The Officer's Prey tnm-1

by Armand Cabasson

  A hesitant voice was heard. ‘Sir, may we go and eat first?’

  ‘What nonsense is this? It’s not eleven o’clock yet …’ said Brémond in surprise.

  But his watch showed him it was already past two o’clock. With a startled look he put it to his ear before disdainfully letting it fall back into his pocket.

  ‘Well, it’s pointless me wasting my breath if all you’re listening to is the rumbling of your stomachs.’

  The gathering broke up, to reveal a smiling Margont.

  ‘Quentin!’ exclaimed Brémond, putting his hands on his shoulders.

  The two men had known each other since childhood and had frequently had occasion to see each other on the battlefield.

  ‘What regiment are you serving in?’

  ‘The 84th, with Lefine, Saber and Piquebois.’

  ‘So you’re in good company. I bet you’re bored and are dreaming of a tutorial on how to fit out a hospital.’

  ‘You’ve lost your bet, I’m afraid, Jean-Quenin. I’ve a big favour to ask you.’

  ‘Granted. I’m listening.’

  ‘I’m investigating a murder but it must be hushed up at all costs. I would like you to examine the victim.’

  CHAPTER 6

  AN hour later, after arriving back in Tresno, Margont was in a requisitioned house, shouting at a lethargic captain.

  ‘With your grindingly slow bureaucracy I’ll have to wait ten months for the authorisation to dig up the body. I might as well just pick up a handful of dust!’

  ‘I’m very sorry. I don’t have the slightest idea of how to process such a request. So I’ll need to inform my superiors. Because as you will understand—’

  ‘That’s precisely it. I do not understand, Captain Ladoyère.’

  ‘If the correct procedure is not followed, I’ll be the one who gets the blame.’

  ‘But I have an order from—’

  ‘General Triaire, yes, I know,’ mumbled the captain, looking puzzled and reading the document once more.

  ‘So I command you to authorise me to dig up this body.’

  ‘But is General Triaire entitled to have the body of a civilian dug up? Because I, you understand, am the person responsible for law and order in Tresno. It’s my job to sort out deserters and troublemakers.’

  Margont couldn’t bear to look any longer at the ugly face with its flabby jowls reminiscent of a dozy bulldog. Brémond, for his part, seemed engrossed in gazing out of the window at the Polish countryside.

  ‘Stick to the point!’ exclaimed Margont.

  The captain spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I’ve told you already. I’m responsible for law and order in Tresno. Digging up the body of a local inhabitant could arouse the hostility of the population, leading to unrest, rioting and the use of military force.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘I suggest going through the official channels. Your request will be passed on today to the appropriate person, that is to say the person above me who …’

  ‘… will pass it on to someone else and so on and so forth. I’m going to hold you to account to General Triaire.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not the one to be held to account. It will be the person above me because I will have submitted your request to him.’ The officer was pleased to have resolved this problem and concluded: ‘So we shall both have the satisfaction of having followed the proper procedure.’

  Brémond turned round and, with his hands behind his back, declared quite out of the blue: ‘Very well, gentlemen, we understand your position. You have your procedures and we have ours. Captain Ladoyère, I am having you and your men put into quarantine immediately.’

  Ladoyère’s jowls drooped a little more. At the same time the lieutenant, who was his right-hand man, and the two other soldiers present in the room turned as pale as sheets.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘It is possible that this woman was suffering from typhus.’

  Typhus! Fourteen thousand deaths in 1796 in the hospitals of Nice alone. And even more during the military campaigns, but that was a taboo subject. Ladoyère remained petrified.

  ‘As I am unable to examine her to prove or to disprove this diagnosis,’ Brémond continued, ‘I have no choice other than to assume the worst and to impose the strictest possible measures. I shall therefore have you all placed in a hospital reserved for people suspected of being infected.’

  Ladoyère fidgeted on his chair. ‘But if this woman had not contracted typhus, I’m at risk of infection from being in your hospital when I have no reason to be there.’

  Margont nodded. ‘That is correct. But we shall both have the satisfaction of having followed the proper procedure.’

  Ladoyère’s face dropped as if he was already contemplating the inevitability of death.

  ‘Surely she didn’t have typhus … it’s just not possible.’

  But Brémond had adopted his absent-minded look again. To the captain’s dismay, he moved calmly towards the door. Ladoyère got up and walked around his desk, ready to run after the doctor if necessary.

  ‘All right, all right. Exhume the body. I’m only a lowly captain. I obey orders from General Triaire and from the army medical service. If you’d be so kind as to put in writing all that you have just said …’

  Brémond and Margont signed their lie and went off to the graveyard, requisitioning on their way three soldiers and some spades.

  Tresno’s graveyard was on top of a hill at the edge of the village. A spinney concealed its gloomy presence from the villagers. The tombs were well kept and decked with flowers.

  ‘I don’t much like disturbing the peace of the dead,’ murmured Brémond.

  ‘Neither do I, but we have to exhume this body if we want to lay this business to rest.’

  One of the soldiers requisitioned in the street was Polish. He threw aside his spade the moment he realised what was expected of him. Margont didn’t make an issue of it but ordered the man to stay. While the Frenchmen were throwing large spadefuls of earth over their shoulders, a woodcutter with a bushy beard, accompanied by two adolescents, suddenly emerged from the spinney. The three of them had axes in their hands. Instinctively, the Polish soldier pulled his musket, which was lying on the ground, nearer to him with his foot. The intruder began to speak. His aggressive tone made his sons blink.

  ‘What does he have to say for himself?’ asked Margont.

  By now the infantryman had grabbed his musket. ‘He’s saying that the French are pagans who have killed their priests, that the Revolution has destroyed the churches, that Napoleon is the Antichrist and that each of his armies is one of the heads of the dragon of the Apocalypse.’

  ‘What else does he have to say?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Captain, he thinks that you’re digging up this poor woman to have your way with her.’

  ‘Charming.’

  Eventually, the cutting edge of the spades struck the lid of the coffin. Margont wiped the sweat off his face and nodded towards a nearby building.

  ‘We’re going to transport the coffin over to that barn. Only the medical officer and I will examine the body. You will wait for us close by. And keep that lunatic away. I don’t want him trying to find out whether a Frenchman is as hard to split in two as the trunk of a fir tree.’

  The place was empty. Margont was glad of the smell of straw, not for any nostalgic reason but because it would partially cover up the odours emanating from the body.

  Brémond seemed equally hesitant but declared: ‘Better to get on with it straight away. The waiting is sometimes worse than the deed itself.’

  The boards of the coffin, made of pine, had been carefully fitted together, and for some strange reason the lid had been sealed by knocking in a large number of nails.

  ‘Were they afraid she might get out or something?’ said Brémond in surprise.

  ‘It’s the lips of the villagers that they most wanted to seal.’

  Using the point of
his sword as a lever, Margont prised open the lid. The two men immediately looked away. Prince Eugène had been in such a hurry to have the victim buried that she had not even been washed. She was still wearing the dress she’d had on at the time of the murder. The garment was torn and spattered with congealed bloodstains. Brémond pulled himself together by concentrating on the scientific aspects of his task.

  ‘The body has bled heavily, so a number of the wounds were inflicted before death …’

  Margont was staring straight at his friend and looking down as little as possible.

  ‘What? She was mutilated while still alive?’

  ‘A wound inflicted post mortem produces little loss of blood because the heart is no longer beating.’

  ‘But people would have heard her screaming. The inn was heaving with customers that particular evening.’

  Brémond bent forward until his face lightly touched the victim’s. It was like a lover’s final kiss to his beloved. Margont was sweating; he could see spots in front of his eyes and, fighting for breath, he felt as if he would choke.

  ‘A disorder of the nervous system …’ mumbled Brémond.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Not her, you. You’re as white as a sheet. Sit down on the ground or you’ll collapse.’

  Margont obeyed meekly.

  ‘And yet I’ve seen plenty of mangled bodies …’

  ‘Yes, but in wartime. Here we are on the threshold of another realm: madness. War is also a form of madness but we understand its objectives and its mechanics.’

  Brémond rummaged in one of his pockets, took out some tweezers and thrust them into the corpse’s mouth. He immediately showed his findings to Margont.

  ‘Feathers and a tiny piece of material. The murderer pressed a pillow against her face to smother the screams.’

  ‘There was no pillow in the bedroom.’

  ‘It’s in the coffin. Under her head.’

  Margont had collected himself. He rose to his feet but held on to the edge of the coffin for support.

  ‘I’m not the right person for this investigation. I can’t even bear the sight of the victim, so how could I face the person who committed this abominable crime?’

  ‘I’m going to let you into a secret. When I’m confronted with a wounded soldier, I feel incompetent. I say to myself there are too many things I don’t know and that medicine doesn’t know very much either. I feel as if I have only the smatterings of a science that is itself incomplete. However that may be, remember that if this woman had been my wife, you are the one I would have asked to find her killer.’

  Margont forced himself to look at Maria Dorlovna. The thorax, abdomen, arms and legs were covered in bruises. Brémond pointed to the forearms.

  ‘The wounds are especially numerous in this area. She was trying to protect herself by putting her arms in front of her.’

  The doctor took the victim’s hands and carefully examined each fingernail.

  ‘While defending herself she must have scratched her attacker. Sadly, she kept her fingernails very short. If they had been longer we might have found beneath them some of the murderer’s hair or a piece of skin, evidence that he had suffered a gash to his face, torso or arms. I’ve examined very many wounded bodies in the course of my career but I have to admit that this is the first time I’ve seen such an atrocity. I’ve counted more than thirty wounds but none was immediately fatal. The murderer avoided the heart, the carotid arteries and the larynx. He left the vital organs intact in order to keep his victim alive as long as possible while he was cutting her up. She died in fact from loss of blood after several minutes of agony. He did not wish merely to kill her; he also wanted to torture her.’

  ‘From what you’ve said, it may well be that the culprit had medical knowledge.’

  ‘Yes, but he may not have been a doctor. Any butcher or farmer knows how to kill an animal swiftly, and without causing unnecessary suffering, by severing its carotid artery. Besides, plenty of soldiers have experience of hand-to-hand combat and know where some of the vital organs are. An average French hussar knows as much about this as many physicians. Our friend Piquebois will confirm that for you, believe me.’

  ‘What weapon was used?’

  ‘A knife fitted with a blade of approximately …’ Brémond thrust his tweezers into several of the wounds ‘… four and a half inches. Considering the violence of the attack and this bruising around the points of impact I think he plunged the blade in up to the hilt. So it was a small knife with a straight blade. The murderer is right-handed. Have you seen her face?’

  Margont took a close look at the Polish woman’s features and had to prevent himself from retching. The eyebrows had been scorched or perhaps cut off. Maria Dorlovna seemed to be staring up at him, wide-eyed. The eye sockets had been damaged by the flame from a candle, and her unseeing eyes, streaked with black stains, seemed to be crying tears of wax. Her mouth was twisted with pain. Margont was mesmerised as Brémond methodically continued his analysis, examining the limbs, touching them, feeling their weight, measuring the size of the injuries. However, at times the medical officer’s hands trembled slightly, affecting the accuracy of his actions.

  ‘The burns as well as several other wounds were inflicted after death. He used a candle to singe the eyes, the breasts and the skin in some areas. I think he was significantly calmer at that point compared to when he struck the first blows because the damage is more deliberate: the marks are symmetrical, inflicted with less violence …’

  ‘And yet he must have realised that she was dead!’

  ‘Certainly, but that didn’t stop him. So, in addition to making his victim suffer, he also took pleasure in mutilating her.’

  ‘Perhaps he was also thinking about the shock the person discovering the body in such a state would feel. If that was the case, he certainly achieved his goal with me.’

  ‘Don’t do yourself down, Quentin. I know you well. “The reed bends but does not break.”’

  Finally, the medical officer examined the crotch.

  ‘Sexual intercourse did not take place. That’s all I can tell you. We could carry out an autopsy but I’m not sure it would tell us any more. In any case, I don’t have time to do it. As you know, I have my work cut out improving our temporary hospitals, training assistants on the job …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There’s just one aspect that intrigues me.’ The doctor took the right hand. The tips of the middle finger, thumb and index finger were spattered with black marks. ‘It’s ink.’

  ‘She must have written a letter recently,’ Margont suggested. He changed his mind at once. ‘Not one letter in isolation but a whole series. And yet she had no family.’

  ‘She was working at an inn, you told me. Perhaps she kept an account book …’

  ‘The person who employed her told me she helped out with the serving and did the housework. There was no mention of account books.’

  The two men replaced the lid of the coffin.

  ‘Good luck, Quentin. Don’t take unnecessary risks.’

  Margont nodded assent. It was Jean-Quenin’s stock remark, the advice he gave to his friends before every campaign. And in peacetime it was, ‘Eat less, and less quickly’, ‘Take more exercise’ and ‘Don’t read at night in poor candlelight.’

  ‘The same to you, Jean-Quenin, and thanks once again.’

  Margont helped to reinter the coffin, then walked down the hill from the graveyard on his own, trying to think of other things. But every time he set foot on a bump or bulge in the ground he thought he was treading on and desecrating a tomb.

  CHAPTER 7

  DURING the return journey Margont thought back over his life. He often did so at the start of a campaign. His past reminded him of a baker’s dough that had been kneaded by too many hands, each with their own idea of what shape to give the future loaf. Eventually, he had been brave enough to choose his own way, despite the opposition of those around him. Arrogance had saved him
from doing what others wanted.

  He was born in Nîmes in 1780 into a family of winegrowers and his father, Georges Margont, had died of a fit of apoplexy in 1786. As his mother could not provide for her son and two daughters, she decided to move to Montpellier to live with her brother, Ferdinand Lassère, a hardened and religiously inclined bachelor whose ambition was to turn the young boy into a priest or a monk. ‘What an absurd idea!’ Margont frequently exclaimed, remembering the time when he was forced to read the Bible and to pray every day.

  His uncle sent him to study at the Benedictine abbey of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert. This monastery, founded more than a thousand years earlier and situated in the gorge of the River Verdus, was a resting place on the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela. Its architecture was a mixture of Romanesque and Southern French styles. Built on to the magnificent, astonishingly high nave were a cloister and a few buildings that marked the boundaries of a verdant quadrangle. For four years this place had been Margont’s whole world. He had practically never been allowed to leave it. When he had complained about the lack of freedom, the monks had tirelessly repeated to him that solitude would open up his mind to God.

  At that time the community of Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert was a far cry from what it had been in centuries past. Although only six monks remained, life inside those walls still continued in the time-honoured tradition: long hours of prayer, meditation, contemplation and services. Fortunately for Margont, study also played an important part in the activities of the monastery. He was taught reading, writing, Latin, Greek, mathematics, history, geography and theology. His marks were good or outstanding except in theology, where his results were nonexistent because the simplest of questions (‘Who died for us on the Cross, Quentin?’) elicited a deliberately wrong answer (‘Joan of Arc, Brother’).