The Châtelet Apprentice

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘A mistake is just what it is, though.’

  ‘That’s not the word I meant to use. Let’s call it fate. Destiny offered him a way out. There was no dignified solution for him because he was bound to be tortured and sent to the gallows. As for the rest, let me tell you as a friend that a proper interrogation should never be conducted by one person alone. Haste is a bad counsellor. Another person can see what’s been forgotten. You simply thought you were doing the right thing at the time. And, another thing, remember that a man who wants to die will always find a way. In this case it was that wretched strap that served the purpose.’

  ‘Bourdeau, are we certain at least that it was suicide? Someone might have wanted to stop him talking.’

  ‘I did wonder about it. However, I’ve seen a lot of people who have hanged themselves because I’ve been involved in dozens of cases of suicide. Without being an expert like our friend Sanson, I do know something about the subject. And it is, I must admit, a tricky one. There’s been a great deal of scholarly discussion about how to decide whether someone found hanged committed suicide or was murdered.’

  ‘So what are your conclusions?’

  Bourdeau went up to the body and turned it round. The wooden leg fell back down. The body seemed both fatter and shorter.

  ‘Look carefully, Monsieur. The face is bloated and purplish, the lips twisted, the eyes protruding and the tongue seems swollen and clenched between the teeth. The position of the strap has left a mark on the neck, with bruises under the throat. Lastly, the fingers are bluish and tensed, as if the hand was continuing to clutch something. These details are conclusive. There is no doubt that this was suicide.’

  ‘You’re right, Bourdeau,’ Nicolas sighed.

  The situation had to be accepted. Thanks to the understanding way in which the inspector had couched his criticism in the form of advice, Nicolas felt less remorseful.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Bourdeau, ‘if he hadn’t killed himself this way, he would have found another. He had the means.’

  He pointed to the bottle of brandy and the cup that had rolled onto the floor.

  ‘I’ve learnt my lesson,’ said Nicolas, ‘and I’m more determined than ever to see this through.’

  He felt the anger rising within him at this waste of a life that had been shattered twice, but was now destroyed for ever. He vowed to find those responsible for pushing Bricart to the brink. A cold determination now overcame his sense of bewilderment.

  ‘This death, as well as Rapace’s, must remain a secret,’ Nicolas decreed. ‘In the latter case I’m afraid it might already be too late; the real culprits are spying on us. It’s essential for them still to believe that Bricart is alive: they’ll feel threatened by his evidence or his confessions. We must go on the offensive and take them by surprise.’

  ‘How do you intend to proceed?’ asked Bourdeau.

  ‘Let’s take stock. We have two definite murders. The first may be Lardin’s; the second is Descart’s. We have one person who is missing, dead or has run away: Saint-Louis. We have two women. The first is Louise Lardin, married to one of the missing men, and brazenly just pretending to mourn him. She is also the mistress of one of the dead men, Descart, and of two of the suspects, Semacgus and Mauval. The second, Marie, has been sent away or is missing, and it’s difficult to know whether she should be classified as a suspect or a victim. Notice that Louise Lardin seems at once to be involved with everything and sure of being beyond the reach of the law. As for Semacgus, his name crops up with disturbing regularity.’

  Nicolas was beginning to have his doubts about the surgeon. He thought back to the initial lies, which discredited everything that had followed, and the repeated protestations of sincerity. Semacgus did not have a solid alibi for either the first or the second murder. He could also be a suspect in Saint-Louis’s disappearance since, if he were dead, his master had been the last person to see him. In addition Descart had clearly accused him of his coachman’s murder. Nicolas felt he had to free himself from Semacgus’s hold over him. The man was all the more elusive because he lived alone and no one knew anything about him.

  The last but by no means least of Nicolas’s concerns was to get his hands on the King’s papers. This was what he would be judged and assessed on. It would be just about acceptable to abandon to their fate some obscure individuals whose presumed guilt could not be proven. The failure to find letters that compromised those in power would never be forgiven. Sartine had made this quite clear to him.

  ‘If I follow you correctly,’ said Bourdeau, ‘Rue des Blancs-Manteaux requires our close attention.’

  ‘You understand me perfectly. That is where we must concentrate our efforts. On Madame Lardin and then Semacgus. Don’t forget those strange reports from our informers positioned around the commissioner’s residence, all those unexplained comings and goings. But for us to be effective we need to act quickly. The element of surprise will have the greatest impact and will combine the advantage of the well-laid trap with the thoroughness of a proper search.’

  Nicolas had Bricart’s body taken to the back of the vault in the Basse-Geôle. It was the third body to be deposited there in a week. What exactly was the connection between the remains found in Montfaucon, Descart’s body and that of an old soldier who’d lost his way in life? Once he had worked that out, the mystery would almost be solved. Bourdeau had gathered his men together. Several officers and guards would accompany them. Three cabs set off noisily from beneath the porch of the Châtelet. They had to make their way through congested streets and crowds of people had to move out of the way as the convoy approached.

  They closed off Rue des Blancs-Manteaux and men were sent round to the back to prevent anyone escaping through the garden. Accompanied by two officers, Nicolas and Bourdeau went up to the door and knocked loudly. There was a long wait before Louise Lardin appeared wearing a morning gown, with her hair undone. She looked as if she had only just got out of bed. There was a sharp exchange of words between her and Nicolas, but when he informed her of the official nature of the search she seemed to calm down. Bourdeau whispered to Nicolas that she was using delaying tactics. She was presumably attempting to give someone else time to escape. And yet the latest report by one of the spies had said that she was alone in the house.

  After requesting her to stay in the dining room under guard, he asked Bourdeau to go up with him to the first-floor bedrooms. Louise’s room was a complete mess. The bedclothes were rumpled and the pillows still showed where two heads had rested on them. Bourdeau put his hand under the cover; the bed was still warm on both sides. Madame Lardin had not been alone when they entered the house.

  An officer was sent to search the house from top to bottom, beginning with the attic. He came back empty-handed. Nicolas systematically emptied the chests of drawers and the wardrobes. He seized a cape and a black silk mask, as well as some shoes, and put them all into a sheet, which he tied up and sealed. Amongst the commissioner’s belongings he could find no sign of the leather doublet or the other cape. Marie Lardin’s bedroom did not look any different. However, there was one surprise in store for him: on opening the wardrobe whose contents had puzzled him on his last search, he discovered it was almost empty. Dresses, skirts, mantles and shoes had disappeared. Had Marie returned? Or else … He vowed to question Louise about this. In one final inspection he discovered the young woman’s missal at the bottom of a drawer in a small marquetry table. He had often noticed this little book with its blue velvet binding, which she took with her to Mass. Why had she left it behind? She was very attached to it because it came from her mother. Intrigued and moved, Nicolas began to leaf through the little book. A note fell from it, identical to the commissioner’s mysterious messages. This one said:

  Restoring to their owner

  The secrets of the King

  So Lardin had put a third message in a place where he was sure his daughter would find it one day. Had that been the case? Marie only used her Book of Hours when she went to
Mass, at least that was what Nicolas assumed. Bourdeau had not noticed the discovery; he put it away in his pocket. He would need to compare this message with the other two in his possession. He was fervently hoping that the reference to the King might relate to the letters that he had been given the task of finding.

  Next Nicolas took Bourdeau up to what used to be his private domain on the second floor. He felt a little nostalgic on seeing it again, but he found nothing suspicious there. They went back to the ground floor for a careful examination of the library. Inside a copy of the poems of Horace they found an invoice from a craftsman, a cabinetmaker, for some work that had been paid for on 15 January 1761. The recent date intrigued Nicolas and he took the document. Had it been deliberately hidden in this book, or was it simply used as a bookmark? It would be no trouble to check what this invoice related to. He kept quiet about this clue, too.

  They joined Louise Lardin in the dining room. She was sitting bolt upright on the edge of a chair.

  ‘Madame, I won’t bother to ask if you were alone. We know you weren’t. The area is under surveillance. Your visitor won’t get far.’

  ‘You are very offensive and presumptuous, Nicolas,’ she replied.

  ‘That is irrelevant, Madame. I would be grateful if you would tell me what has happened to the clothes belonging to your stepdaughter, Mademoiselle Marie. I would advise you to reply without protest, otherwise you will be made to do so forcibly in the Conciergerie.’1

  ‘So I’m a suspect, am I?’

  ‘Answer my question.’

  ‘I gave away my stepdaughter’s old clothes to the poor. She has decided to enter a nunnery.’

  ‘I hope for your sake that this point can be confirmed. Now, Inspector, we’re going to search the kitchen.’

  Louise was about to react but quickly restrained herself.

  ‘You won’t find anything there.’

  ‘Bourdeau, give the lady your arm. She will act as our guide.’

  The kitchen was freezing cold. Nicolas would have bet that the stove had not been lit for several days. Bourdeau began to sniff with a disgusted look on his face.

  ‘What a stench!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What!’ said Nicolas ironically, ‘Don’t you find this aroma pleasant? Ask Madame Lardin, then, the reason for this filthy smell. She’ll tell you, I think, that she’s very keen on game that’s been well hung.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s some big game down below, in the cellar, just rotting away. How do you explain that, Madame?’

  For the first time since they had arrived, Louise betrayed some signs of anxiety. She leant against the sideboard.

  ‘I got rid of my cook,’ she replied, ‘and I still haven’t found anyone to replace her. You, Monsieur, are in a good position to know how skilled she was at her job. I do not stoop to menial tasks around the house. I leave that to the skivvies. As soon as I find someone, everything will be cleaned up.’

  ‘And does the smell not bother you?’ Bourdeau asked.

  Louise ignored the question and made as if to go out.

  ‘Don’t leave us, Madame,’ ordered Nicolas. ‘Officer, keep an eye on this woman. We’re going down to the cellar.’

  Nicolas poured some vinegar from a china container. He moistened his handkerchief and suggested Bourdeau do the same. The inspector refused and waved his pipe, which he quickly stuffed and lit.

  ‘I think we’re ready. Let’s take this candlestick.’

  As soon as they were downstairs and despite their precautions, the smell became unbearable. The boar was in a state of putrefaction. Strips of flesh had fallen onto the ground and were smothered in a slowly moving layer, a wriggling mass of crawling creatures. Nicolas stopped Bourdeau as he was about to move on. He took off his boots, crouched down and with the light from the candle examined the floor. His search led him to a wooden frame with bottles arranged along its shelves. He grasped something and showed it to Bourdeau. It was the squashed stub of a church candle. He stood up again, put his boots back on, called Bourdeau to help and began to clear the bottles off the shelves. Leaning against the wooden structure, Bourdeau suddenly saw it slide along beside the wall to reveal an old door.

  ‘What would I do without you?’ Nicolas said. ‘You’re like Alexander the Great. While the rest of us are struggling in vain, you cut the Gordian knot.’

  ‘I didn’t do it deliberately,’ the inspector replied, ‘but I have a feeling this door has a lot to tell us. You are the one who deserves the credit, Monsieur. All I did was to follow you. You give a very good imitation of a bloodhound on the scent. You really know how to sniff things out.’

  ‘At this very moment I wish I couldn’t sniff at all,’ Nicolas said, putting his handkerchief to his face again.

  They burst out laughing, relieving the mounting tension somewhat. Nicolas pushed the door, which had no lock. They noticed that the frame could be moved aside from the other side. A rope fastened to one side ran through a hole made in the door. One only had to pull it for the loose frame to move along and free up the opening. This was the explanation of the mysterious comings and goings of the visitors and occupants of the Lardin household. The police spies were obviously of no use faced with a system like this, and the stranger who had been with Louise had without doubt bolted this way. It remained to be seen where the exit led.

  They went down some more steps. The vile smell of rotting flesh was becoming stronger in the stale underground air. After a few paces they had to turn twice to the left before descending further. Nicolas heard Bourdeau cocking his pistol. They were going through one of those underground passages that have criss-crossed Paris since time immemorial. Hordes of rats seemed to appear at their feet from nowhere, as if queuing up in impatient rows, with the biggest ones jumping over the rest. There had to be some reason for their shrill shrieks and frenzied excitement. The passage led into a vaulted room. Nicolas stopped, stricken with horror at the scene before him. Just as the strips of flesh from the boar had a life of their own, here lay another seething mass only a few paces away from them. Bourdeau, who was behind him, could not stifle a cry. To get nearer they had to kick away rodents that became more and more aggressive, baring their teeth as they squealed. They could see the gleam of hundreds of red dots looking towards the candlelight. Bourdeau pushed Nicolas aside. He had taken a flask of alcohol out of his pocket. He emptied the contents onto his handkerchief, set fire to it and threw it onto the rats nearest them. A few of the beasts began to sizzle, unleashing terror amidst the vile horde. Within a few moments the panic was general and the area temporarily cleared.

  Nicolas would wonder for a long time to come whether the vision of that vast expanse of rats was not preferable to the sight that then confronted them. There was a body, that of a human being, though barely recognisable as such. Monsieur de Noblecourt’s scenes of bodily decay were pale imaginings compared with the vision of this decomposed and half-eaten corpse. The rib cage had burst open and bones were poking through. The face was unrecognisable but the head was bald. Bourdeau and Nicolas recognised Commissioner Lardin at the same time. There was no doubt about the identity of the corpse. Bourdeau gave Nicolas a nudge.

  ‘Look, those two broken teeth to the front. And the bald skull. It definitely is Lardin.’

  ‘There’s something odd,’ said Nicolas. ‘Look at his stomach, and those rats that have been dead for several days, all around the scattered entrails. Sick?’

  ‘Or poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned in that case by the viscera of a man who died of poisoning.’

  ‘And who handles poison? Cooks to combat vermin and rodents. Gardeners to get rid of moles, and doctors or apothecaries in their remedies.’

  ‘Catherine wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Nicolas remarked. ‘Although it didn’t go for Louise Lardin, as far as the commissioner was concerned Catherine was one of the few people who had something good to say about him.’

  ‘First of all we need to establish how long he’s b
een dead, and this may provide a useful alibi for some people.’

  ‘Given the state of the body, that’s hardly going to be easy. There’s still the possibility of suicide.’

  Bourdeau was thinking.

  ‘Have you noticed that all the dead man’s clothes have disappeared?’ he said. ‘It’s not very common for people in a state of desperation to do away with themselves in such a state of undress.’

  ‘There’s no point in wasting words. We first need to find out where this underground passage leads.’

  At the end of the vault more steps led up into a gently sloping corridor, narrow and low-roofed. At its far end was a faint glimmer of light. They came across a pile of planks which they cleared away without difficulty. They were now inside a stone building, a sort of disused chapel penetrated by daylight through narrow loopholes. They still had to clamber over heaps of brushwood before finally uncovering a stock of church candles. On one side were tied-up bundles of them and on the other a stack of half-used tapers. They pushed open a door which led into a garden they immediately recognised as that of the Blancs-Manteaux monastery. That explained everything. Their spies could keep their eyes wide open or increase their vigilance as much as they liked, but this passageway enabled a veil of secrecy to be cast over anyone entering or leaving the Lardins’ house. That was why one informer thought he had seen the commissioner running towards the church. He had specifically mentioned his leather doublet. But had it been the commissioner, or someone impersonating him so that people would think him still alive? While the commissioner’s clothes were still missing the doubt would remain. They turned round and put everything back in place to hide the fact they had been there.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Bourdeau. ‘It may not work but it’s worth a try. Imagine that the escapee has been caught. You witness the scene. You go back up on your own to the kitchen. You inform Madame Lardin that her visitor has been nabbed, that he’s talked and that I’m holding him under guard. Then we’ll see how she reacts.’