The Saint-Florentin Murders Read online

  ‘Monsieur, Monsieur,’ exclaimed the duc, ‘I’d heard that you went out through the door and came in through the window! Well, no need to explain. That’s your business.’

  He appeared to reflect for a moment, then turned with a sigh to a large portrait of Louis XV, the cartouche of which indicated that it was a gift from the King, presented to Monsieur de Saint-Florentin in 1756.

  ‘What a good master he was,’ he murmured, in a tragic tone. ‘He loved us, he really did. What a career you would have had, Marquis, if …’ He left the phrase hanging. ‘What he especially appreciated about you,’ he resumed after a moment, ‘was your handsome face, your very rare gift of being able to distract him, and an even more unusual quality: the fact that you never asked him for anything. I shan’t even mention the services you rendered, performing miracles in difficult, delicate circumstances, even at the risk of your own life. Not many have been as valiant and loyal as you …’

  Nicolas tried to take advantage of the duc’s current good disposition towards him. ‘Monseigneur, allow me to ask you a question. What is your opinion of your major-domo, Jean Missery?’

  ‘To say that he keeps a firm grip on my household would be an understatement,’ replied the duc. ‘He’s been with me for fifteen years, having succeeded his father. Everything concerning the general expenses of the mansion is his responsibility. He chooses the kitchen staff and the other servants, and he has full authority over them, including dismissing them if need be. It is also his job to buy bread, wine, meat, vegetables and fruit from the suppliers. For example, he buys wine by the cask and hands it over to the wine waiter to distribute, and the latter will report back to him on the state in which he has received it. He also has to deal with a grocer for sugar, candles, torches, oils and Lord knows what else! Wood, crockery, oats, hay, straw: all that’s his province. Last but not least – by no means least! – he has to lay out the service for the lunches, dinners and midnight suppers which I give.’

  ‘Do you think he’s honest?’

  ‘I believe he is, but, even if he were not, I would not trouble myself to constantly check up on a servant, however corrupt he might be. When we depend on others, we sometimes have to know when to close our eyes if we want to be well served. Now leave me, I still have some work to do.’

  Nicolas knew there was no point in insisting. He retraced his steps to the antechambers and the great staircase. Deciding to visit the wounded man, he stopped on the mezzanine. He thought he knew his way around the house quite well by now, but realised that it was not possible to go from one wing to the other except via the ground floor. There, he had no difficulty in finding, to the left of the grand staircase, a small staircase leading up to the mezzanine. After several minutes during which he wandered through dark corridors, he at last came to a room with its door open.

  It was a large room, with bergame hangings and three windows that looked onto an inner courtyard. A good fire was blazing in the hearth. The marble mantelpiece was adorned with a small pier glass with three mirrors set in gilded wood. On a bed with red flowered damask curtains, his legs half covered with a counterpane of quilted calico, lay a corpulent man, his torso wrapped in bloodstained sheets. On the floor, to the left of the bed, were a coat the colour of dead leaves, a matching pair of breeches, a white shirt, and a yellow cravat. The rest of the furniture consisted of a large oak wardrobe, a marquetry table, two armchairs upholstered in yellow serge, a chest of drawers, and a small writing table covered with papers. The overall impression was one of comfort, and even luxury, enhanced even more by the presence on the parquet floor of a Turkish carpet. On a chair with a dust cover sat a man in a black coat and grey wig, apparently dozing. Nicolas realised that this was not the case, and that what he was in fact doing was taking Jean Missery’s pulse. The man turned. A fine pastel face, thought Nicolas, about sixty, perhaps a little more.

  ‘Monsieur, whom do I have the honour of addressing?’

  ‘Commissioner Nicolas Le Floch. I am in charge of the investigation. And you are Monsieur …?’

  ‘Dr de Gévigland. I was sent for this morning to attend to this disaster. There was nothing I could do for the young woman. As for this man, as luck would have it, the blade of the knife missed a rib and did not harm any vital organs. In my opinion, he will recover.’

  ‘Has he regained consciousness?’

  ‘No – which is the only thing that worries me. The wound in itself was not the kind to put him in such a state. I fear there may be something else. He may have hit something in his fall, or it may be an inflammation of the cerebral humours. I really don’t know. When it comes to this kind of symptom, our knowledge is far from complete.’

  Nicolas was pleased to hear these remarks. It was comforting to know that at least one doctor was devoid of the pedantic arrogance of many of his colleagues, made no attempt to spin yarns, and approached with simple modesty and praiseworthy level-headedness the unfathomable mysteries it was his job to diagnose and treat.

  ‘May I see the wound?’

  ‘There is no reason why not. You will observe that the blood loss is clearly defined and that the wound is clean. If you lift the bandage a little, you can see how clean it is.’

  The commissioner bent over the supine body. There was a bevelled cut across the abdomen, between the lower ribs. No comparison, he thought, with the gaping hole in the maid’s neck. The kitchen knife perfectly matched the appearance of the wound. To set his mind at rest, he asked the question. The doctor’s answer did not surprise him.

  ‘The kitchen knife, which is of the sharp kind, was certainly responsible for this. That’s obvious.’

  ‘And the young woman’s wound?’

  ‘It’s up to you, my dear fellow, to find the stopper that would plug up that hole!’

  ‘I have a specific question to ask, Doctor,’ said Nicolas. ‘Does your observation of your patient, Monsieur Missery’s, wounds point to a suicide, as some witnesses suggest?’

  The doctor made a face and shook his head. ‘As always, people talk without knowing what they’re talking about. I have only one comment to make, but it’s an important one. Would a man who intends to commit suicide strike himself on the right-hand side and risk injuring his liver and dying in terrible pain? The choice of death by a knife implies that you strike the heart, in other words on the left. Please note that I don’t have all the facts that would allow me to plump for one hypothesis over another. However, let’s imagine that someone attacked him from behind and, holding his head in a vice-like grip, struck him with a weapon held in his right hand. In the heat of such an attack, he may well have missed and struck the wrong side. The wounded man, having certainly lost a lot of blood, fainted and his attacker may well have thought he had killed him. Even if he didn’t, the desired aim might have been to stop him escaping, thus ensuring that suspicion would fall on him.’

  ‘Monsieur, you have clearly thought this through carefully, and what you say is very enlightening.’

  Dr de Gévigland had articulated what Nicolas had already been thinking. As he had spoken, the commissioner had seen in his mind’s eye, like the images in a magic lantern on the boulevards, Marguerite Pindron on her knees at the foot of the draining board in the roasting room. Were she and the major-domo both victims of a single attacker, whose steps he had detected and followed as far as the monumental gate of the Saint-Florentin mansion? Could it be that the same person had struck twice in succession in the same place? But in that case, why were the two wounds so different and apparently caused by such dissimilar objects? And why had one of those weapons been found on the floor while the other, still of an unknown nature, appeared to be missing? Was someone trying to convince them of a different theory? Nicolas’s mind was racing. Someone had worked hard to create a situation so clear-cut that it would be accepted completely: a man kills a woman and then commits suicide. The two pools of blood in the roasting room, so different in appearance, flashed through his mind. He pulled himself together. An autopsy
on the chambermaid’s body was essential, and he expected a great deal from its conclusions. Then the refining fire of reason would clarify the various hypotheses.

  ‘I would be grateful, Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘if you could inform me as soon as your patient has regained consciousness. An officer will soon be here to keep an eye on him and make sure that he has no contact with anyone. For the moment, he remains our only suspect.’

  ‘I only hope, Commissioner, that this won’t take too much time. I’m needed back at my practice. If he regains consciousness, the wound itself will be a mere detail. A little rest, a good dressing, and everything will heal up nicely.’

  Nicolas was back in the great vestibule on the ground floor when several carriages entered the courtyard. From one of them, Bourdeau emerged, rubbing his hands with glee. He was followed by a number of officers with a stretcher. Nicolas walked down some steps to greet his deputy.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said the inspector, ‘this really is the high life! The Saint-Florentin mansion! Our minister’s house! It seems we haven’t been dismissed after all.’

  ‘What you say is right, my dear Pierre,’ replied Nicolas with a laugh. ‘They can’t do without our services, and I assure you that the case we are dealing with is not a trivial matter.’

  ‘And our friend Lenoir in all of this?’

  ‘I fear he has been overtaken by events. But we’ll be good chaps and keep him informed. We must never insult the future.’

  ‘You’re very indulgent today!’

  ‘It’s the joy of having something to get my teeth into.’

  He ordered the officers to wait, and led Bourdeau towards the stables. There, surrounded by the odour of horses, he related the facts of the case in detail. The inspector’s first reaction was that the drama would turn out to be a trivial one, in which case recourse to such experienced authorities as themselves was like using a ton of gunpowder to open the door. Nicolas pointed out the ambiguous clues, the prints and other incongruous and suspicious details which had caught his attention. The inspector agreed that there was plenty to think about and added that it could turn out to be a distinctly tricky affair, given the place where the tragedy had occurred. He concluded with a laugh that, devil take the difficulties, here was a way to re-establish themselves in favour as long as luck was with them as they made their way through the thickets of this new investigation. Nicolas was delighted to see him looking so cheerful again and told him, embroidering the truth somewhat, that it was the Duc de La Vrillière himself who had wanted him to assist in the case. Bourdeau made no response to this, but the air of pride he immediately assumed spoke for itself. The commissioner loved him all the more for being so forthright and simple in his emotions.

  With the officers, they proceeded to the kitchens. Before the body was taken away, Nicolas asked Bourdeau to examine the scene of the crime, in the hope that a fresh pair of eyes might spot some details that had escaped him. Like him, the inspector was struck by the very unusual nature of the wound to the young woman’s neck. He also observed that she was wearing two small garnet earrings. Their presence might be of some significance, for a chambermaid on duty would never wear such ostentatious jewellery. This suggested that Marguerite Pindron had been more conscious of her appearance that evening than usual. Which in turn suggested that she might have had a rendezvous with a suitor … The quality of the slippers also intrigued Bourdeau. They would have to find out the provenance of these luxury items. As for the rest, his observations tallied with those of the commissioner. He searched the place meticulously, anxious to find the object that could have caused such a terrible wound. But to no avail. As he was coming to the end of his search, he stopped and looked at the corner of one of the draining boards. He bent down and delicately picked up between two fingers a small piece of metallic thread, which he held out to Nicolas.

  ‘Looks like silver thread to me,’ said Nicolas. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I agree. Someone knocked against this wooden corner. Look at it, it’s a nest of splinters. The embroidered garment they were wearing got caught and this came off. It must have been a sudden knock, and in his haste the person who was wearing the coat didn’t notice.’

  Who, could Nicolas remember often wearing a coat with silver embroidery? The late King, of course! But who else? He racked his brains. The figure of the Duc de La Vrillière emerged. He often copied his master’s manner of dress. The commissioner had talked to the minister twice since arriving. The man had indeed been wearing a grey coat, but Nicolas could not recall the nature of the embroidery. Even if it had been silver, that would prove nothing: the duc had visited his kitchens, and in all the excitement of discovering the crime his coat might have caught on the draining board. But he would have to make sure. One thing was certain: the thread had not come from the major-domo’s coat, for that was a quite different colour. He carefully slipped the little piece of silver between the pages of his black notebook, then gave the signal to take the maid’s body away. Nicolas decided to go back up to the mezzanine and install himself with Bourdeau in the study that had been set aside there for him. They would carry out their interrogations there. In the antechambers, they came across Provence, who was pacing up and down in the shadow of the walls.

  ‘Monsieur Bibard,’ said Nicolas ‘what was your master wearing when he got back from Versailles this morning?’

  The man assumed an indefinable expression which might have escaped someone less accustomed than the commissioner to examining faces. ‘A black cloak over a black silk coat, Monsieur. We are observing Court mourning to the letter.’

  ‘But this morning? It seems to me …’

  ‘This morning, as soon as he returned, Monseigneur changed into a grey coat.’

  ‘Was this coat embroidered?’

  ‘Yes, with silver flowers.’

  ‘Of course! You see, Bourdeau, I wasn’t wrong. The late King had one exactly the same. The minister’s loyalty is really touching. Thank you, Provence.’

  The man bowed, apparently relieved.

  ‘One more thing,’ said Nicolas. ‘Would you please have the Swiss Guard, the caretaker and Monseigneur’s coachman come to my study, to start with. I should like to question them in the company of Inspector Bourdeau.’

  They reached the study, whose splendours Bourdeau examined half admiringly, half sardonically. The commissioner waited for one of those acerbic remarks Bourdeau was in the habit of making, but none came: the pleasure of being plunged back into action, he thought, had certainly had a most beneficial effect on his deputy’s character.

  ‘By the way, Nicolas …’ Bourdeau said, reverting to the commissioner’s first name as soon as they were alone. ‘Did you notice our chambermaid’s curious underwear? Please don’t see anything licentious in the question.’

  ‘God forbid, I know you too well!’ said Nicolas, somewhat surprised. ‘But what exactly do you mean?’

  ‘Well, look. We live in strange times, and you know better than I that the honesty of women takes on some quite curious aspects these days. If an elegant woman, getting out of her carriage to enter a theatre or go for a stroll, lets curious idlers see the whole of her legs, she is in no way considered indecent. Showing one’s calves is regarded as something so natural that, far from precautions being taken to prevent the sight, it is made all the easier. So, when she dresses, any woman of quality would fix a long ribbon to her belt to hold up her chemise from behind so that the legs are uncovered all the way up to the back of the knee.’

  ‘I follow you,’ said Nicolas with a smile, ‘but I’m not sure how far you will climb.’

  ‘Oh, I’m stopping there! I’m simply trying to say that our chambermaid wears drawers, a sure sign of dubious or dissolute morals. Add to that the presence of those unusual slippers, and I think you’ll see where these observations are leading me.’

  ‘I suspect our investigation will reveal a great deal about the poor girl. This house is a closed world. I already know what’s going to happen.
They’ll all be on their guard, resisting the temptation to gossip. Silence and mistrust will be our lot. But in the end, the hurdles will fall and everyone will have something to say, for good or ill, about everyone else. You know how servants are. The world of service is, like others, filled with hatreds, jealousies, resentments and love affairs. We’re entering a fertile field, and we just have to harvest it. Everything will come together, all we have to do is wait and not frighten anyone off.’

  ‘I’m sure of that,’ said Bourdeau.

  ‘In the meantime, Pierre, get a message to our friends Semacgus and Sanson. I hope the victim’s body can be opened up as soon as possible: I need to have their opinion on that strange wound. I’d also like you to send an officer to keep an eye on the room where the suspect is.’

  The inspector was away for a short time. No sooner was he back than the door leading to the suite of apartments burst open, and a fairly elderly woman entered at an angle, hampered by the wide pannier of her old-fashioned dress. She was in Court mourning. She wore a jade necklace round her already emaciated neck, her face was blotchy, without rouge or ceruse, and her expression was one of barely contained indignation. A black silk fan, which she was shaking violently, accentuated the impression produced by this dramatic entrance.

  ‘Madame,’ said Nicolas with a little bow.

  ‘Monsieur, I am told that you are a commissioner at the Châtelet, and that you have been given the task of investigating the horrible death of that unfortunate creature. My God, how is it possible? What was I saying? Oh, yes, you are investigating, Monsieur. Your name is not unknown to me. Were you presented to the late Queen? Or to Mesdames?’