The Eloquence of Blood (41 page)

Reine took a deep, steadying breath. “When they see my mark, they will let Richard in. I want you to stay here,
maître
; I have things to say before Nicolas comes.”

Richard took a last look at Jean, who was shivering and murmuring to himself under Charles's cloak, and put the carving inside his jacket and went. Charles poked at the nearly dead fire with his foot and took refuge for the moment in the mundane.

“Where do you get wood?” he said. “From the workmen's store?”

Reine pointed to the place where Charles had entered the
cave
. “There is kindling there, beside the archway from the passage. And a few bigger pieces, too.”

Charles went to the archway and returned with an armload of wood. “All from the workmen?” he said, putting the wood down near the makeshift hearth.

She smiled a little, one hand resting gently on Marin's still chest. “The workmen leave much that is useful. When things disappear, they accuse the apprentices of taking them to sell. When the apprentices swear that we are the thieves, the masters hit them for lying. But we usually stay here only when the men are not working. With fire, it's none too bad. They even leave buckets and there is water down at the Saint-Séverin fountain.”

“I would guess, too, that there is another way out of here?”

“Of course.”

The fire blazed up, crackling and spitting, and Charles settled beside her on the floor, but where he could see Jean, who seemed to be sleeping now.

“I am so sorry about Marin,” he said.
And sorry for thinking he was a killer
, he added silently. “This Jean. He is really Tito? Martine Mynette's servant?” He shook his head, still hardly able to believe it.

Reine nodded.

“You knew who he was all along.”

“Yes, but I didn't know until I was in the passage and heard him speak that he'd killed Martine. May heaven forgive me, I thought Marin had killed her.” She bent and kissed the old man's cooling cheek. “I would see Jean when I visited Renée. And I'd seen Martine's little necklace once or twice—in summer, when she wore her bodices cut lower.” She sighed. “My poor Marin had seen it, too. Marin and I used to beg there often enough, winter and summer, and the girl would bring us out clothes and food. She was very properly brought up. Most of the others who stay with us don't know whose the heart was. Beggars in Paris come and go, like birds. But Marin knew. At least, when he was himself, he knew.”

“I begin to see,” Charles said. “Jean gave Marin the heart. And this morning Marin remembered whose the heart was and accused him of killing Martine. Only Marin called her Claire and said Jean had taken her ‘Sacred Heart.' Then Marin started beating Jean with his stick . . . and Jean killed him.”

“Martine was so fair, so blond. Marin often confused blond girls with his Claire. Marin frightened Martine, though. Sometimes when we came begging and she brought out her alms, she shrank from him. Which made the poor man call her a demon and accuse her of having stolen his Claire's beautiful hair.”

“Did Jean come to you in November?”

“Yes, when Martine's mother turned him out. He said his name was Jean, and I let him be Jean. I thought he would leave when he found a place to work, but he grew attached to Marin and stayed. He was coughing even then, and I saw that he was sicker than he knew. I also saw that he kept Marin safe, safer than Marin was able to keep himself. I never told Renée where he was. Then Martine was killed, and I saw her little heart on its ribbon around Marin's wrist, and I was terrified that Marin had killed her. I charged Jean to watch him every minute. God forgive me!”

“Did you know that he killed Henri Brion, too?”

Reine's old face crumpled in dismay. “Jean? Ah, no! But why?”

“It seems Henri Brion was on his way home after an unpleasant encounter with two men he'd involved in a smuggling scheme. I imagine that Brion saw the side door of the Mynette house open and heard a cry and went to see what was wrong. And saw Martine just after Jean had stabbed her. Jean told me he didn't mean to kill her and I believe him. He meant only to cut the ribbon and take the necklace, but he must have thrust too hard and opened the great vein in her neck. But he was afraid Brion would accuse him to the police, so he chased Brion and killed him and left him in the ditch. Where you found him.”

Reine closed her eyes, twisting her neck as though she were in pain. “Jean was always timid, always afraid of what might happen to him.” A sob rose in her throat and she covered her face. “If only I had asked Marin where the heart came from, if only I hadn't believed my worst fear, oh, blessed saints, Marin would be alive!”

If only I hadn't, if only I had . . .
The universal litany of mourning, Charles thought, for which there was no comfort.

Charles got up and searched the
cave
floor where he and Reine had struggled with Jean. A gleam of red from the fire showed him what he sought, and he leaned down and picked up Martine's necklace. He held it out to Reine.

Reine shook her head and turned away, her hands busy again stroking Marin's face, resettling his hands on his breast.

Charles closed his fingers over the necklace, unsure what to do with it.

“Our poor hearts are so often stolen,” Reine said softly, looking at the dead face in her lap.

Behind them, Jean tossed and moaned.

Reine looked at Charles. “We must decide what to do about him before Nicolas comes.”

R
unning feet struck thunder from the walls of the
cave
, and a swinging lantern sent shadows spinning crazily off the ceiling.

“Reine! Reine, where are you? Answer me, for God's sake!”

“I am here, Nicolas. I am well.”

Silhouetted against lantern light, the beggar Richard appeared briefly in the
cave
entrance before Lieutenant-Général La Reynie shoved him aside.

“Here, Nicolas.” Reine held out a shaking hand. La Reynie covered the space between them in two strides and knelt beside her.

“Truly,
ma chère
, you are not hurt?”

“Truly. I owe what is left of my life to Maître du Luc.”

La Reynie looked at Charles with gratitude so naked in his face that Charles looked away in confusion. But not before he'd seen La Reynie wrap his arms around Reine and hold her against his chest, rocking on his knees, his lips tightly closed against whatever he was trying not to say to her.

Wondering anew what lay so deep between these two otherwise so far apart, Charles wondered if La Reynie had even noticed Marin's body. Slowly, the
lieutenant-général
released Reine and got to his feet. He took the little carving of Marin from his pocket and held it out to her.

“This is very like him, Reine.”

She put it carefully away inside her garments. “Nicolas—”

“At least we have his killer.” His face was hard with satisfaction. He went to where Jean lay tossing with fever and looked down at him.

“
I
have him, Nicolas. And I am keeping him. Maître du Luc and I are keeping him.”

La Reynie stared at Reine. Instead of the anger Charles was waiting for, the
lieutenant-général
's face creased with worry. He glanced at Charles and said gently, “Grief makes you rave, Reine. Of course I must take him, he is a murderer. At least I have found one whose guilt is certain,” he said, with an ironic look at Charles. “And I will see Marin decently buried.”

“Nicolas, you do not understand—”

La Reynie tried to talk over her, but Charles stopped him.

“Jean is Tito. He killed Martine Mynette and Henri Brion.”

La Reynie spun toward Jean, oblivious in his fever. “He is Tito? How do you know?”

Reine said, “I knew, Nicolas. I have known for a while that he killed Martine Mynette. But I did not know until this morning that he also killed Monsieur Brion.”

Before La Reynie could find words, Charles said, “The servant called Tito left the Mynette house in November, and Reine says that he joined her group of beggars then, calling himself Jean. He told me himself this morning, after he killed Marin, that he had killed Mademoiselle Mynette and Monsieur Brion, though he did not even know Brion's name. He didn't mean to kill the girl; he was trying to cut the ribbon of her necklace. He thinks the necklace is his; I don't know why. As for Henri Brion, he was a victim of poor timing. He must have been on his way home that morning, after Madame Cantel let him out of his prison, when he saw a door open at the Mynette house and went to see if something was wrong. He saw Martine dying. Jean chased him down and stabbed him in fear that Brion would denounce him to the police. Remember that Monsieur Fiennes told us that Gilles Brion saw his father crossing the Place Maubert just at that time.”

La Reynie looked as though someone had given him a chest of gold.

“Thank God and all the saints! Your Jean, Tito, whoever he is, goes to the Châtelet as soon as I can summon men to take him there. If these stories stand up, I can release Gilles Brion.” He strode to Reine and stood looking down at her. “And from here on, I am going to see that you are cared for.” His eyes swept the
cave
. “No more of this. And this street
crotte
who tried to kill you will die as he deserves.”

“Listen to me, Nicolas! He is not street dung. It is partly my fault that he killed Marin. As Maître du Luc just told you, I knew who he was; I thought it was Marin who had killed the girl, but I said nothing. If I had, the truth would have come out. It is my fault it ended like this. If I had confronted Marin, or come to you—” Reine threw her head back and stared up into the darkness. “If I had done that, Marin would be alive.” Then she sighed and bowed her head in defeat. “Instead, I gave Jean the chance to further damn himself. Unwittingly, but I gave it to him. Now I am not going to let him die in a prison cell, in worse misery than he's already in. He stays here. I will watch out his life with him. He has the lung sickness; he's had it a long time. I've seen the end drawing near him for days,” Reine said, drowning out La Reynie's protest. “His fever will not abate now. I think he will be dead before another morning.” She looked at Charles. “Maître du Luc agrees that he should stay here.”

La Reynie rounded furiously on Charles, but Charles forestalled him.

“I agree with all my heart,
mon lieutenant-général
.”

“You are deranged, both of you, this is preposterous!” La Reynie went to the boy and nudged him with the toe of his boot. Jean's labored breathing didn't change. “He is a killer I'd almost despaired of finding and he is going to die where I put him. You,” he said to Richard, who stood motionless and sharp-eyed at the entrance, listening intently. “Take this and go to the police
barrière
.” He held out a round token bearing the outline of the city's sign, the cathedral of Notre Dame. “Say that Monsieur La Reynie requires two men and bring them here to the
cave
.”

The beggar didn't move. “I am Reine's man,
mon lieutenant-général
.”

La Reynie reddened with anger. “You,” he snapped at Charles. “Help me carry him.”

“No, Monsieur La Reynie. I am not your man, either.”

“You are a cleric. Where is your sense of justice, of sin?”

“Engaged in a fight to the death with my hope of mercy,” Charles said dryly. He never after knew what made him add, “If you had a son, Monsieur La Reynie, would you not want mercy for him? No matter what he'd done?”

Behind him, Reine drew in a startled breath. La Reynie stood rigid, pressing his crossed arms against his chest as though against a wound. His eyes went to Jean, as the boy moved restlessly in his fever.

“Yes, Nicolas,” Reine said, very softly, “which would you want for Gabriel?”

“Your clever question means nothing,” La Reynie said harshly. “Gabriel is no killer. And he wants no help from me.”

“But you want much from him. Give this dying boy mercy and perhaps the Virgin will give you mercy in return, you and Gabriel.”

“Lieutenant-Général La Reynie,” Charles said, appalled, “please believe that I did not know you had a son. I never intended—”

“Peace,
maître
,” Reine said. “Perhaps God intended.”

T
he morning sun had risen high enough to fall greenly through the small window's old glass onto Père Le Picart's desk. The rector sat behind the desk, his long, sinewy fingers lying in the little pool of light, tapping softly and rapidly on the desk's scarred wood. La Reynie sat in one of the fireside chairs, which Charles had moved closer to the desk for him. Charles stood back, glad—for once—to let his superiors decide what happened next. His horror and astonishment at the morning's revelations had given way to quiet, and beneath its surface, his mind worked at making sense of what he'd seen and heard, especially at making sense of Jean.

“I will give out that I have the proven killer of Martine Mynette and Henri Brion,” La Reynie was saying. “And then I will give out that he has died of fever.”

Le Picart said nothing, and Charles saw that he was scrutinizing the police chief as he had often scrutinized Charles himself. Some part of him was glad to see that La Reynie was equally uncomfortable under that sharp gray gaze.

“Do you think I am wrong to let him die here?” La Reynie said, shifting in his chair.

“Have I said so?” The rector shook his head. “No, Monsieur La Reynie, I think you have chosen rightly. Why add more suffering to the world than there needs to be?” He looked at Charles. “Maître du Luc will see that he has a priest.” His fingers continued to tap, as though knocking softly at some unseen door. “I suppose that your making it known that the killer has been found will release us from the recent accusations. And from that cursed song.”