The silence which had fallen was broken by Sartine. ‘I asked you a question.’
‘There is no doubt, Monseigneur, that you are best placed to make allowances.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have just demonstrated once again that you are the first to be informed of all things. However quick I am, reporting to you would be pointless. In addition, I cannot suppose that the Lieutenant General of Police, who knows everything, will not hasten to respond in detail to any demand you see fit to make of him. Why should I, a poor subordinate, interfere between two such powers?’
Sartine’s face turned pale and tense. He began muttering, and Nicolas thought he made out the words ‘disciple of Loyala’ and ‘emulator of the Jesuits of Vannes’. But then he calmed down, and looked at the commissioner with a kind of indulgent commiseration.
‘You will never change! Fourteen years in the highest echelons of the police, and here you are, just as you were before, filled with honour and scruples and … mental limitations. But not devoid of skill, oh no! Yes, the marquis would be proud of you. The head of a Ranreuil and the skull of a Breton. Stubborn, but still a little innocent – apparently …’
‘That’s the second time in two days.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That I’ve been called innocent. Last night, Monsieur de Noblecourt …’
‘He’s absolutely right. Well, be that as it may. At least promise me you’ll let me know if anything in this case is likely to tarnish the throne. You certainly can’t refuse that request.’
‘I’ll do my best, Monseigneur.’
‘Now go on, get out of here, you rascal. I suppose you’re rushing off to meet up with your usual accomplices and cut up some bloody body or other in order to stimulate that famous intuition of yours.’
Nicolas laughed. ‘It’s impossible to hide anything from you. Even the future.’
Sartine, half smiling, half angry, wagged a threatening finger at him and sighed.
Nicolas was walking towards the river, his face aflame. Although the interview had ended pleasantly enough, it had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He was torn between his joy at having seen his former chief again and a sense of anguish. How difficult life was! In a flash, he saw his father, the Marquis de Ranreuil, striding about the lower hall in the family chateau. While Nicolas, then a little boy, crouched beneath the chimney hood and looked on, the marquis, usually so ready to embrace change, cursed the mediocrity of the times. He missed the heroic days when history was made with great sweeps of the sword and the only skill lay in knowing how to die. He condemned that degenerate nobility ‘of parquet floors and wood panelling, cut off from its roots, whose only world is one of ridicule and disputes over etiquette in the drawing rooms of Versailles’. Once again, Nicolas had the feeling of emptiness that had come over him so often since the death of Louis XV. Everyone was acting as if his successor was of no significance. Even Sartine gave the impression that he had broken the sacred bond connecting him with the new monarch. He was no longer the same man, and he seemed interested in nobody but Choiseul, dazzled by a star which Nicolas, colder or less committed, had long judged to be on a declining orbit. He would not have wagered a farthing on the possibility of the hermit of Chanteloup returning to affairs. Everyone knew the distaste, even the revulsion, which the former minister inspired in the monarch. In this situation, who was the real innocent? Sartine no doubt had ambitions to occupy the position of Minister of the King’s Household, which had previously escaped his grasp. He still hoped to achieve it with the help of the Queen and Choiseul. The gods always blinded those they sought to bring down. As for himself, if he could prevent yet another disappointment for his protector, he would do so without hesitation.
The foamy ochre Seine was carrying all kinds of doubtful flotsam on its autumn tides. He spotted the carcass of an animal swirling round and round in an eddy, and recalled his conversation with Lenoir. Could that pestilential disease really spread to the whole of the kingdom and infect both animals and people? He continued thinking about this until he reached the gates of the old Châtelet. He sighed, feeling a kind of weariness at the thought of what was about to take place in the secrecy of the cellars of the Basse-Geôle. As he passed, he glanced mechanically at the grim slab where the latest bodies lay, washed and salted. He noted that the watch had been diligent and that the poor wretch fished out of the waters near the Quai des Tuileries was already resting beside his companions in misfortune. He heard the sounds of conversation, and was delighted to recognise the voices of his friends.
‘Here is our Nicolas!’ exclaimed Dr Semacgus in his bass voice.
He was carefully removing his doublet. Ever since he had abandoned himself to the tender tyranny of a relationship with his maid, the surgeon was always extremely well dressed and took as much care of his appearance as a young man. Beside him, Bourdeau sat on a stool, calmly smoking an old pipe. Nicolas took his snuff box from his pocket. The sight of it brought a pang to his heart: it was a present from Madame du Barry, and the lid bore the face of a young, smiling Louis XV. He shook Sanson’s hand and offered him a pinch of snuff. There followed a pleasant session of sneezing.
‘In this damp, cold weather,’ said Sanson sententiously, ‘tobacco protects against congestion and catarrh. Nicolas, Madame Sanson has asked me to tell you that our doors are always open to you and that she would deem it a great honour if you came at your convenience for lunch or dinner.’ He blushed and hesitated. ‘I should add that the children would be pleased to see their father’s friend again.’
‘A thousand thanks to your wife,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I would be glad to come, once this case has been cleared up.’
‘Come, gentlemen,’ said Semacgus solemnly, ‘this is not a drawing room. Let’s raise the curtain on the autopsy.’
With a grand gesture, he pulled the jute cloth off the victim’s body. Bourdeau had risen, and they all leaned over the table where Marguerite Pindron lay. The torchlight cast their elongated, dancing shadows on the dark walls. Nicolas explained the circumstances under which the crime had been discovered, and also indicated his own estimate of the approximate time of death.
‘A fine-looking girl,’ said Semacgus. ‘What’s the temperature in the kitchens of the Saint-Florentin mansion?’
‘It was as cold as outside,’ said Bourdeau. ‘No food had been served the previous night, Sunday, and the furnaces, chimneys and stoves had all been out since Saturday night.’
The two practitioners kneaded the body. Semacgus looked at his watch, said a few words in a low voice to Sanson, and seemed to be thinking hard.
Sanson cleared his throat. ‘We believe death occurred sometime between ten and twelve o’clock.’
Nicolas could not conceal his surprise. ‘I’m pleased to see that your expertise confirms my own impressions so closely. However, to truly enlighten me, would it not be possible for you to be more precise? Please understand that the peace of mind of the innocent depends on your observations.’
‘The young rascal’s trying to teach us our job,’ grumbled Semacgus, ‘even after we let him witness the birth of criminal surgery.’
They all started laughing. An overjoyed Bourdeau took several enthusiastic puffs at his pipe and Nicolas let out a long and very satisfying series of sneezes. He was not mistaken: proximity with the most tangible and terrifying forms of violent death often brought about these bursts of artificial and somewhat forced relaxation. Each man took advantage of them to conceal his emotions – sometimes, his horror.
‘Alas,’ said Sanson, ‘your question contains its own answer. The coldness of the place no doubt slowed down certain natural phenomena. This context complicates our ability to judge and makes it difficult for us to deliver a more exact verdict.’
‘As for the rest …’ resumed Semacgus, who had just taken several shiny instruments from a small varnished wooden case and had noticed Nicolas’s curious glance at this fine object. ‘You’re admiring my
casket. You’ve never seen this one. I acquired it in the Dutch Indies. It’s the only one of its kind. Cut to measure from a single stump of rot-proof ironwood.’
‘Perfect, I imagine,’ continued Nicolas, completing his friend’s description, ‘for avoiding erosion by dampness and salt while crossing the seas and oceans.’
‘Precisely, the essential thing being to preserve my instruments from rust. As for the rest, as I was saying, in other words, the cause of death, it’s perfectly obvious. What do you think, my dear colleague?’
Sanson smiled contentedly at this appellation. They leaned over the body. As always at an autopsy, Nicolas could not help comparing them to two crows he had seen as a child on a path on the edge of Vilaine, busy with the carcass of a dead animal. For a while, the usual ceremonial went through its obligatory phases. Constantly coming back to the neck wound, they proceeded with all the necessary examinations.
‘Come closer, Nicolas,’ said Semacgus, ‘and you, too, Pierre. What do we observe? The wound in the hollow beneath the shoulder is deep, funnel-shaped and, by its very nature, fatal. Look how lacerated the inner walls of the wound are and how crushed and compressed the skin is. What do you deduce from that?’
‘That we can rule out the use of a sharp instrument,’ said Nicolas.
‘That the object used was such a strange shape,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that it created a kind of pear-shaped hole!’
‘That’s a perfect description.’
Sanson whispered something in the doctor’s ear. ‘I agree,’ he said, ‘though I doubt that our friends will savour the experience!’
‘As the good apprentices and scholars that we are,’ proclaimed Nicolas, ‘we accept anything that leads to the truth.’
‘Of course, Bourdeau’s tobacco and the cooking salt which I suspect is in the commissioner’s pocket will help the two of you to bear it.’
Semacgus was alluding to something Fine, Nicolas’s nurse in Guérande, always used to ward off the evil spells of the devil. This remark once again set them laughing. Once that was over, Semacgus clenched his fist and resolutely plunged his hand into the neck wound. It fitted almost exactly. The two police officers watched with shock and astonishment.
Bourdeau was the first to break the silence. ‘Do you mean to say that someone killed this poor creature with their bare hands?’
Sanson shook his head. ‘It isn’t our intention to put that forward as a theory. A hand, even one of exceptional strength, would not be able to go through flesh and produce the cuts and compressions we’ve observed.’
Nicolas was thinking. ‘So, if I understand correctly, the murder appears to have been perpetrated using an object shaped like a hand and sufficiently solid to penetrate flesh?’
‘Penetration is not essential,’ said Semacgus. ‘Let’s not forget the lacerations and compressions. Note, gentlemen, that the wound is in the right shoulder. From that I conclude either that the victim was attacked from the front, which does not tally with the description of the scene of the crime, or that she was attacked from behind, which would imply …’
He placed himself behind Sanson, pressed him against his chest with his left arm, and mimed striking a blow with his right hand.
‘… that the attacker was armed with an unknown object. But if, unusually, that was the case, a hand would not have been able to twist and still keep its shape and strength.’
‘Couldn’t the wound,’ said Bourdeau doubtfully, ‘have been caused by repeated blows with a knife?’
‘The cuts would have looked quite different.’
‘I’m reminded of the wooden pegs they use for sealing barrels where I come from.’
‘There speaks the man from Touraine!’
Semacgus let go of Sanson, who readjusted his plum-coloured coat where it had been displaced by the surgeon’s extremely firm grip.
‘I think our two practitioners should come to a conclusion,’ said Nicolas, who was becoming impatient.
‘The young woman died of a fatal blow to the base of her neck. This fatal wound opened the subclavian vessels of the large branches of the axillary artery. This was likely to cause immediate death through loss of blood.’
‘As we observed,’ said Nicolas.
‘But most of it would have been internal,’ said Sanson. ‘The loss of blood compressed the lungs and suffocation followed.’
‘In other words,’ concluded Semacgus, ‘it was quite unlikely that the victim could have survived.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Nicolas.
‘Ah, yes! The girl had been leading a life of pleasure, and quite recently, too. Some of our observations indicate that clearly.’
‘On the evening of the murder?’
‘No, the previous day or days. I shan’t go into the detail of our observations. They are similar to those noted in prostitutes of the lower class who sell themselves to one man after another.’
‘So she indulged in debauchery?’
‘Of the most dissolute kind, there’s no doubt of it. We found significant erosion, as well as traces of an astringent lotion, the kind that makes it possible to remove all traces of excessive and repeated male penetration.’
‘It’s an unguent taken from the root of a rosaceous plant, the pied-de-lion,’ Sanson remarked learnedly. ‘The whores use it to repair all kinds of damage.’
‘Last but not least,’ said Semacgus, handing the two police officers something small and brown at the end of a small pair of pincers, ‘this is what we discovered in the “window in the middle”. It’s an intimate preventive sponge, which proves at least one thing – that the girl was expecting to meet a suitor!’
A long silence fell over the gathering, soon broken by Nicolas’s resolute voice. ‘Pierre,’ he said, ‘when we’ve found the murder weapon, we’ll be close to finding the murderer.’
Notes – CHAPTER IV
1. Fagon (1638–1718), Louis XIV’s doctor.
2. See The Nicolas Le Floch Affair.
3. François de Malherbe, ‘Dure contrainte’.
4. Statue of Henri IV.
5. Place Louis-le-Grand is now Place Vendôme.
6. See The Nicolas Le Floch Affair.
V
BETWEEN CITY AND FAUBOURGS
His tongue is as a devouring fire.
ISAIAH XXX, 27
Bourdeau and Nicolas were both back in the duty office, the former filling his pipe, the latter preparing his battle plan. Nobody, Nicolas thought, was going to force him to do anything that he had not decided to do himself. Overwhelmed with requests from both the minister and the Lieutenant General of Police, he would take the path dictated by his own free will, certain that whichever he decided upon would be more innocent than any of the others, because it would be in pursuit of the truth. In the order of priorities, one choice appeared to be the imperative one. He would have to keep to it and discard anything superfluous in order to devote himself to what mattered most. He talked about this with the inspector after briefly relating his conversation with Lenoir. As for Sartine’s strange request, he preferred to keep silent about it, at least for the moment. However, he did not conceal the question mark hanging over the Duc de La Vrillière’s presence at Versailles on the night of the murder.
‘Whatever the tasks imposed upon us, my dear Pierre, you know how important it is to solve a crime quickly. We must at all costs find the murder weapon, although I do not harbour any illusions on the subject. The sewer and the river were both quite close. I also need to question the family of the wounded major-domo. There may well be something to be gleaned there.’
‘I have the names and addresses of his in-laws, the family of his late wife,’ said Bourdeau, taking a paper from his pocket. ‘It consists of three people: first of all, his sister-in-law, a nun at the convent of the Daughters of Saint Michel at Notre-Dame de la Charité, in Rue des Postes—’
‘Of what order? There are so many in Paris.’
‘The establishment was opened by the founder of the Eudists, wit
h female boarders who wish to repent their past sins.’
‘The nuns?’
‘No, the boarders!’
‘What is this person’s name?’
‘Hélène Duchamplan. Her religious name is Louise of the Annunciation. Then we have the first brother-in-law, Gilles Duchamplan, and his wife, Nicole. Finally, Eudes, the second brother-in-law, the younger of the two, who lives with them in Rue Christine.’
‘Try to find out more about these people, and don’t slacken with the servants in the Saint-Florentin mansion. One of them is bound to end up saying more than they intended. Let’s meet in Rue Montmartre at dinner time. I’d be most surprised if Catherine and Marion couldn’t find something for us to eat.’
‘Aren’t you afraid of disturbing Monsieur de Noblecourt?’
‘Of course not. He doesn’t have anything in the evenings except a few prunes and a herbal tea. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to drink in our company. In fact, it will be an opportunity for him to come out with a few of those finely polished maxims which always seem to be miraculously applicable to the matter in hand.’
As he was leaving Bourdeau, Nicolas consulted his watch: it was midday. Walking out through the main entrance, he stepped aside to let a prisoner’s funeral procession pass. He thought with a shudder of that coffin of chipped black wood which, it was said, had been used at the Châtelet for a century for the funerals of dead prisoners, and to which the gaolers gave the humorous nickname ‘the pork pie’: it had a panel in it which opened to let the body slide out into the common grave. The corpses of drowned people benefited from a different procedure: after being displayed on the stone in the Basse-Geôle, they were transported on a stretcher to the Hospitallers of Sainte Catherine, nuns whose constitutions committed them to washing these mortal remains, wrapping them in shrouds, and burying them in the cemetery of Saints-Innocents.
The Saint-Florentin Murders Page 12