The Montmartre Investigation
Page 20
‘Monsieur Pignot?’
Intrigued by what he had read, he walked into the consulting room. Its bareness was in stark contrast to the cluttered waiting area: a desk strewn with books, three chairs and a few engravings, all with a medical theme. Doctor Aubertot smiled politely and asked him to take a seat. His stern manner and serious expression lent him the air of an office clerk. In fact his face, which was still youthful despite the greying hair, was familiar to Victor, though he could not for the life of him recall where he had seen him before. The doctor took a sheet of paper and dipped his nib in an inkpot.
‘First name, surname, date of birth and profession, please.’
‘Pignot, Joseph, 14 January 1860, shopkeeper,’ Victor stated.
‘What are your symptoms?’
‘Well, I…er, they are difficult to describe, a sort of generalised pain, and…’
‘Do you suffer from headaches?’
‘Sometimes, yes, but…’
‘Do you feel any pressure around your skull? Do you have pains in your stomach?’
‘Yes, especially after a meal.’
The doctor glanced up at him.
‘And your sexual function?’
‘No problems in that department.’
‘Please remove your clothes.’
‘Look, I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you,’ Victor hastened to explain. ‘I’m a journalist and I’m writing a series of articles about people’s fascination for certain types of murder. One motive that particularly interests me is vengeance. I would very much like to have a psychiatrist’s point of view. However, I imagine you must be terribly busy.’
‘And you waste even more of my time with such convoluted preambles! I dabble in journalism myself, and one of the first things I learnt was to be concise!’
He softened and, putting down his pen, went and stood with his back to the window.
‘What is it you would like to know? Crime is not my speciality. The patients who come to my clinic seek words of reassurance rather than drugs. What they tell me rarely gives me an insight into the darkest recesses of their psyches. Indeed, they are usually the primary victims of their inner demons.’
‘Are any of your patients obsessed with revenge?’
‘A string of them, yes, but they rarely act on it.’
‘What do you think motivates someone to seek revenge even though it might take years?’
‘The conviction that without the intervention of another, their life would have taken a more favourable course, would have flourished instead of being destroyed. The more they suffer, the more they want to punish the person they feel is responsible for their suffering.’
‘Is there any other driving force behind this need to punish?’
‘A corollary of suffering is hatred – a violent emotion that drives people to destructive acts.’
‘What does someone who takes revenge feel? Revenge cannot right the original wrong.’
‘No. What is done is done. However, whether or not they seek real or – as is more often the case – fictive vengeance, what they desire is to recover their self-esteem. You have picked a vast subject, my friend, and one that is as dear to novelists as to their readers, a fact that suggests that people fascinated by crime and punishment are legion. From the beginning of time, the world has been governed by the universal law of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Whether this is meant to compensate for the shortcomings of human systems of justice or is believed to be God’s will, it is an endless cycle. It leads to wars between nations. What can I tell you that you don’t already know? If any of my patients were potential murderers, their motives would be too complex to be reduced to some literary cliché such as: “For a Spaniard there is nothing sweeter than revenge.”’28
He had walked up to his desk, and was leaning over it, drumming his fingers on a medical dictionary. Victor understood that the interview was over.
They crossed the waiting room, watched by the patients, who followed them with their eyes. Victor wanted to be clear in his mind about the painting above the fireplace, and he pointed to it.
‘Is that a Gauthier?’
‘No, it’s by Jaubert, a minor artist. I’m not terribly keen on it, but it’s a souvenir of my distant days in Lyon, when I studied under Professor Jardin. I’m the third on the left – the beanpole with the goatee. It was a long time ago now.’
‘The Medical Faculty there is reputed to be one of the best.’
‘Indeed. If you are interested, you should come to the Sâlpetrière. I lecture there in the amphitheatre on a Wednesday afternoon. You can keep me abreast of your research.’
In the carriage on the way back to Rue des Saints-Pères, the word Lyon occupied Victor’s thoughts. Lyon. Everything was linked to that name, even the animal that had killed Pôpeche. Yet what was the psychiatrist’s involvement in this affair? Was it a mere coincidence that he had lived in Lyon? It couldn’t be. Aubertot’s name appearing alongside Charmansat’s on the note found in Gaston Molina’s shirt clearly implicated him. He only had to find out how. Victor decided to abandon logic and follow his intuition.
He felt besieged by a flurry of contradictory ideas. As he turned to look out of the window, he noticed a sign that read: Bill stickers will be prosecuted. Bylaw of 29 July 1881. Beneath it was a Grasset advertisement for L. Marquet ink. The ornate black lettering reminded him of the big black cat associated with Rodolphe Salis’s cabaret. Suddenly he remembered where he had seen Aubertot: at Le Chat-Noir, the day before Noémi Gerfleur’s body was discovered.
‘I caught a glimpse of the fellow Louis Dolbreuse was talking to – was it Aubertot? Except the name wasn’t Aubertot. No, I must be mistaken. What would a big shot from the Sâlpetrière be doing at a place like Le Chat-Noir? Although he did say he dabbled in journalism…’
He remembered seeing a few copies of L’Écho de Paris in the waiting room, the journal Dolbreuse had mentioned after his tête-à-tête with this Aubertot who was not Aubertot. What was the name of the man he’d been introduced to? He needed to speak to Dolbreuse, but he didn’t know his address. If he asked Tasha, she would immediately accuse him of jealousy. He had better ask Eudoxie Allard. It would mean having to put up with her advances, but he considered the game was worth the candle. She had given him her card and he seemed to recall slipping it into the letter tray where he kept his papers. He must act quickly, though. Aubertot might also suddenly remember having met him at Le Chat-Noir. He got out of the cab at Quai Malaquais.
The bookshop was deserted. Victor was about to go upstairs when he heard the drone of voices at the back of the shop. He crept over quietly. Jojo and Iris were sitting side by side next to the glass cabinet where Kenji kept the books and other objects he brought back from his trips abroad. They were leafing through a volume bound in gold and red that contained risqué illustrations. Standing on tiptoe, Victor was able to read the title of the book upside down: Dangerous Liaisons. The choice of book and the behaviour of the two young people suggested an intimacy he felt was inappropriate. How could an educated young lady jeopardise her reputation with a mere clerk in a bookshop!
‘Who gave you permission to leave your post?’ he barked, so ferociously that Jojo nearly fell on the floor.
Iris stood up calmly.
‘What have we done to deserve such a display of bad manners, Captain?’ she asked merrily.
Victor realised that his outburst had been completely unwarranted.
‘Forgive us, Captain,’ she continued in the same unruffled tone, ‘we were sailing at a few cables from the coast and as the lookout reported no giant squid or squalls in the offing, we retired to the poop deck. Did we do something wrong, my Admiral?’
Irritated by this impudent mockery, Victor snapped rudely at Joseph.
‘Did you hear me? What are we paying you for? Get back to your post!’
He looked sternly at Iris and muttered: ‘Is Kenji here?’
‘No, he went to see a customer.
’
‘There’s another good reason why you should not be here alone. In your godfather’s absence it falls to me to look after you.’
‘I was in pleasant company.’
‘That is precisely the problem. Be careful not to cross the line, Mademoiselle.’
Aware of how ridiculous he must appear, he turned on his heel and walked over to the stairs, trying his best to ignore Joseph’s grumbling.
‘Back to your post! Back to your post! He’s never at his post! The ship could be sinking and he wouldn’t even know it! And what about liberty! And equality! Liberty, equality, fraternity, my eye! They might be carved on our monuments, but not everybody enjoys them in equal measure. A fellow would be lucky to receive any sort of justice in this place!’
Victor rummaged furiously through the letter tray, but stopped suddenly, troubled by a tune that was coming from behind him. He turned around. Iris was nodding her head in time to the music and swinging a chain. On the end of it hung the watch Victor had given Kenji for his birthday two years earlier.
London Bridge is falling down,
falling down, falling down…
‘It’s pretty, isn’t it? It plays this tune I grew up with every hour. It belonged to your father, then your mother and then it passed down to you.’
‘I…but…’
‘How unfortunate! A detective without a clue! Did you never wonder what happened to the Aunt Gloria whom Daphné visited three afternoons a week?’
‘How do you know about that?’
His hands were trembling and he pushed them into his pockets. He could see his mother leaning towards him, feel her lips brushing his brow, hear her whispering goodbye before she left him in Kenji’s charge. He remembered, too, the letters he received at his boarding school in Richmond with tedious passages concerning the fragile health of a relative who lived in Hampshire: a Miss Gloria Dulwich.
‘She died soon after I moved to France, sometime in 1879, shortly after the death of my mother,’ he said softly, without waiting for a reply. ‘Kenji told me about it.’
‘No doubt he didn’t go into any detail.’
‘What is this all about?’
‘When I was little I lived in a pretty cottage not far from Winchester. My nanny, whom I adored, was called Gloria. She was from Dulwich, near London, and was very proud of having visited The Crystal Palace which, you are doubtless aware, was built with materials left over from the first Universal Exhibition in 1851.’
‘Gloria Dulwich,’ he repeated in a faltering voice.
‘Three times a week, a beautiful lady visited and showered me with love and treats. But what gave me most pleasure was her watch. I used to put it up to my ear and imagine that the fairies were ringing their little bells inside it just for me. When I was four years old the beautiful lady suddenly stopped coming. Gloria held me tight and told me that my mother was dead, but that I shouldn’t cry because she had gone to the angels. After that an elegant gentleman with slanting eyes came into my life, declaring that he was my godfather. The little fairies watched over me and I have never felt unloved. When Gloria went to join my mother, Kenji sent me to Dawson’s Boarding School in London under the name of Abbot. I suppose he wished to conceal my origins.’
Victor stared at her in dazed astonishment.
‘She’s taking you in, my dear Legris!’
But the voice of another, more sardonic, Victor said: ‘What a chump! He looks like a carp standing there with his mouth open.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that you are my…’
‘I apologise if this feels like melodrama. I meant to break the news to you more gently, but your moralising tone just now infuriated me. I am happy to have a brother and for you to be him, but I am tired of being chaperoned. First Mrs Dawson, then Mademoiselle Bontemps, then Kenji, and now you.’
‘How can you be sure that Daphné was your…’
‘I found the proof in two sealed envelopes hidden beneath my father’s mattress. Do you know what was in them?’
‘No,’ Victor replied, stunned by the girl’s inappropriate behaviour. ‘I would never have allowed myself go through Kenji’s personal belongings.’
‘I am far more devious than you. When I set myself a goal I reach it. The envelopes contain my birth certificate, a photograph of Daphné holding me in her arms and my baptism certificate according to the rites of the Anglican Church.’
He found himself staring straight into the girl’s face. She was deadly serious. He must adjust himself to the idea that Kenji and his mother had been lovers. Without averting her gaze, she continued.
‘It is simple. Daphné made Kenji promise not to say anything for fear of a scandal and out of respect for you, since you were old enough to judge her behaviour. You were fourteen when I was born. If we were to examine our mother’s life closely, we would discover that she disappeared for four months in 1874 – the time needed to carry her pregnancy to full term. She wanted to protect you. Imagine how much Kenji must have loved her to keep this a secret for so long…After the stupid coach accident that killed his beloved, he was obliged to hide his grief and resign himself to lying…by omission. My godfather! I played the game, and, believe it or not, I shall miss it.’
‘He sacrificed you for a child who wasn’t even his…How he must have hated me!’
‘That’s not true. He has a deep affection for you.’
‘And for you!’
‘Of course, though we have always lived apart. It was hard for him. He has suffered with his secret and he needs to be comforted. As far as I am concerned, I am delighted to have a brother, although I would have preferred him to be a little less possessive and puritanical. Speaking of which, Joseph and I were doing nothing wrong. I find him charming. You should try to be a little more flexible, Victor. Am I wrong in thinking Tasha might disapprove of your sleuthing activities vis-à-vis a certain young girl in red?’
‘What do you know about it?’
‘I’m not blind, and Kenji’s anxiety, your interrogation of me and my sudden move here to Rue des Saints-Pères confirmed my suspicions. And I read the newspapers too. Poor Élisa, she wanted a passionate love affair. I hope you find whoever did this to her. Nobody but you knows that I know.’
He felt utterly confused and incredulous. His head spun with the effort of trying to make sense of Iris’s words. His mother and Kenji…The idea was grotesque. The girl was making it up! What had triggered their conversation? Oh yes, the watch.
‘Did Kenji show you the watch…’
‘No. He leaves it on his bedside table every night, and this morning I took it. When I wound it up it played that tune…’
Iris was smiling through her tears. Overcome, Victor rushed outside.
He walked very briskly down Rue des Saints-Pères in an attempt to absorb these revelations. When he reached the corner of Rue Jacob he realised he had forgotten his coat; the feeling that his brain was close to boiling point was intensified by a sudden burst of sunlight that warmed the air. He turned back, mulling over his gnawing resentment. Kenji had kept the truth from him all this time! If he had known sooner, would he have reacted positively? He couldn’t say for sure. He was torn between his admiration for his adoptive father’s stoicism and a cold rage at his oriental insistence on conforming to strict codes of honour. But then his newfound affection for this deceptively fragile sister of his, who had made plain her feelings for him, won him over. He knew he must talk to Kenji. It was a positive, crucial decision and one that would help allay his doubts. And yet he dreaded such a conversation, because the thought of it made him feel like the defenceless, frightened little boy he had been in Sloane Square.
‘What should I say to him? Let’s shake on it and start afresh?’
He felt irritated by his own weakness. The voice of a man with a hint of an English accent echoed in his head:
‘My love. I have found him. You’ll understand. You must…follow your instinct. You can be reborn if you break the chain.’
Joseph was leaning against the counter, his arms behind his back, like the martyred St Sebastian. Victor coughed, shifted some books around and smoothed out a magazine with the flat of his hand. No response. St Sebastian held his pose.
‘I really am sorry, Joseph. I apologise.’
The assistant stiffened, his face sullen.
‘Well, I am not going to go down on my knees! I was wrong, I admit it!’
‘You ordered me to return to my post and here I am,’ retorted Joseph.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, let it go now! Where is Mademoiselle Iris?’
‘She’s still upstairs.’
‘She likes you a lot.’
‘And I suppose that comes as a surprise.’
‘Not in the slightest. I’m sure you are a perfect gentleman. She needs…looking after.’
Joseph relaxed, trying to conceal his pleasure.