The Eloquence of Blood

by Judith Rock

  Morel hesitated and looked at Charles. “You will come with me, maître?”

  “I have another matter to discuss with Maître du Luc,” La Reynie said smoothly. “Better not wait for him. For Mademoiselle Brion’s sake.” He gestured courteously toward the street.

  With a last warning look at Charles, the dancing master went. When he was out of hearing, La Reynie said, “His reason for protecting the Brion daughter is obvious, but I also noticed that when the Brion son was mentioned, Monsieur Morel didn’t want us to talk about him. Is this son already a novice?”

  “No, his father did not approve of his wish.”

  “Ah. Did they quarrel over it? Could the son have killed him?”

  “Yes to both. But I’ve met him and I don’t think he has the stomach for it.”

  “Monsieur Morel was trying so hard to keep us from discussing him, I can only think he disagrees.”

  “He is trying to save Mademoiselle Brion from more grief. As I would like to do, too. What he didn’t want you to know is that her brother has been quarreling with his father over more than religious vocation. His father was forcing him to court Martine Mynette for her money and he, of course, didn’t want to marry.”

  “And now the unwelcome bride and the implacable father are both dead. Even a would-be monk may strike back if you push him too far. But how does this donation fit into that convenient picture—I would think Monsieur Henri Brion would have searched for it very diligently indeed. Why marry his son to a failed heiress? Which makes what the Châtelet clerk told you more than a little odd. Who is this clerk?”

  “I don’t know his name,” Charles said absently, as his thoughts about Gilles Brion shifted suddenly. It was hard to see the young man as a killer. But a thief? Henri Brion indeed had no reason to want the donation lost, since he wanted the Mynette money. But Gilles Brion had an urgent reason. And he would have had opportunities to steal it, frequenting the Mynette house as a suitor. If the document disappeared permanently, so would the reason for the marriage. But Gilles Brion did not have his father’s access to the Châtelet records, so how could he also have stolen the original? Had he realized that he could not hope to get his hands on the original document and decided that killing his father was the only way to put an end to his difficulties?

  La Reynie had turned to his sergent. “Leave the wood seller and her friends to guard the path, and get men to take the body to the Châtelet. And then to the Brion house. Which is where, Maître du Luc?”

  “Off the Place Maubert in the rue Perdue, at the Sign of Three Ducks.”

  La Reynie nodded his thanks. “But before you do any of that,” he said to the sergent, “send a man to watch the Capuchin house on the rue St. Honoré. If any young layman comes out or goes in, stop him. You are looking for Gilles Brion. What does he look like, Maître du Luc?”

  “Small, frail looking, brown hair. He wore embroidered linen the only time I saw him. And high heels on his shoes.”

  “And if you find him, hold him there at the monastery until I come—tell him only that I need to speak with him.”

  “Yes, mon lieutenant-général.” He climbed quickly up the slope and disappeared into the alley.

  “Now,” La Reynie said, “as we climb out of here, maître, tell me the rest of the reason you are concerning yourself in this.”

  “As you obviously know, the Jesuit college stands to get the Mynette money. Simon Mynette, the father of the murdered girl’s adoptive mother, promised the money to the college when his daughter was gone, because there was no other family left. But that was before the adoption and the donation entre vifs. Now that Martine Mynette has been murdered, rumor is growing that Jesuits connived at her death to have the inheritance. I met Mademoiselle Mynette at the Brion house the day before she died. Père Le Picart has asked me to find out what I can about her death to help quell the rumors that are flying. Unless Henri Brion’s killer is found quickly, this death is going to make them fly even faster.”

  La Reynie nodded, and they made their way in silence up the narrow path between the old houses. The gathered women, quiet now, were still standing in the rutted little dirt street.

  “Mesdames,” La Reynie said, sweeping off his white-plumed hat, “where might I find Reine now?”

  The women traded looks and the eldest said, “Probably at The Procope, monsieur.”

  “I thank you. And my thanks to you especially, madame,” he added to the wood seller, “for sending to the barrière for the sergent . He is going to ask you and your friends to keep people from the path here for a short while. I hope you will oblige him.”

  To Charles’s surprise, these poor, lowborn women did not curtsy to La Reynie. They simply nodded regally, and La Reynie nodded respectfully in return and replaced his hat.

  “I find it interesting,” he said, as he and Charles walked away, “that men mostly ignore each other until someone’s honor is threatened. But women! They ignore nothing and so they know everything that goes on in a quartier. I could not do my job without them.”

  Charles murmured acknowledgment, but his thoughts were across the river. “Are you going to the Capuchins to look for Gilles Brion?”

  “Not yet. If young Brion killed his father and fled, he is gone. If he is still at his prayers, the sergent will find him easily enough. We are going to Procope’s coffeehouse.”

  The thought of hot fragrant coffee nearly brought tears to Charles’s eyes. But Jesuits did not go to coffeehouses and La Reynie knew it.

  “That is a wickedly tempting suggestion, mon lieutenant-général. You know I cannot sit in a coffeehouse.”

  “The Society of Jesus forbids tobacco, not coffee. If the head of the Paris police compels you to sit in a coffeehouse, you can sit there. Two sets of eyes and ears are better than one.” He smiled a little. “Even if the one is me.”

  Chapter 10

  Procope’s coffeehouse was in the rue des Fossés St. Germain, west of Louis le Grand and near where the old wall curved north to meet the river. The rue des Fossés was part of the ongoing effort to free Paris from its walls and make it a modern, open city. The old, towered stone walls were being slowly leveled and the defensive ditches on either side filled in to make wide, somewhat raised promenades planted with trees. On the Right Bank, the walls had come down quickly, but on this side of the river progress was slow, as progress always seemed to be on the Left Bank.

  Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli’s coffeehouse was a world away from the ditch where Henri Brion’s body lay. Charles expected to see the beggar woman called Reine sitting at its door, but no one was there and La Reynie led the way inside. Everything about Procope’s had the glitter of success. Its walls were hung with tapestry, paintings, and even a mirror. Graceful chandeliers with crystal pendants hung from the ceiling, banishing the morning’s grayness. Well-dressed men sat at round tables, sipping coffee from bowl-like cups. Many were absorbed in books and news sheets, while others played cards or talked and argued in low voices. An enormous brass kettle with a spigot warmed at the front of the fireplace, and a waiter dressed à la Arménien, in a red-and-gold turban and a long embroidered robe, moved through the room, refilling cups from a long-spouted silver pot.

  A woman of fifty or so, in a high-necked gown of sober black, collected the money and kept watch over the proceedings from a half-walled counter near the fireplace. Her eyes widened as she recognized Lieutenant-Général La Reynie, and she hurried out of her little fortress, her tall white fontange headdress quivering like the erected crest of a startled bird. At the clattering of her low heels on the diamond-patterned floor tiles, a dozen men looked up to see who had come in and a ripple of silence followed her across the room. With a disapproving glance at Charles, she curtsied to La Reynie.

  “You are welcome to The Procope, monsieur.”

  “Thank you, madame.” La Reynie smiled widely. “May I take it from your welcome that we no longer have a quarrel about your closing time?”

  Her lips smiled
back, but her small black eyes were cold as she said, “Naturally we have no quarrel. You will find, if you stay so long, that we close and lock our door at six, exactly as required. Would you care to sit by the fire, monsieur? There is a table there.”

  Charles waited for La Reynie to explain that they were there on business, but the lieutenant-général only looked questioningly at him, as if a table by the fire or not were the extent of his worries on earth.

  “That would be a great gift, madame,” Charles said sincerely.

  Eyes followed them as the woman led the way to a warm corner hung with red-and-blue tapestry. She beckoned the waiter to them, curtsied again, and returned stiff-backed to her post. The turbaned and gowned young waiter had liquid dark eyes and a scattering of pockmarks. He bowed elaborately.

  “What is your pleasure, messieurs? I can offer you coffee of the best, or chocolate in the Spanish style, or spiced limonade. Or one of our frozen waters, since you are sitting so warmly. We have anise, orange, cinnamon flower, frangipani, and barley. And our cakes and wafers are the freshest and most toothsome in Paris!”

  La Reynie ordered coffee and cakes for two, and the waiter sped gracefully away.

  “What about the beggar?”

  “Wait. We’ll watch a little first. The word will be out that the body has been found. We may not be the only ones wanting to speak to Reine.”

  “Ah.” To keep up the appearance of polite, nothing-saying talk, Charles said, “I know Signore Procopio is Sicilian. Are the rest of them Sicilian, too?”

  “Yes, mostly. Procopio’s relations. It’s always a good idea to employ relations, because you can pay them nothing. Very Italian.” La Reynie grinned. “Also very French.” He raised his eyebrows slightly at Charles. “And now let us survey our fellows. When our coffee comes, we will enjoy it like tired men glad to be silent and listen to others talk. Before we move on to other things.”

  As Charles let his gaze wander the room, he realized that no pipes were in evidence. “No tobacco here?” he whispered, surprised.

  La Reynie shook his head. “No. In some others, but not here. I don’t think the French will ever hide themselves in a reeking fog of tobacco smoke as the English do. Also, Procopio welcomes women—escorted, of course—and women will not come if the air is foul.”

  This morning, though, there were only men at Procope’s.

  “Recognize anyone?” La Reynie asked softly.

  Charles shook his head. “Do you?”

  La Reynie looked surprised, for once. “Of course I do, I recognize half of them. For what that’s worth. Probably not much. Most of our fellow idlers have probably done nothing worse than lie to their wives and refuse to pay their tailors.”

  The coffee arrived, along with small almond-flavored cakes. Charles had drunk coffee before, but not often. He breathed in its fragrance and drank deeply, sighing with pleasure as he set his cup down and thinking that this was worth penance. He picked up a cake and went back to watching the room. Most of the interest in the newcomers had subsided. Aside from two or three men eyeing them and leaning toward each other as they talked, their presence didn’t seem to be much bothering anyone. La Reynie took off his cloak and turned his chair so that he could stretch his black-stockinged legs in front of him. He sipped his coffee contentedly, seemingly oblivious of everything else.

  Charles ate a cake and scanned the wall across from them without moving his head. The instinct that had kept him alive during the Spanish Netherlands war was telling him they were being watched, and too intently. From the barely open door, he guessed, which probably led to the kitchen. Seeming to study a shelf above the door that was lined with glowing copper pots graduated in size like a fertile man’s family, Charles murmured to La Reynie, “Someone beyond that door across the room is very interested in us.”

  “Ah. Yes, I see, very nice.” La Reynie nodded appreciatively at the pots. “One would like to see them at close range.”

  “One would. Shall we pay a visit to the kitchen?”

  “We were already going to. That’s where Reine will be, if she’s here. But we should go now, before our interested friend disappears. The necessity is through there, anyway. After you, maître.”

  “You are too courteous, monsieur.”

  Charles drained his coffee bowl and set it down. Rising, he walked casually toward the slightly open door. It shut with a snap. He told himself that even in these times, most people would not do a cleric serious damage. Whatever the truth of that, the invulnerable feeling coffee seemed to give him was rising into his head, and he pushed the door open harder than he meant to. It slammed against the wall and bounced back into his hand. Which told him that the watcher was not behind the door.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said genially, and stepped into the kitchen.

  An aproned man squatting beside the fireplace with a long-handled fork in his hand stared at him and went back to poking a roasting chicken. A frowning woman of thirty-five or so stood at the central table, kneading dough. But Charles still had the feeling that someone was watching him. Sensing La Reynie at his back, he let go of the door and stepped farther into the kitchen.

  “The necessity, monsieur, if you please?” he asked the man at the fireplace.

  “In the yard.” He gestured with his fork.

  “You first, maître.” La Reynie moved up beside Charles. See who’s out there, his eyes added.

  As Charles crossed the room, shadows moved in a corner. He tilted his head slightly toward the movement and kept going.

  Behind him, La Reynie circled toward the corner, chatting affably to the cook and the woman. Charles went out into the cluttered back court, stopping the outer door’s swing so he could hear what went on in the kitchen. He surveyed the yard. A man unloading barrels from a cart and rolling them across the snowedged cobbles and down a ramp to the cellar paid him no attention. Charles looked swiftly into the privy beside the kitchen door, found it empty, and went back inside.

  La Reynie, holding a rusted iron candlestick with a tallow candle in it, was standing in front of the corner where the shadows had moved. The man with the fork had dragged a stool in front of the fire and set a carafe full of dark wine beside it. He was sipping from a large glassful as he kept loving watch over his chicken. The woman at the table had stopped kneading her dough and was scowling at La Reynie.

  Drifting toward the corner, Charles put himself between her and the lieutenant-général.

  “. . . then when and where did you last see him?” La Reynie was saying, still looking into the corner.

  “Thursday evening. Here.” The voice was a woman’s, old but still melodic, like a cracked viol that could make you imagine its past glory.

  “At what time?”

  “He left just before the absurd hour you force Monsieur Procope to close, mon cher.” The woman’s laughter played suddenly up and down the scale. “Come, Nicolas, it is not the old days, you cannot herd people into their houses at dark, like they were cows.”

  Mon cher? Nicolas? Charles shifted, trying to see the woman, and waiting for La Reynie to put her scathingly in her place.

  But he didn’t. He laughed. “That never did work well, did it? As you know better than any of us, Reine.”

  The woman laughed deep in her throat. “Curfews were never worth a cabbage, and the ones who made them were the worst at keeping them. You certainly were.”

  Bewildered by the easy familiarity, Charles moved again, trying to see La Reynie’s face without interrupting him. The lieutenant-général was smiling a little, looking with affection at the hunched figure in the corner. The woman was sitting on a low stool, working at something held in her lap. The frayed gold embroidery on her tattered velvet underskirt caught the candlelight, and her scarlet taffeta bodice had alien yellow sleeves. Her patched black overskirt was so threadbare it hardly needed to be open in the front to display the underskirt’s gold thread. Ragged saffron lace was wrapped around her withered neck, and a turban of stained blue s
atin, intricately wrapped with more of the saffron lace, covered her hair. Charles wondered if her parents had named her Queen, or if that had come later. In her bizarre way, she looked regal enough.

  “Back to business, Reine,” La Reynie said. “Why did Henri Brion leave Procope’s before closing?”

  “Why do men leave, Nicolas? Because they have somewhere more important to go.” She lifted her gaze suddenly. Her face was a maze of lines, and Charles thought she was at least sixty. But her vividly green eyes were as young as new beech leaves.

  “Please,” La Reynie said softly. “I need to know.”

  “Then know that he left with two men. Not willingly, I thought. But he went. They walked him out the door between them, pretending he was drunk—he wasn’t—and then they took hold of his arms and he had no choice at all.”

  “Where were you, to see this?”

  “Outside. By the door.”

  “You were begging.”

  “Yes, Nicolas, begging. Looking cold and pathetic and making a nice bit for my supper. Not as much as I used to make, of course. But still needing the charity of men in order to eat. But isn’t that the fate of women?”

  “Did you recognize the men who took Brion? Or hear what they said? Where they were taking him?”

  Reine bent over her lap again, and Charles saw that she had a small knife and was working carefully at a piece of wood.

  “I don’t know where they took him. They walked toward the river. One man I knew. Monsieur Claude Bizeul, a goldsmith.”

  La Reynie said sharply, “A goldsmith? Are you sure?”

  The old woman didn’t speak, seeming absorbed in her carving, and to Charles’s surprise, La Reynie waited patiently.

  “Oh, yes, Nicolas, I am very sure,” she said at last, still not looking up. “Claude Bizeul is white haired now, but he has kept his figure admirably. His companion I’ve seen here before, but I don’t know his name. He is a younger man, dark haired. Taller.”