Doctor Death

by Lene Kaaberbøl

  “When the rifle was fired, it must have been held parallel to the body, with the muzzle close to the chest, pointing up under the chin of the deceased. There was powder residue and small burns from the muzzle flash on the deceased’s shirt.”

  “Is it your opinion that he was able to do this himself?”

  “I consider it most likely.”

  “He is her father!” shouted Emanuel Leblanc. “Of course he has to call it suicide!”

  “Monsieur Leblanc. Last warning. If you interrupt again, I will have to ask the court constable to escort you out.”

  I glanced at the officer in question. He stood by the window and looked reassuringly broad shouldered, in the gendarme’s black uniform jacket and kepi, armed with a carbine rifle and both a nightstick and a pistol at the hip.

  My father looked at the judge and not at Leblanc when he answered.

  “The court is, of course, welcome to ask another doctor to carry out a second examination,” he said. “There is no doubt about the angle of the shot. There is no doubt, either, that the deceased was standing when the shot went off. If I may demonstrate?”

  Judge Renard nodded, and my father called over the court constable.

  “How tall are you?” he asked.

  “One meter and seventy-two, m’sieur.”

  “Good. Leblanc was one meter and eighty-six, so a little taller than you. The hunting rifle, on the other hand, is longer than your carbine, and that evens out the difference to some extent.”

  While the court officer stood looking exceptionally uncomfortable, my father positioned the carbine so that the butt rested on the floor and the weapon was held close to the body.

  “The hunting rifle’s muzzle was about forty centimeters from the entry wound. As you can see, a possible killer would need to hold the weapon in this way, which is not exactly a natural position, and thereafter bend down to press the trigger here—at the level of the victim’s shin. Mr. Officer, if someone tried to shoot you in this way, what would you do?”

  “Me, m’sieur?”

  “Yes.”

  The court officer looked confused for a moment. Then he slowly pushed the barrel to the side so that it was no longer pointing at his head.

  “Like this, m’sieur?”

  “Precisely. As you can see, it would be exceedingly easy for Leblanc to avoid the shot entirely.”

  I could see that his cool presentation of the circumstances made a certain impression even on Emanuel Leblanc. He now looked more tortured than outraged, and I could not help but feel a twinge of pity. He, too, had been raised in the Catholic faith. What my father was in the process of proving, or at least presenting as likely, would make his brother’s death even harder to bear because suicide to him equaled damnation. A murderer who had repented and confessed would have a better chance at eternity than he.

  “Mademoiselle Karno. Would you approach?”

  I was abruptly pulled out of my consideration of the afterlife. This was an inquest and not a trial, so there were no defendants or prosecutors to attack or defend me, but to explain and describe in detail was still worse than I had expected. The darkness of the chapel, its sounds and smells, came crowding back to me. I could almost feel the chill and the hard stone floor, even though I stood here in daylight, in the stuffy and overheated courtroom. When my gaze fell on Louis Mercier for a moment, I could see his eyes grow wider and wider as I described the drama of which he had been an unconscious part.

  “Monsieur Leblanc thought that it was his daughter, Imogene, who had locked herself in with Louis. He began to threaten to shoot out the lock if she did not open the door.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I said that I could not unlock the door, that I did not have a key. But then he realized that I was not Imogene, and he fired. The bullets went through the door. I barely had time to throw myself down on the floor next to Louis.”

  “And then?”

  “I feared for my life and for Louis’s. I tried to calm Monsieur Leblanc, to pretend that his crimes had not yet been uncovered, that he did not need to kill us. I did not succeed. He recognized me and presumably understood that discovery was inevitable. He even admitted to me that he had murdered Father Abigore.”

  “In what way?”

  “He said that the priest would have died anyway—that he had just saved him from further suffering.”

  “But he did not mention Mother Filippa?”

  “No. Only Father Abigore.”

  “We will discuss the two killings more closely later,” said the judge. “Let us return to the circumstances surrounding Monsieur Leblanc’s death. You feared for your life, you say. But . . . you were not the one who was killed?”

  “No. I think he considered it. But instead he shot first the dog and then himself.”

  “Why did you take the rifle afterward?”

  “I was still afraid.”

  “But he was dead. You must have known that he could no longer harm you.”

  “Yes. But . . .”

  How could I explain the terror I had felt? The icy fear that it was not over, that there was more. I did not know myself where it had come from. Did I imagine that he would get up again and come at us with half his head missing? All I felt certain of was that there had been no relief, no sense that evil had been conquered, that we could all live safely from now on.

  Even standing here at his inquest, surrounded by respectable citizens and armed guards, even now there was no relief.

  “I was afraid,” I repeated. “I just wanted to be able to defend myself and Louis if . . . someone came.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  My cheeks grew warm. I knew I seemed exactly what I never wished to be: an irrational female who had reacted with her feelings instead of with logic and intellect.

  Judge Renard nodded briefly, as if that was also the conclusion he had reached.

  “Very well,” he said. “You were afraid. You had, of course, been exposed to some violent events. You may return to your seat.”

  I skulked back to my chair with my head bent, and Marot was called forward in my place.

  With practiced ease he related the circumstances of Father Abigore’s murder and presented the evidence against Leblanc. It sounded convincing.

  Louis Mercier, too, made a thoroughly good impression—he stood up straight and looked the judge directly in the eye as he told of the message he had brought to Abigore and of his abduction. Marot had been right; not once did the judge ask about Leblanc’s motive.

  It was only when they came to Mother Filippa’s death that the police inspector had to be more circumspect. I was called forward again to describe the disagreement and the words I had heard Leblanc shout at Mother Filippa the day before she was killed: You are not God’s servant. You are the devil’s.

  Then with an expressionless face and voice, Imogene repeated that her father considered it highly inappropriate that the abbess allowed herself to be accompanied by a wild animal, one that she even kept with her at night.

  The last comment caused a stir among the spectators, and Imogene bent her head so one could not see her eyes.

  “Was the wolf dangerous, then?” asked Judge Renard.

  “That depends on what the judge means by dangerous,” said Imogene.

  “Might it attack people?”

  “No. It was better behaved than most dogs.”

  “How then could it be dangerous?”

  “I think my father meant . . . He considered it to be . . . morally dangerous. He wanted me to leave the convent. But I did not want to. Regardless of what he did!”

  There was a passion in that exclamation in sharp contrast to her general lack of expression.

  “Mademoiselle, would you describe your father as a violent man?” asked Renard.

  She hesitated so long that the judge was about to repeat the question.

  “He is dead,” she said. “Do you want me to speak ill of him now
that he cannot defend himself?”

  “Thank you, mademoiselle,” said Judge Renard in his gentlest tone yet. “We will not trouble you further.”

  Inspector Marot now presented the torn-out page from Vabonne’s Bible and explained where it came from and who had written the comments. Judge Renard considered it with raised eyebrows.

  “How is this relevant?” he asked.

  “Your Honor, I must now offend your sense of decency, and I wish to apologize in advance for doing so.”

  You could almost see how the scribbling journalists straightened up and pricked up their ears. I thought of Sister Marie-Claire and her attempt to save Mother Filippa’s dignity in death and felt a stab of discomfort in my chest.

  “Please speak, Inspector.”

  “I think I will instead focus your attention on certain discoveries in the inquest report,” said Marot. “Then the judge can determine if it is suitable for public hearing.”

  The press’s representatives drew a collective breath of disappointment. But in their reports in the evening edition they managed to extract quite a bit from Judge Renard’s involuntary gesture when he saw the passages the inspector indicated: Judge Renard became deathly pale as he read. Abhorrence and shock were clearly written on his features, and his right hand flew up to his mouth, as if to prevent an expression of horror and disgust from escaping. The public will never know precisely which horrifying circumstances shook so deeply a man who has sat in judgment of cold-blooded murderers, corpse violators, and rapists with perfect equanimity. We can only speculate. But of his agitation there was no doubt.

  “Thank you,” said Renard at last. “I see what you mean, and I acknowledge the connection. But do we have any evidence that connects Antoine Leblanc directly to the misdeed in time or place?”

  “No, Your Honor,” admitted Marot. He bent forward and explained something to the judge in so quiet a tone that it could not be heard from the witness bench. I guessed that he was saying that the damage to Leblanc’s lower jaw made it impossible to show sufficient correspondence between his teeth and the bite marks on the abbess’s body. The judge nodded.

  “So we have only circumstantial evidence,” he said. “And it is no longer possible to question the man and attempt to obtain a confession.”

  “That is correct, Your Honor.”

  “Very well, Inspector. While I tend to share your views, I have to set aside the matter of Monsieur Leblanc’s role in this disturbing murder as not proven. But I do not believe that there is reason to continue the investigation.”

  Inspector Marot nodded. That was presumably what he had expected, though he had probably hoped for a more definitive result.

  Judge Renard continued: “On the other hand, I find the following proved: that Antoine Leblanc murdered Father Joseph Abigore, and that he later took his own life.”

  “No!” The exclamation came from Emanuel Leblanc, who had again jumped to his feet. “My brother is not a murderer! And he would never take his own life!”

  You could only feel sorry for the man. But having seen with my own eyes Leblanc shoot off half his head, his error was indisputable.

  “I am sorry,” I said, without really having considered what effect it might have.

  “You!” he said. “You pity me? When it was you . . . When it was your hand . . .”

  His one hand flew up and I think he was millimeters away from hitting me. But he did not. The Commissioner took half a step in front of me, but his defense was unnecessary. Emanuel Leblanc had already turned away and taken his niece’s arm.

  “Come, Imogene. Let us go. I will immediately write to my lawyer and seek redress for this violation of your father’s memory!”

  “One moment, m’sieur,” said the court constable. “The witnesses must sign the protocol.”

  “That as well!”

  “That is the law, m’sieur.”

  I walked with resolute steps over to the clerk, who was in the process of readying the documents for signature. My intention was to sign and thereafter immediately leave the courtroom so my presence would not upset Imogene and her uncle further. His accusations stung only a little, now that the court had accepted my explanation and found the suicide proved; I could see his behavior for what it was—a last desperate attempt to clear his beloved brother of an unforgivable sin and defend his memory. It had nothing to do with me personally.

  But my good intentions could not be carried out. The clerk had his own ideas about the proper order of the ritual, and it was Imogene he waved over first. She had to sign both the inquest verdict as next of kin and the statement that would accompany the summary of her testimony.

  The court constable escorted her to the counter. Her uncle had been told to stay where he was, presumably to avoid any further confrontation. Imogene did not look at me when she took the pen the clerk handed her, but I could not help looking over her shoulder. Her face was about as full of expression as one of the death masks my father was occasionally asked to make. Her hands shook a bit, and the writing was awkward, but that might just as plausibly be due to the arthritis that made her thin fingers crooked. Then I noticed it.

  The handwriting.

  The handwriting . . .

  Varbourg, March 30, 1894. Imogene Leblanc.

  I suddenly recalled the draft of the letter that was to deliver the upsetting news about Lisette the cook’s death:

  It is with deep regret sorrow that I must inform you that Lisette is not among gave up the ghost passed away in her sleep Sunday evening after some week’s

  Antoine Leblanc had not written that letter. Imogene had. It must also have been she who underlined that terrible passage in Leviticus and had written DEATH DEATH in the margin.

  I grabbed hold of my father’s arm and gave it a discreet tug. But he was tired and probably also a bit distracted, so he just turned toward me and said, “What is it, Maddie?”

  Then Imogene lifted her head and met my gaze. And she understood at once. She stumbled, or pretended to stumble, and the court constable grabbed hold of her one arm with both hands to support her. She half turned, leaning against him so that I could not see what happened between them. Then there was the sound of a shot, and the constable tumbled to the floor with both hands pressed against his stomach.

  No one truly understood what was happening. My father took a step toward the wounded man, whose hands were already scarlet with blood.

  And I stood like Lot’s wife, salt pillared and immovable, until Imogene shoved the barrel of the revolver into my side and cried, “Step back or I will shoot her.”

  Imogene did not attempt to get to the courthouse exit through the mass of spectators. Instead she hauled me with her out the other door, which led to a hallway with a court office and the judge’s dressing rooms. A policeman appeared at one end of the hall, presumably responding to the shot, but he stopped when he saw the revolver next to my ear. She quickly let off a shot in his direction, and he ducked through a doorway and took cover. Imogene backed up, still holding me in front of her, kicked open yet another door with her heel, and began to pull me up a staircase. Up, up, up. At first there were still polished panels and woodblock floors, then the stairwell became more raw and primitive, until it ended in a final narrow stairwell and something that was barely more than a ladder. At the end of the ladder there was a door, and it, too, opened when Imogene shoved it with her heel. She gave a last hard jerk so that I stumbled across the threshold before slamming the door shut after us.

  We were met by a turmoil of flapping wings that almost made Imogene fire yet another shot, but it was just a couple of common wood pigeons that flew up, spattering us with gray-white bird droppings before they continued out through a broken window. Imogene looked around and realized that we had reached a dead end. We could hear shouting and running footsteps in the building below us, and it was too late to search for another escape route. She opened the door, grabbed the key that was in the lock on the outside, and locked us in.

  We bot
h stood still for a moment, equally out of breath. We were in one of the préfecture’s towers, I guessed, a dusty octagonal attic with a multitude of square black archive boxes stacked against the walls, narrow bow windows, and an excellent view of Varbourg and the square in front of the préfecture. Not that the scenery occupied either of us at that particular moment.

  There was the sound of steps in the stairwell, and someone turned the door handle.

  Imogene stuck the revolver up under my chin.

  “Shhh,” she hissed.

  But if she had hoped to hide, she was quickly disillusioned. You could hear the sound of running and then a hollow thump as someone attempted to break the door down.

  The frame began to give, and Imogene reacted instantly. She raised the gun and fired one shot that went straight through the door at chest height.

  “Stop,” she shouted. “Or the next shot will go through Mademoiselle Karno’s head.”

  I did not know if anyone out there had been hit, but it was quiet, and the attempt to force the door was not repeated.

  “Push those in front of the door,” Imogene ordered, and pointed at the pile of archive boxes.

  I obeyed. There was a glasslike determination about her—she could shatter and be ground into a thousand pieces, but she would never bend. And I thought of the poor court constable and did not doubt for a moment that she would shoot me without hesitation if it came to that.

  The boxes were heavy and presumably full of old case files. It took awhile to move them all so they formed a wall in front of the door, and when I was done, the sweat was running down my breastbone, and my corset felt like a steam box.

  “Sit down,” she said, and tipped the gun in the direction of the floor.

  I let myself sink onto the roughly hewn floorboards and leaned my shoulders against the wall. The smell of dust and pigeon droppings was intense, and a strong breeze flowed through the shattered window facing the préfecture square. The octagonal room had windows in seven of its eight walls, the last one being given to the door now hidden behind the boxes.