‘Did anything about his appearance strike you?’
‘Monsieur, you now know my eyesight is poor: I could barely make out his outline, like a shadow.’
‘Thank you, Picard. You have been most helpful.’
The major-domo thanked Nicolas with a soldierly nod of the head. He hesitated before withdrawing and finally added: ‘Monsieur, find the person who brought our child to this.’
‘I will. You may be sure of that.’
*
Nicolas watched him walk away in an attempt at a military gait but which merely betrayed his stiffness and pain. He recalled another old soldier: one who had hanged himself in a cell in the Châtelet and whose death meant that Nicolas’s nights were sometimes haunted by feelings of remorse …
Picard’s interrogation had indeed proved helpful. The dead man’s identity had been confirmed. The major-domo’s remarks about the vicomte’s melancholy matched Lambert’s. The fondness that Picard clearly felt for the vicomte did not affect his judgement. Lastly his view of the manservant’s character tallied with his own. So Nicolas would have to be even more cautious before coming to a definite opinion. The fact remained that Lambert exerted a considerable influence on his master but whether it was for better or for worse had yet to be seen. However, there was nothing to suggest that the servant had been informed of his master’s death before reaching the first-floor rooms.
All that remained for Nicolas to do was to have the body taken away as soon as possible, after one last formality: emptying the dead man’s pockets. He proceeded methodically, trying not to look at the horrifying spectacle of the face, but his search did not prove very fruitful: a few crown coins, an empty silver snuffbox, a piece of pink ribbon and a red wax stamp. In the pockets of the cloak on the bed he found a wet and still folded handkerchief, and round the hem a few specks of a powdery, coaly substance that had resisted the damp. The hat, which he carefully shook out and examined minutely, yielded nothing of particular interest.
Nicolas met up with Bourdeau in the corridor and, after allowing Lambert to withdraw, took the inspector off into the bedroom.
‘Have you found anything?’
‘A spoilt child, a shady servant who was a bad influence,’ replied Bourdeau. ‘But it does seem that he learnt of his master’s death directly from the major-domo.’
The inspector kept some of his observations to himself, which might be of use to him in the future.
Then it was time for the unchanging ritual: the body was lifted up, placed on a stretcher, covered with a brown blanket and taken away. After a final look at the scene of the crime and having extinguished the candelabrum, Nicolas closed the door and affixed the sealing wafers, which he signed carefully. He put the bedroom key in his pocket, where it joined the items he had picked up and the pistol found near the body. He undertook all this without much thought as to what he was doing, like an automaton. In the course of his short police career he had already followed these procedures on various occasions but each time he was aware of their sinister meaning, the end of a human life.
He sent Bourdeau out to check that the coast was clear and then had the bearers go downstairs, telling them to make as little noise as possible. He hoped that the Comte de Ruissec would have no inkling of what was happening. He remembered that when they had reached the Hôtel de Ruissec the shutters on the façade had seemed closed. The police carriages were waiting in the street: the rumble of the cart would not be heard from inside the high walls of the building. He decided to wait until all was quiet again and to take advantage of the silence to broaden the scope of his investigation. He wanted to explore the grounds behind the main building, beneath the wing containing the vicomte’s rooms. He left Bourdeau to keep guard and had Picard show him the door that led outside.
The major-domo had lent him a lantern but the moon was bright enough. To the right he could make out the wing he was looking for. It was a very simple construction on two levels, a ground floor with wide oval carriage entrances allowing a glimpse of stables or sheds for carriages, and a first floor where the vicomte’s rooms were situated. Everything was identical to the main building with a double-pitched mansard roof above it. Nicolas headed towards the wing. He opened one of the doors; he knew where he was by the strong stable smell and the prolonged neighing of those horses that were awake. The entrance was cobbled and climbing roses were growing up between the two doors. He crouched down and carefully examined the ground beneath the vicomte’s windows, then stood up again and beamed his lantern towards the wall. He stayed there for some time, then tried to gain a more precise idea of the layout.
The irregular shape of the garden – a trapezium with its apex extending beyond the stables – was disguised by the symmetry of two long rectangular parterres that ended in a rond-point decorated with trellises. The other parts were made up of patches of greenery interlinked by small grass pathways planted in the shape of a maze. Each of the two parterres was decorated with stone corbeils. The central alley ended abruptly at a large circular marble pond ornamented with a group of lead cupids and tritons that acted as water spouts. A cobbled alley formed a sort of terrace in front of the steps leading to the large rooms on the ground floor. A small door, through which Nicolas had come out, was situated in the right angle where the buildings met and was half hidden in a sort of sunken rotunda.
Nicolas turned left again and discovered a closed carriage gateway, which must have led on to an adjacent lane perpendicular to the road on which the Hôtel de Ruissec was situated. He walked all the way round the boundary wall, stopping here and there and crouching down several times in the dead leaves. He ended his walk in a tucked-away corner where, behind a hedge, he discovered a garden shed full of tools, watering cans, a ladder and seedlings in pots. He went back towards the central pond and, as he drew near, the smell of stagnant water became stronger and stronger, mingled with the heady aroma of boxwood. An impression flashed through his mind and then was gone.
After a last glance at the parterres full of rosebushes, Nicolas met up with Bourdeau and Picard, who were talking together. He was always surprised by his deputy’s ability to gain the immediate trust of ordinary people. He asked the major-domo to inform his master that Nicolas needed to see him. Picard obeyed and came back without saying a word; he opened the door of a large drawing room, lit some candelabra and asked Nicolas to enter.
The gentle, flickering gleam of the candles filled the room with enough light to reveal a wall with a trompe-l’oeil vista of an imaginary landscape. A large archway led the eye towards a park, suggesting the countryside in the background. To extend the perspective the painter had placed two incomplete marble banisters halfway, which appeared to flank the beginning of a flight of steps and gradually disappeared into the distance. The archway, resting on two Ionic columns, also had pilasters that supported an attic whose panel was decorated with musician cupids sculpted in the round. The open windows on the right and left of the work added to the illusion, increasing the suggestion of space beyond the real room. Nicolas admired this surprising blend of painting and sculpture. He was lost in contemplation before it, rediscovering in this life-size work of art one of the themes of his childhood dreams. The few engravings that discreetly decorated Canon Le Floch’s austere interior in Guérande had provided plenty of scope for his imagination. He had spent hours gazing at the scenes they depicted, especially the one of Damiens’s ordeal in the Place de Grève, until he felt caught up in the events themselves. Then in a sort of waking dream he would invent endless adventures, whilst deep down always secretly worrying that he would never return to a peaceful and protective existence. What he could see in this reconstruction of real life both fascinated and attracted him with its baroque extravagance and opera-like décor. He held out his hand as if trying to enter it.
An angry voice rang out, bringing him back to reality.
‘“Shall the throne of iniquity have fellowship with thee, which frameth mischief by the law”, taking pleasure in th
e wickedness of the images?’
Nicolas turned. The Comte de Ruissec stood before him.
‘Psalm Ninety-four. You are, Monsieur, or so I assume, neither a Huguenot nor a Jansenist. I have known two men who were accustomed to quoting the Scriptures: one was a saint and the other a hypocrite. Here indeed we have his master’s sleuthhound, lost in contemplation before this graven image that is a mere parody of life.’
‘And yet it is what decorates the drawing room of your mansion, Monsieur.’
‘I acquired this house from a ruined farmer of taxes, who took great delight in such illusions. For my part I have little liking for them and will have them covered up with paintings or tapestries. But we have not a moment to lose. For the last time, Monsieur, I command you to let me see my son.’
He stood with his hands on the back of an armchair, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
‘Monsieur, it is my duty to inform you that the Vicomte de Ruissec’s body has been removed from this house and taken to a place of justice for a special inquiry.’
Nicolas was expecting an explosion of anger from the comte, but it did not come. The comte’s expression remained intense and full of hatred, his jaw twitching tensely. He sat down and, for a while, remained silent.
‘This is most cruel and quite incomprehensible.’
‘I should add that if such a decision has been taken it is in order both to spare yourself and Madame the comtesse an unbearable sight …’
‘Monsieur, I am used to the spectacle of war.’
‘… And also to consult physicians as to the nature of your son’s wounds.’
He did not wish to go into too much detail and feed the comte’s imagination; there was no point.
‘Are you telling me that they intend to open up my son’s body?’
‘Much to my regret, Monsieur. The procedure might be necessary in order to establish the truth.’
‘But what truth do you hope to establish, given that my son killed himself in a room that was double-locked? You opened it yourself. What purpose can it serve to inflict such treatment on a lifeless body?’
‘Remember, Monsieur,’ Nicolas replied, ‘that this examination may provide precious information and prove, for example, that your son may have injured himself while cleaning his weapon, thus removing the stain of his having killed himself deliberately.’
Nicolas thought that this effort to justify the examination would make no impression on the comte. Sometimes in extreme circumstances mental torment can lead people to cling desperately to the slightest hope. Yet Nicolas felt that the comte would not contemplate the idea of an accident, as if he was convinced that it was indeed suicide.
‘As soon as the examinations have been carried out,’ Nicolas continued, ‘with, I can assure you, the utmost discretion and in total secrecy, your son’s body will be properly prepared and returned to you. This is, I think, the best arrangement, one that does not prejudge future developments and leaves open every possibility of preserving your family honour.’
He thought that this comforting promise to make the corpse presentable was quite risky, given the state of the body.
Suddenly the comte stood up. The effect that the announcement of the removal of the body had not produced was suddenly triggered by the word ‘honour’.
‘Who are you, Monsieur, to speak of honour? What do you claim to know about it? Honour is something, Monsieur, that one needs to have been born with to be able to speak of it. Honour comes from the purity of the blood line, uncontaminated by commoners. It goes back to the dawn of time, nourishes generation after generation, and is earned by the sword in the service of the King and of God. How dare you allow this word to cross your lips, Monsieur Police Officer?’
Nicolas held back a childish and conceited desire to remind him of his precise official title, momentarily raising his left hand slightly, then lowering it. It was at this point that the comte laid his eyes on the emblazoned signet ring that the young man was wearing.
It had been sent to him by his half-sister, Isabelle, after the King himself had explained the mystery of his birth, and it bore the coat of arms of the Ranreuils. He had not wished to take up a title that was his by right but he kept this ring in memory of his godfather, whom he only dared to call his father in the secret recesses of his heart. This signet ring was like a bond with what lay beyond the grave. As a child he had admired this time-worn blazon a hundred times or more and now it was his.
Eyes flashing with fury and his mouth twisted in anger, the elderly comte continued, pointing to the ring: ‘How dare you speak of honour and presume to display the arms of a Ranreuil? Yes, my sight is good enough to recognise the blazon of a nobleman who served with me and I still have enough energy to express my outrage at the sight of a hireling forgetting his place in this fashion.’
‘Monsieur, I am of the Marquis de Ranreuil’s blood and lineage, and I would advise you to moderate your language.’
Nicolas had been unable to restrain himself. It was the first time he had proclaimed his birth after declining to take up its privileges.
‘And so the fruit of sin finds pleasure in contemptible occupations. What, though, does it matter? Such are the times we live in. A century when sons rise up against their fathers, when aspiring to good leads to sinking into the mire of evil, an evil that is everywhere in the highest and the lowest ranks of society.’
The Comte de Ruissec’s white face was a picture of hatred. As he put his hand to his forehead, Nicolas noticed his curved and scored fingernails. The elderly man pointed towards the door.
‘Enough, Monsieur. I note that as a true and worthy servant of Sartine’s you neither comply with the wishes of a father nor show the respect that my position should inspire in you. Get out. I know what there remains for me to do.’
He turned round to face the trompe-l’oeil, and for a moment Nicolas thought that he was going to fade into it and disappear into the grounds it depicted. This impression was enhanced by the comte leaning against the wall and placing his hands flat against one of the marble banisters.
There was nothing to keep Nicolas any longer in the house, which was now just a place of mourning. His footsteps echoed along the stone floor of the entrance hall, then he felt the cool air of the courtyard, with its smell of dust and decaying plants. A light wind was blowing, sending the leaves swirling across the cobbles. He went over to the cab, which had presumably been sent by Monsieur de Sartine. Bourdeau’s horse was tied to the back of the vehicle by its halter. In the lantern light he could see the outline of Inspector Bourdeau, lying back with his mouth open, fast asleep. As he went to take his seat, Nicolas turned, as if something were holding him back, and looked up. On the first floor of the mansion the silhouette of a woman holding a candlestick appeared at one of the windows. He sensed that she was staring at him. At the very same moment a discreet cough called his attention. Without a word, Picard slipped a small square envelope into his hand. When Nicolas looked back up at the window he thought he must have been dreaming: the figure had disappeared. Unsettled by this, he climbed into the cab, which creaked under his weight. The coachman cracked his whip and the horse and carriage clattered out of the courtyard of the Hôtel de Ruissec.
Nicolas held the envelope in his hand, resisting the temptation to open it immediately. Beside him the sleeping figure of Bourdeau was jolted around with every bump of the cab. The road, which had only recently been marked out and laid, went through a half-wrecked countryside of waste ground, building sites and gardens. Nicolas wondered what could have persuaded the Comte de Ruissec to acquire this new mansion in such an isolated spot. Had it been a cheap purchase, a compulsory sale to pay off the debts of a bankrupt farmer of taxes, or was there some other reason? Perhaps the simplest explanation was its closeness to the Versailles road. It suited a courtier whose functions were divided between the town and the Court, requiring him to be not too far away from either place. And, as Picard had suggested, it also enabled the
elderly nobleman to enjoy the comfort of a home after the rigours of life in military camps. We need to look into this whole family, he thought to himself.
His conversation with the Comte de Ruissec had given him a glimpse of the comte’s bitterness, a strange reaction that did not seem appropriate for someone grieving over a dead child. He needed to take the Comte de Ruissec’s interrogation a stage further, but this would have to be done skilfully if he were to get round the wily old creature’s defences. His forthright character seemed resistant to charm of any kind. Nicolas had not been convinced by his ostentatious show of almost Puritan piety or his outburst about honour. The conversation had left the commissioner with an almost tangible impression of a cruel and dissembling character.
He was holding the small square of paper so tightly that it hurt his hand like burning coals: the sensation roused him from his thoughts. He lowered the carriage window and the chilly, damp air hit him straight in the face. He leant out to make use of the lantern light and broke the wax seal. The light revealed a few lines of large, shaky handwriting – probably a woman’s – with curved, overlapping letters. The text was short and to the point:
Monsieur,
Tomorrow at four o’clock be in the Lady Chapel of the Carmelite church on Rue de Vaugirard. Someone will be waiting for you there who desires to have the benefit of your knowledge.
Instinctively, he put the message to his nose and breathed in the scent. He had already smelt this perfume on elderly ladies, the dowagers of the upper echelons of Guérande society who frequented his guardian, the canon, or whom he met in the Marquis de Ranreuil’s chateau. He recognised the lingering scent of face powder and eau de la Reine de Hongrie. He examined the paper: it was an almond-green colour, laid paper with no engraved monogram or watermark, which observations led him to make a connection between the writer of these lines and the face at the window of the Hôtel de Ruissec. The message, handed on by the faithful family major-domo, came most probably from the Comtesse de Ruissec and was clear evidence of her wish to tell him some secret in confidence. One detail, however, intrigued him: the purpose of the meeting was less a desire to enlighten him concerning the vicomte’s death than a supposed request for advice. He reassured himself with the thought that these two things were perhaps not totally unconnected.
The Man with the Lead Stomach Page 5