by Judith Rock
Charles said, “Then you don’t think he was killed elsewhere and moved here?”
La Reynie shook his head. “I see no reason yet to think so. Though I wonder how he ended in this ditch.”
“He must have been on his way home.” Morel swallowed hard. “He lives in the rue Perdue, very near here.”
“Ah.” La Reynie nodded consideringly.
“Do you have any thought about how long he’s been dead?” Charles said. “I know that in cold like this, it’s very hard to tell. But it may help you to know that his family has not seen him since at least Thursday evening.”
“That may help indeed.” La Reynie eyed the body. “And there was snow off and on yesterday and through the night, and snow mostly covered the body when we found it. And that bush screens it. The body wasn’t immediately obvious.”
In silence, they looked down at the dead man. A sense of futility assailed Charles. Brion had been described to him as greedy and unsuccessful at his work. He’d seemed somehow negligible, even in his own household. Unfortunately, he had not seemed negligible to his killer. If he had, murder would not have been necessary. But no human soul was negligible. Charles began the prayers for the dead, and the other men bowed their heads.
When the prayers were finished, there was a moment of sober quiet and then the sergent folded his arms over his chest and said, as though continuing an argument Charles had interrupted, “I still say the beggars would have found him yesterday, if he’d been here.” Seeing Charles’s questioning look, he explained, “Beggars search the ditches for anything usable. They would have had that cloak and everything else off him and he’d be mother naked.”
Charles frowned. “They’d search even a midden like this?”
The sergent’s eyes widened in disbelief at the naive question. “Beggars would search your chamber pot and lick your empty plate, mon pere, if they thought there might be anything they could sell.”
Charles took the rebuke to his naivete in silence, wondering why he’d asked such a stupid question when he’d seen firsthand the half-ruined part of the old Louvre palace, which destitute Parisians had made into a warren of fetid living quarters.
La Reynie nodded toward the muddy path. “The woman with the load of wood there met a beggar, a woman called Reine, coming out of the alley this morning with a good beaver hat. Reine told her she’d found it on a dead man in the ditch and named him as Henri Brion.”
“Could she have killed him?” Charles said.
“No. The sergent just told you beggars scour all the ditches. But Reine told the other woman that she didn’t go on her rounds yesterday because she wasn’t well. And Reine’s scavenging places aren’t often bothered by other beggars. After Reine found the body, the woman selling wood sent one of her friends to the police post and the sergent came. And he sent for me.” Police posts, called barrieres, were scattered across the city and were usually the fastest way of appealing to the law.
The sergent said, “We both know old Reine. She begs outside coffeehouses, and says she often saw this Henri Brion at Procope’s.”
“But she didn’t see him there or at any of the other coffeehouses on Friday,” La Reynie added. “Which is another reason why I think he was already dead and lying here yesterday.”
“Messieurs! A small word!” A canvas-aproned man came slithering into the ditch, pulling a sullen, white-faced boy of thirteen or so after him. “This parsnip-brained apprentice of mine has something to tell you that may be about your body here.”
La Reynie scrutinized them both. “And who are you, monsieur?”
“I am Michel Bernard, mon lieutenant-general. Oh, yes, I know you, all Paris knows you. I am a carpenter.” Raising a work-hardened hand in a fingerless glove, the man pointed at an old house backing on the ditch. “We’re working on that house there. My wife just inherited it and she wants to rent it out for good money.” He rubbed his hands together and blew on his exposed fingers. “I’ll start after the Epiphany, I told her, but no, I must start now, why should we lose money, she says, so here I am freezing my”-he suddenly registered Charles’s presence-“my immortal soul off while she sits by the fire at home. But you may be sure that body’s been there awhile.”
“And why is that?”
“Go on, tell him!” The carpenter pulled his apprentice forward. “I’ve been leaving him in the house at night to keep out the beggars while it’s empty.” He poked the boy hard in the ribs. “Talk!”
“I heard people running,” the boy mumbled, staring wide-eyed at the body. “On Friday morning before light. I heard one of them yell out.” He shut his mouth, and his lips trembled.
His master prodded him again. “Well, go on! Tell the rest.”
“Then, when I came down here to piss after I got up-Friday morning, I mean-he-it-was here. But I was afraid to say anything. I thought if I did, you’d think I killed him. I didn’t, I don’t know him, I never saw him before, as the bon Dieu sees me!”
Everyone gazed speculatively at the boy. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks and he fell on his knees in the snow.
“I swear it, messieurs!”
La Reynie sighed. “Unfortunately, I believe you. But the next time you find a body, for God’s sake tell someone if you don’t want to be suspected. Where can I find you both if I need you again?” he asked the carpenter.
“My workshop’s at the sign of the Magdalene, rue Clopin, mon lieutenant-general.”
“Thank you. You may go. Both of you.” La Reynie dismissed them. When they had clambered out of the ditch, the boy still crying and his master berating him, La Reynie turned to Charles and the sergent. “Well. If the apprentice is telling the truth, we have good reason to think that Monsieur Brion was killed before dawn on Friday morning and has lain here ever since. A popular time for murder in this quartier, it seems. Your Mademoiselle Martine Mynette and her notary, both murdered on the same day.”
Charles said, “You think the two are related?”
“A child would think they are related.” La Reynie walked over to Morel, who was still staring disconsolately at Henri Brion’s body. “May I ask why you are here, monsieur?” he said pleasantly.
Startled, the dancing master tore his eyes from the body and bowed. Graceful, Charles noted, even in a midden beside a corpse.
“As Maitre du Luc told you, I am a friend of-of the Brion family. One of your men came to tell Mademoiselle Brion of her father’s death, and she sent me to find out what happened.”
La Reynie nodded slowly. “And you brought our friend Maitre du Luc. Mademoiselle Brion is fortunate in her champions. I had understood that she also has a brother. Perhaps I am misinformed?”
“Her brother was not at home, mon lieutenant-general.”
“And where is he?” La Reynie and the sergent exchanged a look.
Warned by the new quality in their attention, Morel’s eyes went to Charles in silent appeal.
“You will probably find Monsieur Gilles Brion at the Capuchin monastery across the river,” Charles said. “He hopes to be a monk.”
“And cannot be interrupted at his prayers even for his father’s death? A devout young man,” La Reynie murmured, making it clear that he would have that whole story from someone and soon. His gaze settled on Charles. “What do you know about this, Maitre du Luc? You did not come here only to pray.”
“No,” Charles agreed, returning the gaze. “I came to find out about Monsieur Brion’s death. As I told you, I was already wondering where he was, since no one seems to have seen him since Thursday evening.” Charles sorted rapidly through what he wanted and did not want to say. “Monsieur La Reynie, you said you knew that Henri Brion was Martine Mynette’s guardian. You may not know that she was adopted. Her adoptive mother died a week or so before Christmas and the donation entre vifs, drawn up some years ago by Henri Brion to ensure that the girl would get the mother’s considerable property, has been lost. There is no other family to inherit.”
La Reynie smiled. �
��But there are Jesuits.”
Charles let that pass. “Monsieur Brion claimed to be searching for the original of the adopted girl’s donation at the Chatelet, where he long ago registered the document. But it seems he was not.”
“Was not?” La Reynie echoed.
Morel was frowning angrily at both of them.
“A clerk there told me that Monsieur Henri Brion has not been seen at the Chatelet recently.”
La Reynie studied Charles. “What else?”
“Nothing,” Morel said, before Charles could answer.
“No?” The lieutenant-general smiled genially at Morel. “I see. Since you are Mademoiselle Brion’s representative, monsieur, will you go and tell her that after we have taken her father to the Chatelet and examined him for other wounds or anything else his body might tell us about his death, I will have him brought to his house?”
“I-she-” Morel chewed his lip. “Monsieur, this Mademoiselle Mynette of whom you have been speaking was Mademoiselle Brion’s dearest friend and she is grieving terribly for her. It is too much to expect her to see her father’s body, after what has been done to him!”
Charles put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It will be a shock to her, yes. But do you not think that, even so, she will want to do the last offices for her father?”
“But wasn’t he a member of one of your confraternities? Couldn’t they see to him?”
“His uncle, Monsieur Callot, is a member of the Congregation of the Sainte Vierge, but Monsieur Brion was not. Forgive me, Monsieur Morel, but I wonder if you are not thinking too little of Mademoiselle Brion’s courage. That is an easy mistake to make with women. I have known Mademoiselle Brion a very short time, but I suspect she has more than enough courage-and love-for this new ordeal.”
Reluctantly, Morel nodded. “Yes, she has courage. And she loved her father. In spite of his faults.”
La Reynie said kindly, “Monsieur, please do me the favor of going now and telling her to expect her father’s body this afternoon. I will see that he is conveyed to her with all respect. She will be grateful for your coming now with my message, because she will have preparations to make.”
Morel hesitated and looked at Charles. “You will come with me, maitre?”
“I have another matter to discuss with Maitre 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 Chatelet 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 Chatelet 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 Chatelet. And then to the Brion house. Which is where, Maitre 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. Honore. If any young layman comes out or goes in, stop him. You are looking for Gilles Brion. What does he look like, Maitre 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-general.” He climbed quickly up the slope and disappeared into the alley.
“Now,” La Reynie said, “as we climb out of here, maitre, 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. Pere 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 barriere 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-general. 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 Fosses St. Germain, west of Louis le Grand and near where the old wall curved north to meet the river. The rue des Fosses 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 a la Armenien, 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-General 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?”