The Saint-Florentin Murders (9 page)

‘What about?’

‘I don’t know. Something about candles. It’s one thing for our masters to exert their authority over us, but to obey those to whom they delegate part of their power, to be the servant of a servant, now that’s something I can’t stand!’

It was such a vehement assertion that Bourdeau, who was standing behind Eugénie, underlined it with an eloquent wink.

‘I see,’ said Nicolas. ‘I suppose that kind of acrimony is perfectly common in large houses. What about the victim? What was your opinion of her? Like you, she worked for Madame, you knew her well. She must have been a friend of yours, with similar interests.’

This time, Eugénie made a contemptuous grimace. ‘You can think that if you like! How could I have anything in common with that creature from the gutter, whose work consisted of emptying
the buckets and cleaning the floors? She was introduced here by poor Missery. God knows where he’d met her! Everything about her suggested a dissolute origin. She led him by the nose, believe me. Her engagement here was a trap, and our major-domo fell into it. He lost his head and took advantage of Monseigneur’s trust to impose a girl like that on Madame. If she’d at least been honest with him! But just think, Commissioner, she used to receive a suitor – a young one this time – here, in this very house. She would go out at night, even though Madame demands that we lead a good, regular life. She didn’t suspect a thing! Just think, she’d got her claws into a widower, such a fine man, a
major-domo
to boot! She didn’t respect him, even though he was so good, and so trusting.’

‘In a word, you’re saying that Marguerite Pindron was Jean Missery’s mistress?’

‘That’s very definitely what I’m saying. Ask anyone. He’d become the laughing stock of the household. He didn’t deserve it, he could have …’

She had been on the point of blurting something out.

‘Could have what?’

‘I know what I mean.’

‘Do you think him capable of punishing himself?’

‘He has a fiery temper. He gets angry quickly, and sometimes can’t control himself. Everything about him is excessive.’

‘One last thing,’ said Nicolas. ‘What did you mean when you told your mistress that it was bound to happen?’

She looked up, and there was a hint of provocation in her expression. ‘That loose morals have fatal consequences. God teaches us that.’

‘I see that we are in a very religious house,’ said Nicolas with a smile. ‘Thank you.’

She withdrew, bumping into Bourdeau as she did so, without a word of excuse. The two police officers looked at each other, each one sifting through his impressions for himself.

‘She certainly has character!’ said Nicolas. ‘A somewhat enigmatic charm and a superb complexion. A bit thin, though.’

‘You’re not exactly sticking your neck out in saying that,’ replied Bourdeau. ‘As for myself, I’m less compassionate. She’s trying to make us believe that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but I’d sum her up in this way: self-control, hatred and admiration. Self-control in the skilful way she makes innuendos, hatred towards the victim, even now, and admiration for Missery. But watch out! From admiration to love is but a step … And that step may have been taken.’

‘I noticed that, too, as well as other contradictions,’ Nicolas agreed. ‘Here is a man whose authority is resented, but whose kindness, trust and good nature are praised. All these remarks are important, and I would wager that others will enlighten us on the relationship between the chambermaid and the major-domo. I don’t exclude the possibility that there’s something there. Bring in Jeannette. I assume she’s in the antechamber. I hope Eugénie hasn’t instructed her in what to say.’

As soon as the girl came in, he realised that someone had upset her. Her careworn expression, her tear-stained face, the way she was twisting a handkerchief in her hands: all these things revealed a terror that was in no way justified by the prospect of an
interrogation. He felt sorry for her: she was little more than a child.

‘My dear,’ he began, in a fatherly tone, ‘we need your help. What’s your name and how old are you?’

‘Jeannette,’ she murmured in a faint voice, ‘Jeannette Le Bas. I was born in Yvetot, in Normandy, and I’m seventeen.’

‘How long have you been in service?’

‘Two years, Monsieur. Since Saint Jean’s day.’

‘Sit down. Don’t be afraid. Tell me what happened.’

She looked about her like an animal caught in a trap. ‘I have nothing to say … Have pity, Monsieur … They can hear us.’

‘Come now,’ said Bourdeau, ‘enough of this childishness!’ He strode in turn to each of the doors and opened them. ‘As you see,’ he resumed, ‘there’s no one eavesdropping. What are you afraid of?’

She looked up and, as if taking a plunge into deep water, began speaking. ‘Nobody. It’s just that I’m not used to it. This morning, I heard a noise in Madame’s bedroom, and so—’

‘Wait, slow down. Where do you sleep?’

‘On a bunk in the garderobe.’

‘Does the room have an opening?’

‘Yes, Monsieur, a window looking out on the main courtyard.’

‘And you say it was your mistress who woke you?’

She blushed with embarrassment. ‘Because she was using her commode.’

‘Roughly what time was that?’

‘I don’t know, it was still dark. Then Eugénie arrived, yelling so much it was hard to understand what she was saying.’

‘But you understood some of it?’

‘Just that something terrible had happened. She mentioned blood, and a knife. I was so scared I put my fingers in my ears.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Madame went back to bed. I stayed where I was, waiting for her to call me. Which she did at midday.’

‘I’d like to be clear about one thing,’ said Nicolas, gravely. ‘Was your mistress awake when Eugénie arrived?’

‘Wide awake, I’d just seen her in the garderobe. What have I said? Is there something wrong? Oh God, protect me! I don’t want to lose my job.’

‘You won’t lose anything at all if you tell us the truth. I promise you that. Did you know Marguerite?’

‘Of course,’ she replied, sniffling. ‘She was very sweet and kind to me. She even wanted to teach me to read and write. I really liked her, though I shouldn’t say it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Madame and Eugénie thought she was a bad girl.’

‘And what was your opinion?’

‘I think she’d had a lot of bad things happen to her, but despite all that, she had a good heart. For the rest, I don’t judge.’

‘Did she confide in you?’

‘She told me she was very tired.’

‘Tired of her work?’

‘That, too. But especially the things her suitor made her do.’

‘Jean Missery?’

The girl opened her eyes wide in surprise and began trembling. ‘No, not him! The young man who called on her some nights.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘No, she called him Aide.’

‘Aide? That’s unusual. Are you sure that was his name?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about the major-domo?’

‘Oh, him! … He was always after her, and even …’ Suddenly, she began shaking uncontrollably, she threw her head back, and her limbs tensed. Nicolas’s first thought was that he was again confronted with a phenomenon he had once before observed in a young servant girl. Helped by Bourdeau, he laid her out on a bench. Gradually, the attack receded, and she regained consciousness, surprised to see the two men bending over her.

‘My dear,’ said Nicolas, ‘you must calm down, nothing is going to happen to you. I’ve promised to look after you and I’m going to keep my word. Pierre, be so kind as to walk back with her.’

Once alone, Nicolas reflected. Of course, he was making progress with his investigation, but he had a growing feeling that the case was proving to be more complex than he had thought at first. The paths that might lead to the truth kept dividing, meeting again, merging, with so many abrupt and unexpected turns that you ended up losing your way in frustration. Why had the young servant girl had a sudden seizure just as she was talking about the major-domo? He vowed to mention it to Dr Semacgus. He recalled past conversations about strange cases of girls prone to that kind of attack. Clearly, none of the women or girls in the Saint-Florentin mansion were indifferent to Jean Missery. Bourdeau reappeared, followed by a young man with a waddling gait. Tow-coloured hair framed a regular, pimply face. His forehead was covered in sweat, and he was pulling on the
lapels of his linen jacket as if trying to draw it tighter around himself.

Nicolas launched into the interrogation without further ado. ‘Are you Jacques Despiard, the kitchen boy? How old are you?’

‘That’s me, Monsieur. I’m twenty-five.’

‘How did you come to discover the bodies?’

‘Every morning, I open the kitchens and light the stoves and the hearths in the roasting room. It takes a while to get things heated up properly, especially to get rid of the smoke. I always begin with the roasting room, because that’s where the fire takes longest to get going. This morning, no sooner had I entered than I saw all that blood and the two bodies.’

He had started stammering, and passed his hand over his face as if to dismiss the vision. Nicolas took advantage of this pause.

‘So it was light in the roasting room?’

The young man grew agitated, looking wildly from one of the two impassive police officers to the other, as if searching for help or inspiration.

‘Do you understand my question?’ asked Nicolas. ‘At what time did you open the kitchen?’

‘At six, I think.’

‘I see. So it was dark?’

‘If you say so.’

‘The commissioner isn’t saying anything,’ Bourdeau cut in, irritably. ‘This is about you, and we’d be grateful to you if you could remember what happened.’

‘The inspector’s right,’ said Nicolas gently. ‘How could you see the bodies in a dark basement room at six in the morning, at this time of year?’

‘Did you have a candle?’ asked Bourdeau.

‘I can’t remember … I don’t know. You’re confusing me. All that blood … Leave me alone!’

‘Calm down. We’ll come back to that when you’ve recovered. In the meantime, tell me about the victim.’

The young man’s eyes shone through his tears. ‘She was so beautiful! She always had a kind word. What a monster!’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘The major-domo, Missery, of course. He killed her, he wanted all of them. But they said …’

‘They said what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You need to understand that, if you withhold the truth, you could well end up in a dungeon in the Châtelet prison, where other means will be used to make you talk. What can you tell us about Missery?’

The young man hesitated. ‘A nasty piece of work,’ he said at last. ‘He takes it out on everyone. He sets traps for us to fall into, so he can throw us out on the street. To replace us with his pets, I suppose. He even threatened Monsieur Charles.’

‘The valet?’

‘Yes, Commissioner. Charles Bibard. Missery was planning to report him to Monseigneur for reselling pieces of candle from the house.’

‘Perhaps Missery is just an honest man who can’t tolerate certain excesses?’

The witness’s face was red with indignation. ‘Him, honest! He’s trading illicitly with all the suppliers, taking a commission on every delivery and building up a nice little nest egg for
himself. As if his wife’s fortune wasn’t enough for him. And he may have wept for her, but he’s certainly had plenty of consolation since.’

‘What do you know about that inheritance?’

‘Only what everyone said. In her will, his wife left him all her fortune, but it would revert to her family if he died – unless, of course, he’d remarried and had children.’

‘Thank you for your information. Try to clarify your whereabouts at the time of the murder, and we’ll speak again.’

The young man fled as if he had a hundred devils at his heels. Provence appeared and announced formally, ‘Commissioner, the doctor says that Monsieur Missery has regained consciousness.’

Nicolas and Bourdeau followed him to the other wing of the Saint-Florentin mansion. The inspector noted with curiosity the route they were taking through the maze-like building. On their arrival, and having dismissed the valet, they saw the major-domo sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, his chest bandaged with pieces of his torn shirt. His eyes were closed and his head drooped over his chest. Monsieur de Gévigland was taking his pulse and passing a bottle of salts under his nose with the other hand.

‘I thought,’ said Nicolas, ‘that your patient had regained consciousness?’

‘So did I,’ replied the doctor. ‘But no sooner was he conscious than he fell into a swoon. It’s only a slight relapse. He’s finding it hard to extricate himself from the mists of sleep.’

At that moment, the man sneezed and his eyes opened then closed again, dazzled by the light. He was shaken by a coughing
fit. Moaning, he put his hand on his side, where his wound was. Gradually, his breathing became easier and more sonorous. Meanwhile, Bourdeau was examining every nook and cranny of the room. While the doctor had his back to him, he took, with a wink to the commissioner, several objects from a drawer in the chest. Truly, his deputy was incomparable and never missed an opportunity. He continued his investigations discreetly. Now Missery was staring in surprise at the faces peering down at him.

‘I don’t feel well,’ he said in a thick voice.

Nicolas noticed a strange smell emanating from his mouth.

‘What are you doing in my room?’ asked the major-domo. ‘What’s happened?’

Although his features were drawn, his face was still virile. His sparse grey hair, however, made him look older, forming a kind of crown around the baldness that had already pushed his hairline back off his forehead. His eyes went from one face to another like those of a frightened animal. He was biting his lip, giving the impression that his mind, still wandering in the mists of unconsciousness, was engaged in intense reflection.

‘My dear fellow,’ said the doctor, ‘it is for you to enlighten us. We found you—’

Nicolas seized him by the arm to stop him saying any more. ‘Asleep and wounded,’ he said. ‘I am a police commissioner at the Châtelet. Could you tell us what happened to you?’