The Displaced
Page 13
Renault kept him as busy as ever. There were unsettling murmurings among the military stationed in the Valley. Food was becoming scarce, as were other basic supplies. The rank and file were growing disgruntled with their treatment at the hands of the military hierarchy. While the Louisbourg garrison was the only one that had ever revolted in New France, there were concerns that their attitude may have spread to other regiments.
However, unlike the case in Louisbourg, or perhaps because of it, the Superior Council was quick to accommodate the army’s requests. Vivienne complained bitterly to her husband that there was no more beef because all cattle not being used for milk were now the property of the soldiers. Pierre assured her that the sacrifice was worth it, to keep the fighting forces happy.
April 1747 came and with it, the rains that reduced the city to rivers of mud. It was almost impossible for anyone to travel between the Upper and Lower Towns. When the rain fell, the already steep roads turned into waterfalls.
As the river thawed, ships began to arrive, although the sailors complained bitterly of the dangers they had faced during the journey from Europe. One group of merchant vessels had been travelling together but were captured before they were even clear of Viveiro, Spain. Merchants were having to pay higher and higher wages, just so men would be willing to cross, so the sailors who did survive the crossing were becoming rich. This state of affairs was eating up most of Tomas’s profits and he was becoming anxious for the war to be over.
But one day, more letters came. Six of them. Apparently, Marie had written one every month and had kept them in a drawer until she was able to send them. He laughed at (and admired) her efficiency. Marie still hated France despite the lack of snow. Annette’s headaches were worse during the dismal rainy months of the French winter, and Marie found little relief from her constant complaints. Apparently, Annette had decided to marry her niece off to the richest eligible bachelor at Court, but Marie was not at all enthusiastic about the prospect, and she was doing her best to prevent it.
So Pierre finally realized there was no time to lose; he needed to act.
At the time that he had this epiphany, he was waiting for the Bishop in one of the corridors of the government building, to explain that a priest needed to report illegal activity even if it was described during confession. Pierre pulled a spare piece of paper out, put it on his knee, and started to scribble as quickly as he could.
Dear Marie,
I should have told you this years ago. There’s no reason other than that I’m a coward. I kept putting it off for a better time, but I can’t put it off any longer, not with Annette trying to marry you off. I don’t want you to marry some stuffy aristocrat and spend the rest of your life in France. I have nothing to give you. I live in a closet attached to the office. I make a meagre amount of money that is barely enough to feed myself. Luckily, Renault’s wife, Vivienne, has made it her personal mission to see that I don’t starve. I’m no longer mistaken for a twig, but my salary isn’t enough to live on. And it won’t be enough for at least two more years.
But I miss you. I miss you more than I miss the island and life before the war. For a long time, I thought I missed home, but I don’t. I’m happy here because I’m building a life and a future, but it’s not the same without you.
I don’t want to stop you from marrying some viscount with a family estate and acres of land, not if that’s what you want. I have no life to give you, at least not yet. But I love you and will be working the hardest I possibly can to give you everything I can.
I just want you to know that before Annette makes her plans.
Love, Pierre
It seemed inadequate now that he watched the ink dry, the paper crumpled from being set down on his thigh. But he couldn’t risk losing her if there was a chance she would wait for him to get his life together. After his meeting, he went to the docks, his heart in his throat, and paid the exorbitant sum to have the letter taken across the Atlantic.
He didn’t receive a reply for the rest of the summer. Augustus sent a letter but mentioned nothing of his neighbours, or not in the way Pierre was hoping. The winter came, his third in Quebec, without any news from France. He tried to confide in Daniel and Jean during one of his few moments of respite, but neither could understand him. Jean spent most of his free time at the whore houses down near the docks, a frequent enough visitor that he had become a favourite. And for all of Daniel’s talk of the Renault girls, he seemed in no rush to settle down. Instead, he teased Pierre mercilessly for waiting for a woman living on the other side of the world.
After these reactions, Pierre decided to keep his concerns to himself.
***
That winter, a problem arose that almost pushed Marie from his mind. Almost.
As 1747 drew to a close, reports of disappearances began to reach the capital. They had started not far from the city limits in a hamlet an hour outside of the city. It was reported that two young women there had gone missing. Both had gone to the well a week apart from each other and never returned. No trace could be found of them except for the wooden pails still sitting beside the well’s stone walls. Snowshoe tracks leading to the forest had been discovered, but they disappeared once they reached the uneven surface of the undergrowth.
A month later, a young nun was abducted from the hospital just beyond the city walls. Her body was found a week later by a trapper, frozen in the woods. The following day, another woman was violently attacked as she was returning home from the butcher’s. She had survived, at least for now, but still lay in the hospital, hovering between life and death.
Gilles Hocquart had gone back to France. His replacement was François Bigot, the former Finance Commissary of Louisbourg. Pierre had mentioned how Bigot’s tact had helped smooth over the garrison’s mutiny, and that made Renault eager to sit down with the man.
Two days after the most recent attack, Renault got his wish.
Bigot was a large man with a portly stomach that couldn’t be completely hidden by his waistcoat and jacket. He was always well dressed, had an air of authority, and never left home without his powdered wig. That morning, he arrived at Renault’s office, covered with snow, which he shook off in as dignified a manner as he could before he sat down across the desk from the Procurator General. He had no memory of Pierre, nor should he have had, but he was pleasant when introduced to the young assistant.
“There is no proof that any of these incidents are related to the others,” Renault said quietly, rubbing his eyes with his gnarled hands. “Murders are a fact of life. While terrible, it is the truth.”
“How long do we have to wait before you’re willing to deal with these incidents as possible evidence of a murderous fiend on the loose?” Bigot asked heavily. He had been in Quebec only a short while and was still trying to get a handle on the city. The main thing he’d observed, though, was that the citizens of Quebec were beginning to grow extremely uneasy. He wanted to deal with the matter before uneasiness became outright panic.
“What do you want me to do?” Renault snapped after they’d been going in circles for over an hour. “The police are looking. There is nothing more that can be done.”
“There have been two disappearances, one murdered nun, and one woman severely wounded.”
“I know the numbers, thank you,” Renault replied tartly, “but if this is the work of one prowler, and there is no proof of that, there is nothing more that can be done.”
Bigot glared at Pierre, who had been silent so far, listening and taking notes. “What do you think?”
Pierre’s jaw began to work, and he started chewing the inside of his cheek.
“Well,” the Intendant persisted.
Pierre glanced at Renault and knew from the look on his face that if he agreed with Bigot he was out of a job. “I agree that it’s concerning, but I don’t know what else you expect the law enforcers to do, even if this is a fiend.”
Bigot continued to fidget. “Then what do you propose we do?”
“May I ask who you are?” Bigot said, looking at him suspiciously. “I was under the impression you were a clerk.”
Renault leaned forward on his elbows. “This is my assistant, Pierre Thibault. The older I get, the more difficult I find travelling to all the appointments that are required of me. Pierre has been with me for three years now, and I’ve been teaching him. He is my eyes and ears for most things. You’ll find him quite capable.”
“I didn’t realize you were having a difficult time. Should I write to Louis to release you?” Bigot said with concern.
Renault waved a twisted hand. “I’m allowed to train a replacement, you know. My mind’s as sharp as ever. Pierre actually came to me from your part of the world,” Renault said pleasantly.
“Bordeaux?”
Pierre laughed. “Louisbourg.”
Bigot looked surprised.
“Born there. Escaped before the fortress fell.”
Bigot continued to stare at him open-mouthed. Realizing what he was doing, he tried to recover. “Thibault, you said?”
“Augustus Thibault, the merchant, is my father. My best friend’s uncle is Claude-Jean des Babineaux.”
That name obviously meant something to the Intendant. He nodded, impressed. “You don’t say. Well, welcome to Quebec. I daresay it’s a tad less violent than the fortress.”
Pierre shook his blond head. “The pirates and smugglers made life more interesting on the island.”
Bigot snorted. It had been his job to try to stop those activities from draining money from the legitimate economy. However, after his interchange with Pierre, Bigot seemed far more interested in coming to a resolution about how to handle the case at hand.
The extra police presence didn’t stop the attacks. Two more took place during the following fortnight, both ending in fatalities. A third had been underway when the police, drawn to the scene by the victim’s screams, finally apprehended the man. The people of Quebec celebrated in the streets now that they thought the terrors had come to an end, but Pierre’s role was just beginning.
With such a high-profile case, Renault was expected to prosecute the accused. It was a simple case, as the man had been caught in the act, but a trial still needed to take place. To Pierre’s surprise, Renault declared that Pierre would be in charge.
“I’ve never been to law school,” he pointed out over dinner when Renault made the announcement.
“Neither have the majority of judges and officials in this country. Your point?”
Pierre picked at his food. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“Are you implying that my training has been lacking?”
Vivienne rolled her eyes.
“Of course not. But I’ve never done anything like this before on my own.” He felt himself getting hot under his collar.
“The man’s guilty, caught in the act. You cannot mess this up.”
***
With Renault’s vote of confidence, Pierre set out for the prison the next day. The building wasn’t particularly large, holding only six cells, but its thick grey stone walls and small barred windows were an imposing sight. As Pierre opened the thick iron exterior door, he felt as if he was entering a cave. It was always damp and chilly no matter the weather outside. Pierre never expressed his opinions aloud, but he did feel badly for any poor soul who had to exist in such dreary conditions.
Émile Michel was being kept in solitude in the basement of the prison. Most of the prisoners were housed together, shouting and yelling as Pierre passed. For his own safety, Michel was alone, separated from the rest of the world.
The dungeons felt more like tombs than actual rooms. The young jailer, barely older than Pierre, led him through a maze of corridors, using a torch for light, until they reached the dungeon that housed Michel. Pierre wasn’t sure what he was expecting. He had never met a murderer before. The man sat in the far corner of the cell, both of his legs fastened to the wall by a long chain. He didn’t stand up or make any signs of recognition when Pierre greeted him.
Asking the jailer to hold his torch up so he could see into the corner of the cell, Pierre observed that Michel was wearing the rags of a beggar.
“Is that what he came in?” he whispered to the guard.
“Won’t let any of us touch him since we brought him in. Bit two of the guards as they were locking him up.”
The man was of medium build, and despite his torn clothes, he didn’t appear to be starving. On the contrary, long ropes of muscles covered his bare forearms. He had a massive black beard that could easily be tucked into his belt, and his dark hair was wild, with twigs and leaves tangled throughout. How they had got there when the ground was covered in snow was anyone’s guess.
Pierre took a deep breath. “Monsieur Michel, my name is Pierre Thibault. I work for the Procurator General. May I ask you some questions?”
Michel didn’t move or give any indication that he had heard. Pierre glanced at the guard, who shrugged.
“Monsieur Michel, I’m here to try to find out what happened. To hear your side of the story.” Pierre spoke louder than normal, his voice ringing off the stone walls.
Michel blinked but continued to stare straight ahead.
“If you could tell me your side of things, it might help you in the long run. If we could maybe come to some form of an understanding of what occurred the other night—”
Michel grunted and turned so his back was facing Pierre and the guard.
Pierre retreated a few steps to where the guard stood. “Has he been seen by a doctor?” he asked. “Do you know if he can hear?”
The guard looked over Pierre’s shoulder to where the prisoner was now watching them intently, his eyes gleaming from the darkness. “He can hear all right. Talk too. Cursed us all and put up a violent fight when we brought him in.”
“What do you know about him?”
The guard shrugged again, unconcerned. “Found out his name and that’s about it. From Nicolet apparently.” Nicolet was a tiny community some eighty miles away from the capital. “How he got here is anyone’s guess. Had nothing on him save for a few livres and a massive dagger. Those are upstairs if you’d like to see them.”
Pierre spent another quarter of an hour trying to get Michel to acknowledge his presence, but for all the good it did, he might as well have interviewed the wall. He eventually gave it up as a bad job and followed the guard back upstairs to inspect the prisoner’s possessions.
***
The trial wasn’t set until March of 1748. Justice was usually dispensed within a few days, but Quebec was without an executioner when Michel was taken into custody, and the trial was postponed until one could be found. While there was no proof that Émile Michel was the sole perpetrator of all the attacks that had occurred, there were no others after his capture. That was enough for guilt to be assumed.
Pierre set to work, researching and preparing as many notes as he could. Once a week, he went to the prison, but Michel continued to ignore him. It wasn’t his problem, Pierre reminded himself. If the man had no story, he was only hurting himself. A defence official had been provided, since it appeared that Michel was a lunatic and incapable of finding his own defence, but Michel refused to talk to him as well.
Renault also decided that Pierre would now be his official representative. Until this point, Pierre had always started meetings apologizing for Renault’s absence. Now no one expected to meet with Renault, as they knew Pierre was coming. While Renault would continue to hold the title of Procurator General, his only jobs were to sign official documents and meet with the Superior Council.
Taking over for Renault came with a pay raise and Pierre realized that soon he would be able to eke out his own living.
“Is there someone you would like to share this news with?” Renault had a
sked one night not long after the announcement was made.
“She hasn’t written back. Last I heard, her aunt was trying to marry her off to some rich nobleman.” Pierre didn’t look up from the document he was writing.
“What ship did it go on?”
He had to stop and remember. “Orion, I think.” He was trying his best not to think about the letter, the ship, or Marie.
Two days later, as Pierre sat scribbling a note to the mayor of Montreal, Renault came bursting into the office looking very excited. Pierre looked up. Since he had taken on the majority of the workload, Renault was having far too much fun with his free time.
“I found the Orion,” he said proudly.
“What?”
“The boat that you sent your last letter on. It was harboured in Spain for a time, hiding from the British fleets. It only arrived in France in October.”
Pierre continued to look up at him blankly, the ink slowly dripping off the end of his suspended quill, pooling on the paper beneath.
“She may not have married a rich nobleman or a poor clerk. You may still have a chance,” Renault said impatiently.
Pierre refused to get excited but continued to work away. “Thank you,” he mumbled after a while, “for finding that out.”
March came, and the date of the trial loomed closer. Every night, Pierre looked over his notes before going to bed. Michel had refused to speak to anyone for the last month, including the priest who had visited him the night before the trial.
On the day of the proceedings, the sun was shining brightly off the glittering snow, and Pierre headed for the courthouse early in the morning. He had bought a new blue jacket for the occasion and had spent a quarter of an hour trying to wrestle his hair into a braid. It was a wasted effort. But before Pierre took his place in the spartan courtroom, Renault slammed a powdered white wig on his head, ignoring Pierre’s protests.
Pierre had watched and even helped Renault play this role, but now it was his turn to act as prosecutor. He stared at the plain maple cross that hung at the front of the room. He wasn’t God, but today he was going to do his best to send a man into the great hereafter. It was a sobering thought, and he worried he might be sick.