by Judith Rock
“Martine was so fair, so blond. Marin often confused blond girls with his Claire. Marin frightened Martine, though. Sometimes when we came begging and she brought out her alms, she shrank from him. Which made the poor man call her a demon and accuse her of having stolen his Claire’s beautiful hair.”
“Did Jean come to you in November?”
“Yes, when Martine’s mother turned him out. He said his name was Jean, and I let him be Jean. I thought he would leave when he found a place to work, but he grew attached to Marin and stayed. He was coughing even then, and I saw that he was sicker than he knew. I also saw that he kept Marin safe, safer than Marin was able to keep himself. I never told Renée where he was. Then Martine was killed, and I saw her little heart on its ribbon around Marin’s wrist, and I was terrified that Marin had killed her. I charged Jean to watch him every minute. God forgive me!”
“Did you know that he killed Henri Brion, too?”
Reine’s old face crumpled in dismay. “Jean? Ah, no! But why?”
“It seems Henri Brion was on his way home after an unpleasant encounter with two men he’d involved in a smuggling scheme. I imagine that Brion saw the side door of the Mynette house open and heard a cry and went to see what was wrong. And saw Martine just after Jean had stabbed her. Jean told me he didn’t mean to kill her and I believe him. He meant only to cut the ribbon and take the necklace, but he must have thrust too hard and opened the great vein in her neck. But he was afraid Brion would accuse him to the police, so he chased Brion and killed him and left him in the ditch. Where you found him.”
Reine closed her eyes, twisting her neck as though she were in pain. “Jean was always timid, always afraid of what might happen to him.” A sob rose in her throat and she covered her face. “If only I had asked Marin where the heart came from, if only I hadn’t believed my worst fear, oh, blessed saints, Marin would be alive!”
If only I hadn’t, if only I had . . . The universal litany of mourning, Charles thought, for which there was no comfort.
Charles got up and searched the cave floor where he and Reine had struggled with Jean. A gleam of red from the fire showed him what he sought, and he leaned down and picked up Martine’s necklace. He held it out to Reine.
Reine shook her head and turned away, her hands busy again stroking Marin’s face, resettling his hands on his breast.
Charles closed his fingers over the necklace, unsure what to do with it.
“Our poor hearts are so often stolen,” Reine said softly, looking at the dead face in her lap.
Behind them, Jean tossed and moaned.
Reine looked at Charles. “We must decide what to do about him before Nicolas comes.”
Chapter 26
Running feet struck thunder from the walls of the cave, and a swinging lantern sent shadows spinning crazily off the ceiling.
“Reine! Reine, where are you? Answer me, for God’s sake!”
“I am here, Nicolas. I am well.”
Silhouetted against lantern light, the beggar Richard appeared briefly in the cave entrance before Lieutenant-Général La Reynie shoved him aside.
“Here, Nicolas.” Reine held out a shaking hand. La Reynie covered the space between them in two strides and knelt beside her.
“Truly, ma chère, you are not hurt?”
“Truly. I owe what is left of my life to Maître du Luc.”
La Reynie looked at Charles with gratitude so naked in his face that Charles looked away in confusion. But not before he’d seen La Reynie wrap his arms around Reine and hold her against his chest, rocking on his knees, his lips tightly closed against whatever he was trying not to say to her.
Wondering anew what lay so deep between these two otherwise so far apart, Charles wondered if La Reynie had even noticed Marin’s body. Slowly, the lieutenant-général released Reine and got to his feet. He took the little carving of Marin from his pocket and held it out to her.
“This is very like him, Reine.”
She put it carefully away inside her garments. “Nicolas—”
“At least we have his killer.” His face was hard with satisfaction. He went to where Jean lay tossing with fever and looked down at him.
“I have him, Nicolas. And I am keeping him. Maître du Luc and I are keeping him.”
La Reynie stared at Reine. Instead of the anger Charles was waiting for, the lieutenant-général’s face creased with worry. He glanced at Charles and said gently, “Grief makes you rave, Reine. Of course I must take him, he is a murderer. At least I have found one whose guilt is certain,” he said, with an ironic look at Charles. “And I will see Marin decently buried.”
“Nicolas, you do not understand—”
La Reynie tried to talk over her, but Charles stopped him.
“Jean is Tito. He killed Martine Mynette and Henri Brion.”
La Reynie spun toward Jean, oblivious in his fever. “He is Tito? How do you know?”
Reine said, “I knew, Nicolas. I have known for a while that he killed Martine Mynette. But I did not know until this morning that he also killed Monsieur Brion.”
Before La Reynie could find words, Charles said, “The servant called Tito left the Mynette house in November, and Reine says that he joined her group of beggars then, calling himself Jean. He told me himself this morning, after he killed Marin, that he had killed Mademoiselle Mynette and Monsieur Brion, though he did not even know Brion’s name. He didn’t mean to kill the girl; he was trying to cut the ribbon of her necklace. He thinks the necklace is his; I don’t know why. As for Henri Brion, he was a victim of poor timing. He must have been on his way home that morning, after Madame Cantel let him out of his prison, when he saw a door open at the Mynette house and went to see if something was wrong. He saw Martine dying. Jean chased him down and stabbed him in fear that Brion would denounce him to the police. Remember that Monsieur Fiennes told us that Gilles Brion saw his father crossing the Place Maubert just at that time.”
La Reynie looked as though someone had given him a chest of gold.
“Thank God and all the saints! Your Jean, Tito, whoever he is, goes to the Châtelet as soon as I can summon men to take him there. If these stories stand up, I can release Gilles Brion.” He strode to Reine and stood looking down at her. “And from here on, I am going to see that you are cared for.” His eyes swept the cave. “No more of this. And this street crotte who tried to kill you will die as he deserves.”
“Listen to me, Nicolas! He is not street dung. It is partly my fault that he killed Marin. As Maître du Luc just told you, I knew who he was; I thought it was Marin who had killed the girl, but I said nothing. If I had, the truth would have come out. It is my fault it ended like this. If I had confronted Marin, or come to you—” Reine threw her head back and stared up into the darkness. “If I had done that, Marin would be alive.” Then she sighed and bowed her head in defeat. “Instead, I gave Jean the chance to further damn himself. Unwittingly, but I gave it to him. Now I am not going to let him die in a prison cell, in worse misery than he’s already in. He stays here. I will watch out his life with him. He has the lung sickness; he’s had it a long time. I’ve seen the end drawing near him for days,” Reine said, drowning out La Reynie’s protest. “His fever will not abate now. I think he will be dead before another morning.” She looked at Charles. “Maître du Luc agrees that he should stay here.”
La Reynie rounded furiously on Charles, but Charles forestalled him.
“I agree with all my heart, mon lieutenant-général.”
“You are deranged, both of you, this is preposterous!” La Reynie went to the boy and nudged him with the toe of his boot. Jean’s labored breathing didn’t change. “He is a killer I’d almost despaired of finding and he is going to die where I put him. You,” he said to Richard, who stood motionless and sharp-eyed at the entrance, listening intently. “Take this and go to the police barrière .” He held out a round token bearing the outline of the city’s sign, the cathedral of Notre Dame. “Say that Monsieur La Reynie require
s two men and bring them here to the cave.”
The beggar didn’t move. “I am Reine’s man, mon lieutenant-général .”
La Reynie reddened with anger. “You,” he snapped at Charles. “Help me carry him.”
“No, Monsieur La Reynie. I am not your man, either.”
“You are a cleric. Where is your sense of justice, of sin?”
“Engaged in a fight to the death with my hope of mercy,” Charles said dryly. He never after knew what made him add, “If you had a son, Monsieur La Reynie, would you not want mercy for him? No matter what he’d done?”
Behind him, Reine drew in a startled breath. La Reynie stood rigid, pressing his crossed arms against his chest as though against a wound. His eyes went to Jean, as the boy moved restlessly in his fever.
“Yes, Nicolas,” Reine said, very softly, “which would you want for Gabriel?”
“Your clever question means nothing,” La Reynie said harshly. “Gabriel is no killer. And he wants no help from me.”
“But you want much from him. Give this dying boy mercy and perhaps the Virgin will give you mercy in return, you and Gabriel.”
“Lieutenant-Général La Reynie,” Charles said, appalled, “please believe that I did not know you had a son. I never intended—”
“Peace, maître,” Reine said. “Perhaps God intended.”
Chapter 27
The morning sun had risen high enough to fall greenly through the small window’s old glass onto Père Le Picart’s desk. The rector sat behind the desk, his long, sinewy fingers lying in the little pool of light, tapping softly and rapidly on the desk’s scarred wood. La Reynie sat in one of the fireside chairs, which Charles had moved closer to the desk for him. Charles stood back, glad—for once—to let his superiors decide what happened next. His horror and astonishment at the morning’s revelations had given way to quiet, and beneath its surface, his mind worked at making sense of what he’d seen and heard, especially at making sense of Jean.
“I will give out that I have the proven killer of Martine Mynette and Henri Brion,” La Reynie was saying. “And then I will give out that he has died of fever.”
Le Picart said nothing, and Charles saw that he was scrutinizing the police chief as he had often scrutinized Charles himself. Some part of him was glad to see that La Reynie was equally uncomfortable under that sharp gray gaze.
“Do you think I am wrong to let him die here?” La Reynie said, shifting in his chair.
“Have I said so?” The rector shook his head. “No, Monsieur La Reynie, I think you have chosen rightly. Why add more suffering to the world than there needs to be?” He looked at Charles. “Maître du Luc will see that he has a priest.” His fingers continued to tap, as though knocking softly at some unseen door. “I suppose that your making it known that the killer has been found will release us from the recent accusations. And from that cursed song.”
“Be assured that it will, in time. I will go on confiscating copies until the sellers and singers turn their attention to the next scandale in Paris.”
“I trust,” Le Picart said dryly, “that the Society of Jesus actually receiving the Mynette money will not be the next scandale.”
La Reynie said grimly, “The closer we get to the end of January, and the king’s visit to the city and grand dinner at the Hôtel de Ville, the faster disturbers of the city’s peace for any reason will find themselves unpleasantly housed in the Châtelet.”
Charles stepped forward. “Mon père, will you give me permission to watch tonight with the beggar woman and the dying boy? In the morning, if he dies as she predicts, I will see that . . . that all is attended to, and that the cave is empty.” Charles glanced at La Reynie. “Monsieur La Reynie has offered to bury the young man, as well as the old beggar he killed.”
Le Picart looked at La Reynie in surprise but said to Charles, “You have my permission, maître. See also that this dying boy and the beggar woman have what they need for their comfort.”
“Thank you, mon père. I will see to it.”
“When they are gone from the cave, I will send lay brothers to block the entrance.” Le Picart’s tapping fingers stilled. “Now that we will have money enough, repairs to the Les Cholets building can go forward, including a stout locked door where you say the beggars have been getting in.”
Charles nodded, remembering what Reine had told him. It was none so bad down there, she’d said. Not bad at all, with fire at hand and water nearby, especially when Paris was freezing or drowning in rain. What she hadn’t told him was where the other entrance was, and how could he tell the rector what he didn’t know?
La Reynie said, “If you will excuse me, mon père, I must send for men to take the beggar’s body away.” He rose from his chair.
Charles took another step forward. “Before I return to the cave, will you give me permission to go to the Couche, mon père? There is an old nun there who may know something about the killer.”
“What does that matter now?” Le Picart and La Reynie said it nearly in concert, and Charles struggled to find an answer.
“I would like to know more about who he is.”
“Curiosity is not a virtue in a Jesuit,” Le Picart said mildly, eyeing him.
The silence stretched and Charles realized belatedly that the rector was waiting for a response to what he’d said.
“Mon père, it seems to me that the idle curiosity of distraction, which leads to meddling, is one thing. But the desire to know truth in order to see justice done and compassion given is another. It seems only right to know whom we are burying.”
Le Picart still said nothing, his eyes boring into Charles.
“And to know why he killed,” Charles made bold to say. “If we do not know why souls grow desperate, how can we help them?”
La Reynie was staring at him in open amazement. But the rector had relaxed into his chair and was regarding Charles with more than a little satisfaction.
“You may go to the Couche. But”—the satisfied look was replaced by one of unmistakable warning—“when you have asked your questions, whether or not you have your answers, the task I set you will be ended. You will then give your full and undivided attention to your duties here.”
“Yes, mon père.”
Charles and La Reynie bowed and turned to leave. Before the door shut behind them, though, the rector called Charles back.
“I say this only to you, but I think you will want to know. It was one of our own from Louis Le Grand who spoke carelessly, outside the college, about the Mynette patrimoine coming to us.”
Charles remembered his first walk to the Place with the dour Maître Richaud and the gossip Richaud had heard in the chandler’s workshop. “And this Jesuit talked about the patrimoine?”
“Yes. But that is all that needs to be said. The rest is not your business.”
The “rest” meaning consequences, including penance. You should order him to go and see a comedy every day, Charles thought irreverently, remembering Richaud’s dislike of laughter.
“Before you go to the Couche,” Le Picart said briskly, “take food to the cave. And blankets.”
Charles bent his head in acquiescence.
“And Maître du Luc?”
Charles looked up.
“My thanks to you. You have done well what I ordered you to do.” He gave Charles a small, wintry smile. “When I gave you this task, I said that a Jesuit’s obedience should be his superior’s supporting staff. You have upheld me, and also Louis le Grand.”
Charles felt himself flushing with pleasure at the unexpected thanks. Jesuit obedience—no matter how hard he himself found it—was regarded as simply a given, not an occasion for thanks. “I only wish I could have prevented this morning’s death,” he said.
“I wish so, too. But that death and its sin are not yours to carry.” Le Picart’s smile reached his cool gray eyes this time. “What would be the point of growing in obedience only to fall into overscrupulosity?”
Char
les found himself smiling, too, and remembering the Christmas Farce of Monks. If the end of a scholastic was to be kicked, the frequent function of a superior was to douse the scholastic with cold water for the good of his soul. “Point taken, mon père.”
Charles collected blankets from the central store of bedding, and soup and bread from the kitchen. With some difficulty, he made his way back into the Les Cholets courtyard and down to the cellar. Nothing had changed. Reine still held Marin’s body on her lap, and Jean was still tossing and shivering with fever. Charles gently unwrapped his cloak from the boy and wrapped him instead in layers of blankets. He put another blanket around Reine’s shoulders and set the soup and bread beside her.
“Where is Richard?” Charles asked, seeing that the beggar was gone.
“He went to tell the others not to return tonight.”
“Where will they stay?”
“There are other places.”
The sound of voices and footsteps announced La Reynie, followed by two sergents with a litter. Reine gathered Marin to her and kissed him.
“Good-bye, mon coeur, my heart, my life.” She looked up at La Reynie, her eyes full of pleading. “Treat him gently, Nicolas,” she whispered.
“You know I will.” He called the two men forward with a look. “You will do this as though for your fathers,” he said curtly, and stepped aside.
Obviously bewildered by so much care for a filthy beggar, but just as obviously flinching from the steel in La Reynie’s voice, his men placed Marin on the litter with the care they might have given a marquis. They covered him with the blanket they’d brought, bowed to La Reynie, and bore the litter away to the Châtelet’s mortuary chapel.
As their footsteps died away, Richard emerged from the passage and sat down beside Reine. “I will take care of her, Monsieur La Reynie.”
“For now.” The lieutenant-général strode out of the cave and Charles followed.
When they reached the front of the college, a red-and-black carriage drawn by a pair of black horses, standing in the little rue des Poirees across from Louis le Grand’s main doors, came to meet them. A serving boy jumped down from his place between the high rear wheels and opened the door. Charles began his farewells, but La Reynie motioned him curtly into the carriage and climbed in behind him.