The Man with the Lead Stomach

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘Who dares disturb me? I specifically said that—’

  ‘A former apprentice, a Breton from Lower Brittany.’

  ‘Nicolas!’

  He embraced the young man tightly, then made him step back to look at him.

  ‘Clear, bold eyes, head held high, a ruddy complexion. All the humours are in harmony. I heard about your promotion. Do you remember how I prophesied it? I had a presentiment that Monsieur de Sartine would affect the course of your life. I have often thanked the Lord for it.’

  They shared their memories of a still-recent past. Nicolas explained to Père Grégoire his reason for coming to the monastery and learnt from his friend that the Comtesse de Ruissec was a frequent visitor and that one of the Carmelite fathers was her confessor. The time passed quickly and, whilst enjoying this reunion, Nicolas waited for the bells of the church to strike four. He suddenly thought they were not on time. He looked at his watch and was startled to discover that the bells were already five minutes late. Père Grégoire informed him that they had stopped sounding the hour so as not to disturb the peace of one of the brothers whose life was drawing to a close.

  The young man arrived at the church quite breathless, having run all the way. It was empty. He was relieved; he was first to arrive. The smell of incense and extinguished candles and the more insidious odour of decomposition reached him. He examined the four side chapels; they, too, were empty. In the crossing of the transept he admired the beautiful white marble sculpture of the Virgin modelled on a statue by Bernini, or so Père Grégoire had often told him. Above him he recognised the painting in the dome in which the prophet Elijah was depicted being taken up to heaven in a chariot of fire. In front of the altar the well into which the bodies of the dead monks were lowered was open. Nicolas knew the place; it was from here that holy water was sprinkled down into the crypt.

  Nicolas was getting breathless again: incense often had this effect on him. He sat down on a prayer stool and tried to overcome the choking feeling. He was alerted by a sudden cry and the sound of hurried footsteps. They echoed through the building but it was impossible to determine where they came from. They soon faded, giving way to a silence so deep that he could hear the sputtering of candles and every creak of the woodwork. There was more shouting; then Père Grégoire appeared suddenly, red in the face and followed by three monks. He spoke incoherently.

  ‘Something has happened … Oh my God, Nicolas, a terrible thing …’

  ‘Calm down and tell me from the beginning.’

  ‘When you left me … Someone came to inform me of the death of our prior. In the absence of the abbot I am the one who makes the arrangements. I asked for the crypt to be prepared for the funeral. Then, then …’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Brother Anselme went down there and discovered … He found …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Comtesse de Ruissec’s body. She had fallen down the well of the dead.’

  NOTES – CHAPTER III

  1. ‘Formerly in France, one who held lands from a bishop as his representative and defender in temporal matters’ (Oxford English Dictionary).

  IV

  OPENINGS

  Around the bodies stripped of life

  By violent and cruel blow,

  The shifting shadows come and go.

  PHILIPPE DESPORTES

  Nicolas felt as if a gaping chasm had opened up in front of him; he was overcome with anxiety. How would Sartine react to this news? Nicolas could not in all truth deny that the corpses began to pile up as soon as he became involved in a case. However, he soon pulled himself together, ready to respond as a consummate professional to all the demands of the situation.

  First, he needed to reassure Père Grégoire, who was choking with emotion and had turned alarmingly red. Next, he must weigh up all possibilities without coming to any hasty conclusions, having carefully examined the circumstances of the tragedy. But most importantly he had to establish whether Madame de Ruissec was dead. If this was not the case, he needed to calm the monks and make arrangements to send for help.

  He shook to awareness a dazed Brother Anselme, who was absently crossing himself, and instructed him to take him down to the crypt. They had to go outside, then back in through a side entrance and down a small staircase. A dark-lantern, which was lying abandoned on the floor, served to light their way. At first Nicolas found it hard to recognise where he was, but after his eyes had adjusted to the dark he saw that he was surrounded by coffins piled one on top of the other. The air was rarefied and the flame of the lamp was guttering so perilously that he was afraid he might be left in total darkness in the middle of the sepulchre. Brother Anselme must have been having the same thought as the lantern was trembling more and more in his hand. Its light cast shifting shadows across the stone walls and revealed recesses containing the skulls of monks long deceased.

  After they had taken two or three turnings, their surroundings disappeared into the shadows. The focus of their attention was now a pool of light coming straight down through the well of the dead. On the marble slab where the dead were usually placed lay a body as limp as a rag doll, showing no signs of life. Nicolas moved closer and asked the friar to give him some light, which he did, trembling wildly all over. The young man grabbed the lantern in irritation, put it down near the body and asked the friar to go to fetch help, a stretcher and a doctor.

  Once alone, he carefully examined the body and the area around it. In a black satin gown –worn either in mourning for her son or in order to be inconspicuous – the Comtesse de Ruissec looked as if she had been snapped in two, facing upwards with arms outstretched. Her head, covered in a black veil held in place by a large jet comb, was at a strange and gruesome angle to the rest of her body. There was absolutely no doubt that she was dead.

  Nicolas knelt down and gently lifted the veil. The elderly woman’s face seemed oddly turned to the left; it was pale with traces of blood on her lips; her eyes were open. He touched the base of her neck but there was no pulse. He took out a pocket mirror and put it in front of her mouth; it did not steam up. Gently and respectfully Nicolas closed the elderly lady’s eyes. He shuddered; her skin was still warm. He examined the body all over without moving it. There was no sign of any wound other than the obvious fracture to the neck.

  He stood, summed up his observations and then carefully wrote them down in his little notebook. The comtesse seemed to have fallen into the well of the dead. So it must have been open. Why? Was it always open?

  Given the position of the well there were two possibilities: perhaps Madame de Ruissec had failed to see the gaping hole in the semi-darkness of the sanctuary and, distracted by the prospect of her meeting, had fallen by accident. But in that case, thought Nicolas, a fall of twelve or more feet ought to have caused more fractures to the legs or injuries to the face, given that the rim of the well was low and that she would have fallen head first. Also the body should have been face down but in fact Madame de Ruissec was lying on her back, her legs unscathed. Or else she had fallen backwards but this could only have happened if she had been between the well of the dead and the chancel, or in the process of admiring the painting of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple. In that case the position of the body made sense. The fact remained that the body and especially the head should have caught on the circumference and rim of the well. He checked under the nape of the neck: there was no sign of injury.

  As he straightened, his eye fell on a small square of printed paper on a cotton and pearl alms purse hanging from Madame de Ruissec’s left arm. He had not noticed it until then. He took it and held it up to the lantern. Much to his surprise he discovered that it was a ticket to a performance at the theatre of the Comédie-Italienne.

  He checked the alms purse was properly shut. In fact the drawstring was tight in her clenched hand and nothing could have fallen out of the bag. He extracted it from her grasp and, trembling as always when he disturbed the personal effects of a victim, began to l
ist its contents. He found a small silver mirror, a piece of purple velvet with some pins, a phial of spun glass containing what appeared to be perfume and more specifically eau de la Reine de Hongrie – he recalled detecting this smell on the note inviting him to the meeting in the Carmelite church – a small metal purse containing a few louis d’or, a rosary and a small leather-bound devotional work embossed with the Ruissec family arms.

  The list disappointed him; there was nothing unusual for a woman of her age and status. He put everything back in the purse. The theatre ticket continued to intrigue him as it seemed out of keeping with everything else. This ticket could not have ended up in the crypt of a monastery by accident and as it was clean and intact it could not have been brought in stuck to the underside of a shoe. Given where it had been found, it could only have been placed on the body after the fall.

  He heard the sound of footsteps. Nicolas tucked the ticket into his notebook. Père Grégoire, having recovered from the shock, appeared suddenly, carrying a candle. He was followed by two men and two stretcher-bearers, whom Nicolas assumed to be police officers. One of the men held out his hand; Nicolas recognised him as Monsieur de Beurquigny, the police commissioner for the district, whose offices were on Rue du Four. He was pleased to be dealing with this affable and well-respected figure. Nicolas’s youth, his rapid promotion and the persistent rumour that he was Monsieur de Sartine’s protégé had not endeared him to certain sections of the police force; he was very lucky to have come upon this kindly, older colleague.

  Père Grégoire introduced the other man to him. He was Dr Morand, from Rue du Vieux-Colombier, who was the Carmelites’ sole physician and whose name was given with an accompanying, meaningful wink and an even more telling shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘I fear your assistance is unnecessary. The victim is dead. On the other hand I should be grateful to have your opinion on the cause of death.’

  The doctor leant over the body and performed a similar examination to the one Nicolas had already carried out. He listened carefully as he turned the head from one side to the other; he observed the comtesse’s neck after removing her wig; lastly he examined the well of the dead.

  ‘Before giving you my opinion,’ he said, ‘could we go back up into the chapel?’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Nicolas. He added in a whisper: ‘I, too, wanted to see if there were any traces up there.’

  Dr Morand nodded. ‘I see, Commissioner, that you have not wasted your time.’

  They went back up into the church in silence. They learnt nothing from the well of the dead and its rim.

  Morand thought long and hard. ‘I make no secret of how puzzled I am,’ he said at last. ‘If we go by appearances everything points to the lady dying as a result of falling into the well.’

  ‘You used the word “appearances”.’

  ‘Indeed I did. I shall come straight to the point as I suspect you have understood the whole situation already. If the comtesse had stumbled against the rim of the well, it would have been difficult for her to fall. And had she done so she would have hit her neck in the process. You might object that the wig would have acted as a cushion but in that event it would have been dislodged. However, you have noted that it was still in place and, moreover, the victim is face up. I note that there is an unnatural freedom of movement between the head and the rest of the body and that the head makes a cracking sound when handled. There are traces of blood on the lips, the result of internal bleeding from a wound. Thus I deduce and maintain that the victim was attacked, that her neck was broken and her body thrown down the well of the dead.’

  He moved towards Nicolas, and standing behind him placed his right arm over Nicolas’s chest, putting his hand on the young man’s left shoulder. He then grabbed Nicolas’s head with his left hand and twisted it to the left.

  ‘This is how it was done. If I press harder I can break your vertebrae although you are a healthy young man; but the comtesse was an elderly woman …’

  A thought crossed Nicolas’s mind but he kept it to himself. The doctor respected his need for silence. He must make up his mind quickly. There was a crucial decision to reach and he alone could take responsibility for it: he felt the absence of Bourdeau, whose advice would have been useful.

  Once again he was dealing with a murder. Someone had been determined to stop the comtesse talking to him. He felt somewhat sad that he had not been able to prevent this tragedy. However, he sensed that nothing could have been done to avoid it: had he been the first to arrive at the church, then Madame de Ruissec would probably never have got there. It was time for action, not for remorse, which would return soon enough during his sleepless nights. The main thing was to act quickly.

  Duty required him to hand over the case to a magistrate, then have an official statement drawn up and hold a witness hearing. The terms of the royal ordinances of 1734 and 1743 flashed through his mind. Making the crime public would involve opening up the body in the Basse-Geôle. He was fully aware of the risk this would entail, given the obvious incompetence of the doctors attached to the Châtelet. Additionally, as this new case was connected to the death in Grenelle there was great potential for muddle and confusion.

  I really am the special investigations officer, after all, he concluded. He simply needed to convince Dr Morand and the commissioner to treat the crime for the time being as an unfortunate accident. In this way they might avoid arousing the murderer’s suspicions.

  Nicolas took Dr Morand off into the crypt. The monks were praying around the body. He motioned to Commissioner de Beurquigny to join him.

  ‘My dear colleague, I shall be blunt. The doctor’s observations confirm my own. The victim did not fall by accident; she was thrown down the well after someone had deliberately broken her neck. I was due to meet her about another criminal case involving the interests of a family close to the King. Making the murder public may jeopardise the investigation into the first crime. I’m not asking you to abandon this case but to delay its disclosure. In the interests of justice, people must continue to think it was an accident. I will officially free you from all responsibility and Monsieur de Sartine will be duly informed this evening. May I rely on you?’

  Commissioner de Beurquigny held out his hand and smiled. ‘Monsieur, I am at your service and your word is enough for me. I understand your concern. I shall do everything in my power to ensure this temporary version is believed, that goes without saying, and I trust you on this point. But you may be unaware of the consequences of a murder taking place in a church.’

  ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘The place ceases to be consecrated and Mass cannot be celebrated there. Just think of the scandal.’

  ‘My dear colleague, I greatly appreciate your understanding and what you tell me about the church confirms me in my decision.’

  ‘Remember, I joined our organisation in 1737 and for a long time my deputy was an inspector you know well.’

  ‘Bourdeau?’

  ‘The very same. He has spoken of you so often and with such warmth, especially for someone as mistrustful as he is, that I feel as though I know you quite well.’

  Bourdeau always proved helpful in so many ways …

  ‘What about Dr Morand?’

  ‘Leave him to me. He’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘I would like him, moreover, to draw up an official statement which all three of us will sign and that you will keep in your possession pending further information. There’s one other thing – but I feel I am taking advantage: would you be able to have the comtesse’s body taken to her mansion in Grenelle and go there yourself? I have good reason for not going personally. She came to the Carmelites for confession so no questions or explanations are needed: it was a dreadful accident.’

  Trusting the word of the two magistrates, the doctor agreed to hold his tongue; he drew up and signed the document as requested. The body was removed and taken under escort to Grenelle.

  Nicolas went to
see Père Grégoire in his dispensary. Still in a state of shock, he was trying to calm himself with some lemon balm liqueur, one of the monastery’s specialities. Nicolas confirmed the theory of an accident. The monk was most upset, saying that nothing similar had ever happened before. The well had been opened in preparation for the forthcoming funeral of one of the friars.

  ‘Father, are there other entrances to the monastery apart from the door on Rue Vaugirard?’

  ‘Our wall has plenty of gaps, my poor Nicolas. Besides the main entrance, there are doors leading to our outbuildings, gardens, orchards and vegetable plots. In addition there are several exits on to Rue Cassette, and finally we share a door with the Benedictine nunnery of the Holy Sacrament. Not to mention the one that opens on to the estates of Notre-Dame de la Consolation. From there you can easily reach Rue du Cherche-Midi. Our monastery is open on all sides and in any case what would we have to protect apart from our novices’ virtue … for whom this location remains a temptation. Why are you asking me this?’

  Nicolas did not reply; he was thinking.

  ‘Who was Madame de Ruissec’s confessor?’

  ‘The prior, who has just died.’

  Nicolas did not respond but left his old friend to his thoughts, surrounded by his alembics. He still needed to find out what his spy Rabouine had seen from the outside of the monastery. After retrieving his mare, who showed her impatience by snorting and neighing, he went on to Rue de Vaugirard and began to imitate a blackbird, the agreed signal, to bring the man out of his hiding-place. A carriage gateway opposite the entrance to the monastery creaked open and Rabouine emerged, wrapped in a baggy cape. He was sharp-featured but had a friendly twinkle in his eyes. He would have gone to the stake for Nicolas. He stayed in the shadows while his superior, the horse’s reins around his arm, came closer then stopped, pretending to tighten the saddle-girth. The mare stood between them, hiding Rabouine from view.