stone pyramids intended for the new constructions from the Pré-aux-Clercs to the Point-du-Jour. Black smoke rose from the furnace on the Île des Cygnes. Everywhere, the eye was refreshed by the tender green of an unusually late spring.