The Saint-Florentin Murders (8 page)

‘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?’

‘I had the good fortune to serve Madame Adélaïde, who often honoured me by inviting me to her hunts.’

‘That’s it! You’re young Ranreuil, who was so appreciated by the King. How fortunate we are, Monsieur, to be dealing with someone so well born, even though … Monsieur, you must hear me.’ She threw a fierce glance at Bourdeau. ‘Who is this gentleman?’

‘My deputy, Inspector Bourdeau. Fully the equal of myself.’

‘If you say so! Monsieur, this is all so terrible, but it was bound to happen. I had been dreading it for a long time. One cannot live like this without running the risk of such a tragedy one day.’

‘Madame, may I ask you to tell me whom I have the honour of addressing?’

‘What, Monsieur? I am the Duchesse de La Vrillière and this is my house.’ 

This majestic announcement only half surprised Nicolas, who had already realised who the lady was. He had glimpsed her on several occasions at Versailles. She was reputed to be sanctimonious and sour-tempered, but he knew how unreliable Court rumours were, how often unjust and biased. Reacting to her with studied indifference had seemed to him the best way to take the sting out of this excessive display of wounded pride. It was, he thought with a smile, a kind of moral purging.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I am your obedient servant …’ Without letting her catch her breath, he continued, ‘I’ve been given to understand that Marguerite Pindron was part of your entourage, as a chambermaid.’

‘That’s going a little far, Monsieur. Entourage is a big and noble word. We’re talking about my domestic servants, that’s all – indeed, one of the most subordinate. I don’t know how she came to be working here, it happened quite recently, and, I should add, without my consent.’

Nicolas knew that with this kind of witness, it was necessary to adopt one of two strategies: either attempt to restrain and
channel their natural outpourings, or let them have their say and hope that within the flood of their words there would be some interesting flotsam.

‘It’s true,’ resumed the duchesse, ‘that I have never had a word to say in this house, and that most of those who serve me were chosen for reasons which have nothing to do with me and which I prefer not to know. Oh, Monsieur, the misfortune of having to be served …’

On this point, Nicolas observed, the duchesse’s sentiment hardly differed from her husband’s.

‘Servants, Monsieur,’ she continued, ‘are detestable. Even their zeal is offensive and they’re always so clumsy. They complain, but have no idea of the trouble they cause you. After all, they are only in such a position because God has seen fit to reduce them to a situation of servitude in this world in order to aid our infirmity while we remedy their poverty. To be honest, we earn a place in heaven for them by heaping humiliation on their heads, just as we earn it for ourselves by the care we take of them.’

‘In a way, Madame,’ said Bourdeau, ‘they are privileged people who owe their salvation to you.’

She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. ‘This gentleman is right, it is one of the most favoured states. Here are wretches who find themselves living in opulent houses, where they benefit greatly from all that is essential to life. They get good meat and good wine every day, wear nice clothes, are well washed, well bedded, well heated, are given easy jobs to perform, and have too much leisure time. Why should they not be satisfied? I ask you. And when they fail us or make mistakes, should we speak to them with a gracious air, neither too quickly
nor too loudly, as my father confessor suggests?’

She collapsed onto a
bergère
– her dress made a great sighing noise as it was squeezed into the chair – and again began beating the air irritably with her fan.

Nicolas took advantage of the pause to get a word in. ‘May I ask, Madame, how the events of last night in your house were brought to your notice?’

‘Why, by all the noise and commotion my people were making below my windows just before six o’clock. I should point out that I am a light sleeper. Alas, who, in my situation, would be able to rest peacefully?’ She raised her eyes to heaven and her hands shook around the ebony handle of her fan. ‘On the advice of my doctor, I’m accustomed to taking some drops of Hoffman’s solution with syrup of marshmallow and orange flower. If they prove to be ineffective, I use something more efficient, a mixture of ether and alcohol. I often fall into a deep sleep in the early hours of the morning. So there would have to be a lot of noise to wake me, as was the case this morning.’

‘Are you quite sure of the time, Madame?’

‘Monsieur, I am able to tell the time by the clock in my room.’

‘Was it dark?’

‘Completely.’

‘What happened then?’

‘My head chambermaid came into the room in great agitation and told me that something terrible had happened in the servants’ pantry.’

‘Do you remember the exact words she used?’

‘Monsieur, my memory is as good as my sight. When I questioned her about the noise, she said breathlessly that it was
bound to happen, and that the Pindron girl had been found murdered in the roasting room.’

‘Was that all she said?’

‘Monsieur!’

‘Forgive my insistence, Madame. I need to know exactly what happened. Did she mention the major-domo?’

‘What do you mean? Why would she have done that?’

‘Because, Madame, the major-domo was found lying, wounded and unconscious, beside Marguerite Pindron’s body, and he is suspected of having murdered her then turned his weapon on himself.’

The Duchesse de La Vrillière seemed so astonished by this that, unless she was an exceptional actress, it was impossible to doubt her good faith.

Nicolas looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Have you seen your chambermaid again since then?’

‘She’s been no good for anything all day,’ replied the duchesse, ‘and I told her to go and rest. These people have no self-control! Another of my maids has the little room next to my bedroom. I went back to bed and heard the duc coming back from Versailles. His coach and horses are so noisy! I woke up at midday and this other girl dressed me.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Jeannette.’

‘And her surname?’

‘Are you mocking me, Monsieur? Do you imagine I clutter my mind with the surnames of servants?’

‘It seems to me, Madame, that you knew Marguerite Pindron’s surname.’

‘That’s possible, Monsieur. My chief maid called her by that name.’

‘And what is the name of your chief maid?’

‘Eugénie.’

‘Did Jeannette talk to you about what happened last night?’

‘How could she, she didn’t know anything! She hadn’t left my apartments and hadn’t seen anybody.’

‘Madame, may I ask what you meant when you said, at the beginning of our interview, that “it was bound to happen”?’

The duchesse rose and with an abrupt gesture snapped her fan shut. Her face seemed suddenly to have hardened. ‘Of course, Monsieur. I was simply repeating what Eugénie said. I didn’t mean any harm by it.’

‘I’m sorry, Madame,’ insisted Nicolas, ‘but you added that you’d been dreading the news for a long time.’

‘Monsieur, please do not persist. The hand of God always strikes houses where his commandments are ignored.’

‘That is a very general statement, and may apply in many cases. Do you think, Madame, that such an assertion would be enough to convince a magistrate, by which I mean a judge or procurator dealing with a murder case?’

‘Are you threatening me? Under my own roof? Do you know to whom you are talking, Monsieur?’

‘I was merely advising caution.’

‘That’s enough. I know what I still have to do.’ With both hands, she gathered her pannier and strode out of the room in a great silky shiver of fabric.

Nicolas sighed. The higher one climbed the ladder of society, the less natural respect was shown for law and order.

‘What a tough nut to crack!’ muttered Bourdeau.

‘Let’s be lenient,’ countered Nicolas. ‘Think of the life she has to lead. The duc is no paragon and she has had a lot to bear. But by her very reticence, the good lady implies many things. Is she suggesting, for example, that the underlying cause of this tragedy lies in the state of her household?’

‘We still have to establish,’ said Bourdeau, ‘if it has something to do with her husband’s dissolute life or some kind of intrigue or rivalry among the many servants. I’m not convinced that this grand lady takes too much notice of what her people do. At most, she lends a distracted ear to her maids’ gossip when they’re dressing her in the morning.’

‘We shall see. Go and fetch the two chambermaids. Provence will help you to find them. He can’t be far away, he’s always roaming the antechambers. At my disposal, admittedly!’

Nicolas walked to the hearth, which was blazing away. He felt cold. These big fires made your throat dry without warming you, except to roast your thighs when you got close to them. What a strange business! Despite the horror of what had happened, it appeared at first sight mundane and unremarkable. Everything seemed to point to an affair of the heart between a man of a certain age and a young girl. Yet there were many details that did not tally with the generally convergent observations and testimonies so far gathered. The picture which presented itself to Nicolas, the one everybody seemed to be trying to make him accept, made him rather suspect that, beneath its plain varnish, there had been a certain amount of retouching. And what of
the mysterious fugitive prowling in the shadows of the
Saint-Florentin
mansion and disappearing after a last bloody embrace with one of the columns of the gate?

He was drawn from his reverie by Bourdeau’s return, accompanied by a woman in an apron and cap. His first reaction was to wonder why she was trying to appear older and uglier than she was. No doubt it was to avoid any comparison with the duchesse. Her hair was drawn back under her cap, making her face more angular, but her features were regular and her complexion splendidly milky. She seemed to be deliberately sucking in her lips, which made her cheeks taut and gave the impression of a strong will. He asked her to sit down, but she shook her head and remained standing, leaning on the back of an armchair. It was late afternoon by now, and the light was gradually fading. The reflection of the flames played over her face, alternately lighting it and plunging it into wavering shadow. Nicolas waited, saying nothing, aware of the effect this silence usually had on witnesses. But no emotion showed on this woman’s face, if indeed she felt any. Only the whiteness of her fingers on the upholstery of the armchair attested to the tension in her hands.

‘Are you Eugénie, head chambermaid of the Duchesse de La Vrillière?’

‘Yes, Commissioner. Eugénie Gouet.’

‘How old are you? Are you married?’

‘I was thirty last Saint Michel’s day. I’m single.’

‘How long have you worked here?’

‘In the service of Madame, since 1762. The mansion hadn’t even been built then. I was still a child …’

‘Are you one of the oldest servants?’

‘Of course. With Provence, Monseigneur’s valet.’

‘Tell me what happened this morning.’

‘I was getting ready in my room on the second floor, when I heard cries. I rushed out to find the kitchen boy, Provence, the caretaker and the Swiss Guard. They all went to the servants’ pantry. Jacques, the boy, had discovered two bodies, that of Marguerite, who was apparently dead, and that of Monsieur Missery, who was still breathing. Thinking that all this noise had woken Madame, I went up to inform her.’

‘Where are your mistress’s apartments?’

‘On the first floor, in the left wing of the mansion. Monseigneur lodges in the right wing.’

‘Good. Let’s take everything in order. What time was it when you went down?’

‘About seven,’ she said, without any hesitation.

‘Was it dark?’

‘Completely.’

That was a point on which everyone agreed, thought Nicolas.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘Provence had a dark lantern with him.’

It was a crude trap, and he wasn’t sure she would fall into it. It was obvious the blow had struck home, but she recovered immediately.

‘I don’t know … I think … The sight of blood bothered me. It was all lit up. How? I couldn’t say.’

Nicolas did not insist: that would have revealed that he was trying to trick her. The mention of the blood intrigued him. Did she mean the blood at the scene of the crime or the blood on Missery’s body?

‘Was your mistress asleep?’

‘No, she was standing in the space between her bed and the wall, very angry, waiting to find out the reason for all the chaos – that was her word.’

‘Hadn’t she taken her sleeping draught the previous evening?’

She stared at him again with her grey eyes. There was
something
beautiful in her mixture of sadness and severity.

‘Sometimes she takes it, sometimes she doesn’t,’ she said, slightly too curtly. ‘Sometimes she remembers, sometimes she forgets, sometimes she takes more than she should.’

‘But if she did take the medication, as she herself states, the noise should not have awoken her. And besides, you’re the one who prepares it for her. Did you give it to her last night?’

He had thrown out this assertion at random, and had no evidence to back it up, but he had clearly hit the target, to judge by her agitation.

‘No … Yes … At least what there was of it.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The bottles had got broken and I was only able to collect a few drops. I was planning to get some more today from the apothecary.’

‘A few drops of the potion?’

‘No, of the ether and alcohol.’

‘Can you show me what’s left of those bottles?’

The question was a specific one, and there was no way of evading it. Nicolas was pressing home his advantage, convinced that he had put his finger on something – something that might be unconnected to the case but certainly seemed to be disturbing the duchesse’s head chambermaid.

‘I threw them into the cesspool, for fear that someone might get hurt,’ she replied. ‘If Madame had found them, it would have disturbed her peace of mind, for which I am responsible.’

These skilful excuses did not need any further commentary. She was a strong sparring partner, thought Nicolas, used to living by her wits and even able to use her own unease as a strength, presenting herself as an honest person who has been thrown into a state of shock.

He changed the subject. ‘What can you tell us about Jean Missery?’ he asked.

Eugénie’s face turned slightly red. ‘I am a chambermaid,’ she replied, ‘and he is a major-domo. Our tasks are different and keep us apart. It’s Madame who deals with the women. However, he does sometimes reprimand us …’