The Man with the Lead Stomach (10 page)

He rubbed the front of his doublet, which still bore some blackish marks.

‘On the other hand I was struck by the titles of the books in the library closet. They were an odd assortment for a young man, works of piety and theology.’

‘So that struck you as well, did it? We’ll have to look into this.’

‘As for the dressing room …’ Bourdeau did not finish his sentence but gave Nicolas a knowing look.

Old Madame Morel reappeared carrying a piping hot tureen. They leapt on the food and for a considerable while thought of nothing else.

‘There’s just one thing missing from this meal,’ said Bourdeau, ‘a good bottle of wine. Cider is a very poor
accompaniment
to these tasty morsels.’

‘Our hostess isn’t allowed to serve any. As she’s already looked on with suspicion by the pork butchers she doesn’t want to get the wine merchants’ backs up. She told me in confidence that
they sent in their spies to check whether her establishment was sticking to the rules.’

‘I have the feeling,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that she keeps aside some pitchers of decent wine for certain customers.’

‘Not for us. She thinks she’s really got us by the throat on this one …’

‘I know how keen you are on her pig trotter fricassée. And for the law to break the law …’

‘It’s probably my position that intimidates her, and where wine is concerned she doesn’t dare take the risk.’

Bourdeau sighed. The calm look on his face, which some people were too easily taken in by, was a picture of contentment. He enjoyed these feasts with just the two of them.

‘Let’s get back to our case, Nicolas. What do you expect to find in the Carmelite church?’

‘Everything points to the message being from the Comtesse de Ruissec. It’s a well-formed female hand. Who else would it be?’

‘As I left Grenelle the comte asked for his horse and carriage to go to Versailles.’

Old Madame Morel brought in a large earthenware dish containing the faggots that crackled in their golden brown caul.

‘So, my boys, what do you think of this? And here’s the mustard.’

‘We think it’s delicious as usual, and my friend Bourdeau was also saying that it deserved to be washed down with some wine …’

The hostess put a finger to her lips. ‘The day has yet to come when I take the risk on a pitcher of wine that could attract some unwelcome attention. Not that I suspect you of
wanting to get me into trouble but there’s always some evil individual hanging around who’d be only too pleased to catch me out, to the great satisfaction of you know who.’ She looked around her fiercely and withdrew.

‘You’re right, Bourdeau. She didn’t take the bait. Where were we? Oh, yes, Versailles … That’s not a good omen. Our man is going there for news and to complain to his protectors.’

‘Unfortunately yes. He has the privilege of eating at Court.’

They remained silent for a time.

‘Are you still convinced that we are dealing with a murder here?’ Bourdeau asked eventually.

‘Yes, I am. I won’t say why just yet; I’ll wait for Sanson’s conclusions. Once we’re sure, we’ll have scored a point over the murderer and stolen a march on those who would like to stop justice taking its course. Then there will still be much left to do: why, who, how …’

The meatballs melted in their mouths; they wiped their plates clean with crusts of bread.

Having eaten his fill, Bourdeau lit his pipe. ‘The body is to be opened up this evening at about nine o’clock. Don’t forget your snuff …’

Nicolas smiled; it was an old joke between them. When a body was to be opened up in the Basse-Geôle the inspector advised Nicolas to make liberal use of snuff.

At three o’clock they went their separate ways. Nicolas decided to ride to the Carmelite monastery at walking pace. As soon as he had arrived in Paris he had fallen in love with the city and enjoyed nothing more than ambling through the streets in a daydream. He had acquired a detailed knowledge of the different
districts, which had surprised Sartine on several occasions. This was very useful to him in his job. He carried a map of the great city inside his head. In a trice he could transport himself there in his imagination and find the smallest blind alley. By going through Rue du Four and Rue du Vieux-Colombier he reached Rue Cassette, went past the Benedictine nunnery of the Holy Sacrament and entered Rue de Vaugirard, on which stood the main entrance to the Carmelite monastery. The sound of his mount’s hoofs echoed along the deserted street. He stopped, moved by the sight of the place where he had spent his first days in Paris. It was from there that he had set off one morning for an audience at the Châtelet with the Lieutenant General of Police.

Rabouine really was still the most discreet spy on his team. There was not the least sign of his presence. Where on earth could he be hiding? He was there, though, watching him. Nicolas could feel it. He had enough time to visit his old friend Père Grégoire. After tethering his mare, he stepped into the familiar corridors of the monastery, crossed a courtyard and entered the dispensary, where the air was thick with the smell of medicinal herbs. An elderly monk, with spectacles on his nose, was weighing herbs on a pair of scales. Nicolas rediscovered the strong odours that not so long ago had befuddled his senses. He coughed and the Carmelite turned round.

‘Who dares disturb me? I specifically said that—’

‘A former apprentice, a Breton from Lower Brittany.’

‘Nicolas!’

He embraced the young man tightly, then made him step back to look at him.

‘Clear, bold eyes, head held high, a ruddy complexion. All the humours are in harmony. I heard about your promotion. Do you remember how I prophesied it? I had a presentiment that Monsieur de Sartine would affect the course of your life. I have often thanked the Lord for it.’

They shared their memories of a still-recent past. Nicolas explained to Père Grégoire his reason for coming to the monastery and learnt from his friend that the Comtesse de Ruissec was a frequent visitor and that one of the Carmelite fathers was her confessor. The time passed quickly and, whilst enjoying this reunion, Nicolas waited for the bells of the church to strike four. He suddenly thought they were not on time. He looked at his watch and was startled to discover that the bells were already five minutes late. Père Grégoire informed him that they had stopped sounding the hour so as not to disturb the peace of one of the brothers whose life was drawing to a close.

The young man arrived at the church quite breathless, having run all the way. It was empty. He was relieved; he was first to arrive. The smell of incense and extinguished candles and the more insidious odour of decomposition reached him. He examined the four side chapels; they, too, were empty. In the crossing of the transept he admired the beautiful white marble sculpture of the Virgin modelled on a statue by Bernini, or so Père Grégoire had often told him. Above him he recognised the painting in the dome in which the prophet Elijah was depicted being taken up to heaven in a chariot of fire. In front of the altar the well into which the bodies of the dead monks were lowered
was open. Nicolas knew the place; it was from here that holy water was sprinkled down into the crypt.

Nicolas was getting breathless again: incense often had this effect on him. He sat down on a prayer stool and tried to
overcome
the choking feeling. He was alerted by a sudden cry and the sound of hurried footsteps. They echoed through the building but it was impossible to determine where they came from. They soon faded, giving way to a silence so deep that he could hear the sputtering of candles and every creak of the woodwork. There was more shouting; then Père Grégoire appeared suddenly, red in the face and followed by three monks. He spoke incoherently.

‘Something has happened … Oh my God, Nicolas, a terrible thing …’

‘Calm down and tell me from the beginning.’

‘When you left me … Someone came to inform me of the death of our prior. In the absence of the abbot I am the one who makes the arrangements. I asked for the crypt to be prepared for the funeral. Then, then …’

‘Then what?’

‘Brother Anselme went down there and discovered … He found …’

‘What?’

‘The Comtesse de Ruissec’s body. She had fallen down the well of the dead.’

Nicolas felt as if a gaping chasm had opened up in front of him; he was overcome with anxiety. How would Sartine react to this news? Nicolas could not in all truth deny that the corpses began to pile up as soon as he became involved in a case. However, he soon pulled himself together, ready to respond as a consummate professional to all the demands of the situation.

First, he needed to reassure Père Grégoire, who was choking with emotion and had turned alarmingly red. Next, he must weigh up all possibilities without coming to any hasty
conclusions,
having carefully examined the circumstances of the tragedy. But most importantly he had to establish whether Madame de Ruissec was dead. If this was not the case, he needed to calm the monks and make arrangements to send for help.

He shook to awareness a dazed Brother Anselme, who was absently crossing himself, and instructed him to take him down to the crypt. They had to go outside, then back in through a side entrance and down a small staircase. A dark-lantern, which was
lying abandoned on the floor, served to light their way. At first Nicolas found it hard to recognise where he was, but after his eyes had adjusted to the dark he saw that he was surrounded by coffins piled one on top of the other. The air was rarefied and the flame of the lamp was guttering so perilously that he was afraid he might be left in total darkness in the middle of the sepulchre. Brother Anselme must have been having the same thought as the lantern was trembling more and more in his hand. Its light cast shifting shadows across the stone walls and revealed recesses containing the skulls of monks long deceased.

After they had taken two or three turnings, their surroundings disappeared into the shadows. The focus of their attention was now a pool of light coming straight down through the well of the dead. On the marble slab where the dead were usually placed lay a body as limp as a rag doll, showing no signs of life. Nicolas moved closer and asked the friar to give him some light, which he did, trembling wildly all over. The young man grabbed the lantern in irritation, put it down near the body and asked the friar to go to fetch help, a stretcher and a doctor.

Once alone, he carefully examined the body and the area around it. In a black satin gown –worn either in mourning for her son or in order to be inconspicuous – the Comtesse de Ruissec looked as if she had been snapped in two, facing upwards with arms outstretched. Her head, covered in a black veil held in place by a large jet comb, was at a strange and gruesome angle to the rest of her body. There was absolutely no doubt that she was dead.

Nicolas knelt down and gently lifted the veil. The elderly woman’s face seemed oddly turned to the left; it was pale with
traces of blood on her lips; her eyes were open. He touched the base of her neck but there was no pulse. He took out a pocket mirror and put it in front of her mouth; it did not steam up. Gently and respectfully Nicolas closed the elderly lady’s eyes. He shuddered; her skin was still warm. He examined the body all over without moving it. There was no sign of any wound other than the obvious fracture to the neck.

He stood, summed up his observations and then carefully wrote them down in his little notebook. The comtesse seemed to have fallen into the well of the dead. So it must have been open. Why? Was it always open?

Given the position of the well there were two possibilities: perhaps Madame de Ruissec had failed to see the gaping hole in the semi-darkness of the sanctuary and, distracted by the
prospect
of her meeting, had fallen by accident. But in that case, thought Nicolas, a fall of twelve or more feet ought to have caused more fractures to the legs or injuries to the face, given that the rim of the well was low and that she would have fallen head first. Also the body should have been face down but in fact Madame de Ruissec was lying on her back, her legs unscathed. Or else she had fallen backwards but this could only have happened if she had been between the well of the dead and the chancel, or in the process of admiring the painting of the Presentation of Christ in the Temple. In that case the position of the body made sense. The fact remained that the body and especially the head should have caught on the circumference and rim of the well. He checked under the nape of the neck: there was no sign of injury.

As he straightened, his eye fell on a small square of printed paper on a cotton and pearl alms purse hanging from Madame de
Ruissec’s left arm. He had not noticed it until then. He took it and held it up to the lantern. Much to his surprise he discovered that it was a ticket to a performance at the theatre of the
Comédie-Italienne
.

He checked the alms purse was properly shut. In fact the drawstring was tight in her clenched hand and nothing could have fallen out of the bag. He extracted it from her grasp and, trembling as always when he disturbed the personal effects of a victim, began to list its contents. He found a small silver mirror, a piece of purple velvet with some pins, a phial of spun glass containing what appeared to be perfume and more specifically
eau de la Reine de Hongrie
– he recalled detecting this smell on the note inviting him to the meeting in the Carmelite church – a small metal purse containing a few
louis d’or,
a rosary and a small leather-bound devotional work embossed with the Ruissec family arms.

The list disappointed him; there was nothing unusual for a woman of her age and status. He put everything back in the purse. The theatre ticket continued to intrigue him as it seemed out of keeping with everything else. This ticket could not have ended up in the crypt of a monastery by accident and as it was clean and intact it could not have been brought in stuck to the underside of a shoe. Given where it had been found, it could only have been placed on the body after the fall.

He heard the sound of footsteps. Nicolas tucked the ticket into his notebook. Père Grégoire, having recovered from the shock, appeared suddenly, carrying a candle. He was followed by two men and two stretcher-bearers, whom Nicolas assumed to be police officers. One of the men held out his hand; Nicolas
recognised him as Monsieur de Beurquigny, the police
commissioner
for the district, whose offices were on Rue du Four. He was pleased to be dealing with this affable and well-respected figure. Nicolas’s youth, his rapid promotion and the persistent rumour that he was Monsieur de Sartine’s protégé had not endeared him to certain sections of the police force; he was very lucky to have come upon this kindly, older colleague.

Père Grégoire introduced the other man to him. He was Dr Morand, from Rue du Vieux-Colombier, who was the Carmelites’ sole physician and whose name was given with an accompanying, meaningful wink and an even more telling shrug of the shoulders.

‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘I fear your assistance is unnecessary. The victim is dead. On the other hand I should be grateful to have your opinion on the cause of death.’

The doctor leant over the body and performed a similar examination to the one Nicolas had already carried out. He listened carefully as he turned the head from one side to the other; he observed the comtesse’s neck after removing her wig; lastly he examined the well of the dead.

‘Before giving you my opinion,’ he said, ‘could we go back up into the chapel?’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Nicolas. He added in a whisper: ‘I, too, wanted to see if there were any traces up there.’

Dr Morand nodded. ‘I see, Commissioner, that you have not wasted your time.’

They went back up into the church in silence. They learnt nothing from the well of the dead and its rim.

Morand thought long and hard. ‘I make no secret of how
puzzled I am,’ he said at last. ‘If we go by appearances everything points to the lady dying as a result of falling into the well.’

‘You used the word “appearances”.’

‘Indeed I did. I shall come straight to the point as I suspect you have understood the whole situation already. If the comtesse had stumbled against the rim of the well, it would have been difficult for her to fall. And had she done so she would have hit her neck in the process. You might object that the wig would have acted as a cushion but in that event it would have been dislodged. However, you have noted that it was still in place and, moreover, the victim is face up. I note that there is an unnatural freedom of movement between the head and the rest of the body and that the head makes a cracking sound when handled. There are traces of blood on the lips, the result of internal bleeding from a wound. Thus I deduce and maintain that the victim was attacked, that her neck was broken and her body thrown down the well of the dead.’

He moved towards Nicolas, and standing behind him placed his right arm over Nicolas’s chest, putting his hand on the young man’s left shoulder. He then grabbed Nicolas’s head with his left hand and twisted it to the left.

‘This is how it was done. If I press harder I can break your vertebrae although you are a healthy young man; but the comtesse was an elderly woman …’

A thought crossed Nicolas’s mind but he kept it to himself. The doctor respected his need for silence. He must make up his mind quickly. There was a crucial decision to reach and he alone could take responsibility for it: he felt the absence of Bourdeau, whose advice would have been useful.

Once again he was dealing with a murder. Someone had been
determined to stop the comtesse talking to him. He felt somewhat sad that he had not been able to prevent this tragedy. However, he sensed that nothing could have been done to avoid it: had he been the first to arrive at the church, then Madame de Ruissec would probably never have got there. It was time for action, not for remorse, which would return soon enough during his sleepless nights. The main thing was to act quickly.

Duty required him to hand over the case to a magistrate, then have an official statement drawn up and hold a witness hearing. The terms of the royal ordinances of 1734 and 1743 flashed through his mind. Making the crime public would involve opening up the body in the Basse-Geôle. He was fully aware of the risk this would entail, given the obvious incompetence of the doctors attached to the Châtelet. Additionally, as this new case was connected to the death in Grenelle there was great potential for muddle and confusion.

I really am the special investigations officer, after all, he concluded. He simply needed to convince Dr Morand and the commissioner to treat the crime for the time being as an unfortunate accident. In this way they might avoid arousing the murderer’s suspicions.

Nicolas took Dr Morand off into the crypt. The monks were praying around the body. He motioned to Commissioner de Beurquigny to join him.

‘My dear colleague, I shall be blunt. The doctor’s observations confirm my own. The victim did not fall by accident; she was thrown down the well after someone had deliberately broken her neck. I was due to meet her about another criminal case involving the interests of a family close to the King. Making the murder
public may jeopardise the investigation into the first crime. I’m not asking you to abandon this case but to delay its disclosure. In the interests of justice, people must continue to think it was an accident. I will officially free you from all responsibility and Monsieur de Sartine will be duly informed this evening. May I rely on you?’

Commissioner de Beurquigny held out his hand and smiled. ‘Monsieur, I am at your service and your word is enough for me. I understand your concern. I shall do everything in my power to ensure this temporary version is believed, that goes without saying, and I trust you on this point. But you may be unaware of the consequences of a murder taking place in a church.’

‘I am indeed.’

‘The place ceases to be consecrated and Mass cannot be celebrated there. Just think of the scandal.’

‘My dear colleague, I greatly appreciate your understanding and what you tell me about the church confirms me in my decision.’

‘Remember, I joined our organisation in 1737 and for a long time my deputy was an inspector you know well.’

‘Bourdeau?’

‘The very same. He has spoken of you so often and with such warmth, especially for someone as mistrustful as he is, that I feel as though I know you quite well.’

Bourdeau always proved helpful in so many ways …

‘What about Dr Morand?’

‘Leave him to me. He’s a friend of mine.’

‘I would like him, moreover, to draw up an official statement which all three of us will sign and that you will keep in your
possession pending further information. There’s one other thing – but I feel I am taking advantage: would you be able to have the comtesse’s body taken to her mansion in Grenelle and go there yourself? I have good reason for not going personally. She came to the Carmelites for confession so no questions or explanations are needed: it was a dreadful accident.’

Trusting the word of the two magistrates, the doctor agreed to hold his tongue; he drew up and signed the document as requested. The body was removed and taken under escort to Grenelle.

Nicolas went to see Père Grégoire in his dispensary. Still in a state of shock, he was trying to calm himself with some lemon balm liqueur, one of the monastery’s specialities. Nicolas
confirmed
the theory of an accident. The monk was most upset, saying that nothing similar had ever happened before. The well had been opened in preparation for the forthcoming funeral of one of the friars.

‘Father, are there other entrances to the monastery apart from the door on Rue Vaugirard?’

‘Our wall has plenty of gaps, my poor Nicolas. Besides the main entrance, there are doors leading to our outbuildings, gardens, orchards and vegetable plots. In addition there are several exits on to Rue Cassette, and finally we share a door with the Benedictine nunnery of the Holy Sacrament. Not to mention the one that opens on to the estates of Notre-Dame de la Consolation. From there you can easily reach Rue du Cherche-Midi. Our monastery is open on all sides and in any case what would we have to protect apart from our novices’ virtue … for whom this location remains a temptation. Why are you asking me this?’