The Saint-Florentin Murders (5 page)

Nicolas made an effort to conceal his astonishment. ‘Let me at least pay for my purchases.’

Once that was done, Nicolas found himself in a cab with the two officers. With the windows raised and the curtains drawn, the unpleasant smell of unwashed bodies was overwhelming in such
a confined space. He lowered the corner of his hat, withdrawing into himself to reflect on what appeared, for all the world, like an arrest. He was only too familiar with the procedures and customs of a system of which he had long been an agent. He had taken part in so many investigations and shared so many secrets that he could not help but wonder. Everything was possible, he knew. Would he be exiled to the provinces? Surely he was too small a figure for such a great honour. It was more likely that a
lettre de cachet
had been issued, and that he would be thrown into prison. But they would still have to find a reason to justify such treatment. Although … He laughed, making his two companions look at him in surprise. So many people had been arrested without knowing the reason. He wouldn’t be the first and he wouldn’t be the last! He might as well keep his composure: he would learn his fate soon enough.

Still watched by his two guards, he was left waiting in the antechamber, before the door opened and the friendly face of an elderly valet appeared. He motioned Nicolas to enter, then leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘He doesn’t know anything himself!’

The old man was clearly talking about Lenoir. What was it he didn’t know? Nicolas approached the desk. His chief was still writing, and had not even looked up.

‘I am grateful to you, Commissioner,’ he said at last, ‘for responding so promptly to my summons.’

‘How could I not, Monseigneur, when I was brought here by two officers? Quite an honour!’

‘I think,’ said Lenoir impassively, ‘that they exceeded my instructions.’

‘They found me, that’s the main thing. As always, our police force has shown itself to be extremely efficient.’

Lenoir folded his hands. ‘I am instructed to …’ for a moment, he searched for the correct word, ‘… invite you to present yourself immediately at the Saint-Florentin mansion. The Duc de La Vrillière, Minister of the King’s Household, has asked to see you.’ He seemed surprised by his own words. ‘I hope,’ he resumed, ‘that you’ve done nothing to offend him. You have not been assigned to any investigation for three months now. You wouldn’t by any chance have become involved in some other case? I’ve already had occasion to deplore your independent behaviour during our first encounter.’

‘Not at all, Monseigneur,’ replied Nicolas. ‘I have obeyed your orders completely and scrupulously. I have done nothing, I have enjoyed my leisure, and I have hunted. With His Majesty.’

His tone was so ironic that Lenoir sighed irritably. ‘Go, and make sure you report back to me on anything that might be of interest to the King’s service.’

‘I shall not fail to do so,’ said Nicolas. ‘I shall take the cab which brought me here and go directly to the minister’s mansion.’

With these words, Nicolas bowed and left the room. He descended the great staircase four steps at a time, watched with astonishment by the two officers, and jumped into the cab. We’re back in business, he thought. His intuition told him that the Duc de La Vrillière needed him.

Like a rider facing a hurdle, Nicolas liked to give himself a lull before launching into the thick of the action. He considered this pause necessary to keep a clear head. He asked to be dropped at Place Louis XV and, anxious to contemplate the Saint-Florentin mansion, where he might well have a date with destiny, he sat down on a bollard. Having kept him waiting for three months, they could certainly wait a few more minutes. He admired the classical trappings of the building, which extended the splendour of the Garde-Meuble. For a moment, the past paraded before him: images of that terrible night in 1770, the cries, the smoke, the crushed bodies, and the statue of the King looking down on the disaster of that failed firework display.
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The facade overlooked a small square with a fountain from which it was possible to reach the Tuileries gardens. It had two large noble floors and a roof crowned by a balustrade and decorated with carved panoplies and two monumental urns. On Rue
Saint-Florentin
was a splendid gate adorned with a stone coat of arms held aloft by two deities. The coat of arms was divided into four quarters, combining the blue of the Phélypeaux family, strewn
with gold cinquefoils and ermines, and the three red mallets of the Mailly family.

Nicolas had known Monsieur de Saint-Florentin, who was now the Duc de La Vrillière, since he had joined the police force. He pondered that remarkable career which had begun fifty years earlier in the King’s councils and which had been built on a stubborn loyalty to the person of Louis XV. The man was not exactly popular, either at Court or in the city. Many envied his influence while condemning his weakness and timidity. He was also responsible for many arbitrary decisions and
lettres de cachet.
Madame Victoire thought him stupid, whereas others emphasised his gift for conciliation, his ability to appease dissenting parties without compromising the authority of the throne. On many occasions, he had demonstrated his trust in Nicolas, but a recent case in which his cousin the Duc d’Aiguillon had been involved seemed to have contributed to his current low opinion of the commissioner.

Nicolas again looked at the house, which had all the grandeur and nobility of a small palace and gave anything but a small idea of the fortune of the man who had built it. He recalled certain pieces of gossip concerning the minister’s dubious morals. He lived a dissolute life in Paris, surrounded by women of ill repute, and neglected his wife in favour of a mistress, Marie-Madeleine de Cusacque, the Marquise de Langeac, whom he called ‘the Beautiful Aglaé’. It was claimed at Court that this woman made use of her lover’s influence and traded
lettres de cachet
, and there was good reason to believe that this was true. The duc had set up all the lady’s children, despite their dubious lineage, but since the King’s death he had had to conform to the new, stricter morality
and give up seeing her. She had continued to appear, however, even provoking a gentleman to a duel and insulting a tribunal. Eventually, she had been ordered to remain fifty leagues from the Court and had withdrawn to an estate near Caen. As for her lover, his health had declined since this forced separation.

Nicolas finally decided to enter the mansion. A monumentally tall Swiss Guard, covered in silver braid, received him haughtily, softening only when he gave his name and occupation. He was led across the main courtyard and then up some steps into a vestibule where a valet greeted him. He was surprised by the lack of hustle and bustle in the house at this hour of the day. Several servants passed him without looking at him, with inscrutable expressions on their faces. On the great staircase, he noted a fine painting, an allegory of Prudence and Strength. On the first floor, a succession of antechambers led him to the minister’s study. The valet tapped at the door. A familiar voice responded. The valet stood aside to let him in. The Duc de La Vrillière sat slumped beside the big marble fireplace, wearing a grey coat and no wig. He glanced at Nicolas expressionlessly. The man had certainly changed since their last encounter. Thin, stooped, hollow-jowled, he looked quite unlike the chubby little man Nicolas had known.

‘Hmm, here’s young Ranreuil,’ he grunted. ‘Quite cold, isn’t it?’

He sighed, as if the name alone could summon up the ghost of the late King, his other passion in life. Things could have got off to a worse start, thought Nicolas.

‘Monsieur,’ said the minister, ‘I have always held you in great
esteem. I understand that you may have thought that you – how shall I put it? – did not have my trust. But that was a complete misunderstanding on your part.’

‘I did indeed think so, Monseigneur,’ replied Nicolas. ‘In fact, I was quite convinced of it, even though I found it hard to explain. Others took it upon themselves to reinforce the impression.’

‘Now who could that have been? Lenoir? Yes, that may well be what he thought. A word from me will disabuse him. It is no longer possible to do without your services. Monsieur de Sartine long ago convinced me of that. Today, I need you again.’

Nicolas had been right: he was indeed back in business. ‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘I am at your service.’

The minister raised a hand clad in a grey silk glove and brought it down hard on the armrest of his chair. He sat up, and for a moment the image of the man he had been reappeared, an image of easy-going but real authority.

‘Let’s get straight to the point. Yesterday I was at Versailles. I came back early this morning to find my house turned upside down. The fact is, Monsieur, my major-domo has been killed.’ He shook his head irritably. ‘No, I’m wrong! One of my wife’s maids has been killed, and my major-domo was found wounded and unconscious with a knife beside him. It would seem that, having killed the girl, he tried to punish himself by committing suicide.’

‘What measures have so far been taken?’ Nicolas enquired coldly, once again the professional who did not like other people to draw hasty conclusions for him.

‘What? What? … Measures? Oh, yes, measures … I forbade anyone to touch the maid’s body. The major-domo was taken to his room on the mezzanine, still unconscious. He is being watched
by a doctor. As for the kitchens where the crime took place, I have forbidden access to them and the doors have been bolted while waiting for you to inspect the place.’

‘Did you know the victim?’

The duc gave a kind of start. ‘A chambermaid! One of the last to have entered my house. How could I? I don’t even know her name.’

Nicolas thought to himself that servants were often regarded as furniture. Most of the time, their names were changed and their master was unaware of their real name, knowing nothing of them but the particular function for which they were paid.

‘Monseigneur,’ he said, ‘may I be so bold as to demand full authority in this affair, which is all the more serious for having taken place in your house? No meddling, no interference, the possibility of questioning all the occupants of the house, and I mean all, and permanent permission to move around and to search.’

‘All right, all right,’ grumbled the duc, ‘I suppose it’s necessary. Sartine did tell me how inconvenient you can be.’

‘The facts are more inconvenient than I. That’s not all, Monseigneur. I should like to be assisted by Bourdeau. I trust you will consent.’

‘The name sounds familiar. Isn’t he one of our officers?’

‘One of our inspectors, Monseigneur.’

‘That’s right,’ said La Vrillière, striking his forehead, ‘he’s your loyal deputy. I like loyalty. Of course I consent.’

‘What about Monsieur Lenoir?’

‘Leave it to me. I’ll reconcile the two of you. He’ll be informed that this is my affair and you answer entirely to me. It’s a private
matter, and requires the greatest discretion. The Lieutenant General of Police will have to accede to your demands for any help or support that you may require. I hope that you will show the same zeal and efficiency in this affair as you have in others. A study has been set aside for you on the mezzanine, and orders will be given that you must be obeyed in all matters. My valet, Provence, will be your guide in this house. You can trust him, he’s been with me for twenty years. Now do your work. Monsieur, I am at your disposal.’

The minister’s tone was certainly in keeping with the circumstances. Nicolas had often noted in this unloved little man, lacking in personal prestige, a kind of unexpected grandeur which occasionally appeared, its roots constantly irrigated by the will and trust of the monarch. Thus, in a few short moments, the Duc de La Vrillière had been transfigured, animated by the concerns of State and the order it was his task to impose upon it. Everything vital having been said, Nicolas bowed and left the room. The valet was waiting at the door, and asked Nicolas to follow him. They took the same route by which they had come. Back on the ground floor, they came to a large hall that led to a succession of antechambers. In the third room on the right, the valet pointed out the entrance to a large study, which Nicolas judged to be situated more or less beneath that of the minister. The valet closed the door behind him. A fire was blazing in a white marble hearth, above which stood a bust of Louis XV. He stood for a moment contemplating it, suddenly overwhelmed with memories. Then he sat down at a small desk inlaid with bronze and lacquer and equipped with paper, quill pens, ink and lead pencils. He took out his little black notebook, an
indispensable tool of his investigations. He was swept by a wave of excitement. It was the habitual thrill of the hunter setting off on the trail, the same ardour that sent him galloping off into the thickets of the forest of Compiègne. Already his mind was revolving around this case with which he had been presented, and his intelligence and intuition were on the alert.

Out of curiosity, he opened a door, which revealed to him a magnificently prepared bedroom. Behind this room were a fine bathroom and water closet in the English style, such as he had not seen since his return from London. He went back into the study and rang the bell. The valet appeared. The man was about fifty, with a crumpled, colourless face and faded eyes. He wore a grey wig, and his silver-trimmed blue livery hung loose on his slender frame. The only thing striking about him was how nondescript he was.

‘What’s your name, my friend?’

‘Provence, Commissioner,’ the man said, avoiding his gaze.

‘What’s your real name?’

‘Charles Bibard.’

‘Where were you born?’

‘In Paris, in 1725 or 1726.’

Nicolas had been right about his age. ‘Why Provence, then?’

‘It was my predecessor’s name. Monseigneur’s father, by whom I was subsequently engaged, didn’t like change.’

‘Well, Provence, can you tell me what happened here this morning?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know much. Just before seven, I was busy making Monseigneur’s apartments ready for his return from Versailles when I heard cries and screams.’

‘Where were you?’

‘In the bedroom. I went downstairs to the ground floor. The kitchen boy, the one who opens up in the morning, was screaming in terror and wringing his hands.’

‘Was he alone?’

Nicolas noticed a slight hesitation.

‘Everything was so chaotic … I think the Swiss Guard was there. Yes, I can see him now, just buttoning up his livery.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Jacques – Jacques Despiard, the kitchen boy – was kicking up such a fuss, it was impossible to understand what he was on about. He was stamping his feet like someone possessed. The caretaker arrived and helped us restrain him, then we left the caretaker to watch over him and went down into the servants’ pantry.’

‘So the door was open?’

‘Yes. That was where Jacques had come from. The key was still in the door at the end of the passage.’

‘And what did you find?’

Nicolas waited intently for the answer. Experience had taught him that a witness’s first observations often turned out to be the most enlightening.

‘It was still dark and the kitchen boy had dropped his candle. We went to look for another candle and lit it. There was nothing to see in the kitchen except some bloodstained footprints, but as soon as we got to the door of the roasting room we discovered Monsieur Missery lying face down on the floor in the middle of a pool of blood. We rushed to him, and I noticed there was a kitchen knife next to him.’

‘What was the position of his head?’

‘His right cheek was against the floor.’

‘And where was the knife?’

‘Also on his right. He was still breathing and, just as we were going to help him, the Swiss Guard turned and saw, slumped to her knees against the draining board, the body of a young woman. Her head looked as if it was detached from her trunk. The wound was terrible, Monsieur, she was like a pig that’s been bled.’

‘What happened then?’

‘We carried Jean Missery to his room on the mezzanine.’

‘The floor where we are now?’

‘That’s right, Commissioner, but on the other side of the courtyard, where you find the service rooms, the linen room, and accommodation for the Swiss Guard and the caretaker. The caretaker went to fetch a doctor from Rue Saint-Honoré. At that moment, Monseigneur arrived and took matters in hand. He immediately went down to the servants’ pantry.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes. Then he came back up and asked for the key I’d taken from the door and double-locked everything. Here it is – he gave it to me to give to you.’

Nicolas recognised the minister’s way: his insecure character did not exclude a certain decisiveness and the greatest concern for detail. The valet handed him a thick envelope bearing the
Saint-Florentin
family seal.

‘What did the doctor say?’

‘That he’d recover. He bandaged the wound in his side, and told us to let him rest and to keep an eye on him.’

‘We’ll continue this conversation later. These initial facts are enough for the moment. Please show me to the kitchens.’