The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  The young man sat up in alarm. ‘Friope has nothing to do with any of this. As for me, my conscience is clear. I’m not guilty of anything. All I did was follow Caminet the other night. You must believe me, Monsieur Nicolas.’

  He stopped, overwhelmed.

  ‘Now, there’s a good reaction we will certainly take into consideration! Let’s take a closer look at what you have to say. You claim you followed Caminet. At what time was this?’

  ‘About half past eight in the evening. He went out on foot. I trailed him as far as Rue des Deux-Ponts-Saint-Sauveur. There, he entered a courtyard and disappeared. I waited. Half an hour later, a cab stopped at the end of the street. Madame Mourut got out and followed the same route as Caminet.’

  ‘Good. Did you see any other visitors?’

  ‘Several, arriving in fits and starts. Some officers out for a good time, then a group of men who stopped outside the house in three carriages. They went in through the door giving onto the street.’

  ‘Did you recognise anyone among them?’

  ‘No, the carriages blocked my view.’

  ‘Did you continue waiting?’

  ‘Yes, until half past midnight.’

  ‘How can you be so certain of the time?’ asked Bourdeau.

  ‘I have an old watch of my father’s. It was taken away from me when I was brought here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get it back. Carry on.’

  ‘The group of men came out again. I recognised the master among them. He didn’t get into a carriage. He seemed to hesitate.’

  ‘Master Mourut?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. He stayed there for a long time, alone, without moving. Yes, a full quarter of an hour before the rain … well, by the time it started raining, everything was over. Just then, when the other one appeared—’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Caminet! A violent quarrel arose between them. The master tried to drag him away, but the other defended himself tooth and nail. In the end, Caminet fell and his head hit a bollard. He stopped moving and the master put his head in his hand and moaned. He was moving it from side to side, as if saying no. Then a third man intervened. He seemed to know the master. He bent over the body, stood up again and took Mourut by the arm. In spite of his resistance, they left together. In a cab. I heard it moving off. I went back to our lodgings. Friope didn’t know anything about it, he was sleeping, the poor thing. I hid it from him.’

  ‘At what hour was all this?’

  ‘Before one o’clock, I think.’

  ‘That’s a very detailed account. The fact remains that you didn’t think of helping Caminet. Didn’t you even go to him?’

  He burst into tears, like a child caught doing something naughty. ‘I was too afraid. I feared that I would get the blame for it all. There were a lot of reasons why that might have happened. In fact, you’re proving that. You think I had something to do with it, don’t you?’

  ‘You must admit there are a number of things in your story that might make us think that. What was the meaning of your behaviour? Why were you spying on Caminet? What was your intention?’

  He looked from one to another, hugging himself as if trying to keep a secret safe inside him. ‘He was threatening us, Friope and me …’

  Nicolas saw fit to help him. ‘You’re still hiding something from us, the original cause of all this. It’s in your own interest, and in Friope’s, to trust us. So, still nothing? In that case, I’m going to tell you what the King’s police, who do not crush the innocent, but hunt down the guilty, would be entitled to think.’

  Parnaux lifted his head and listened to the commissioner with feverish attention. The trap Nicolas had set him was only intended to test his honesty.

  ‘This is what we assume. Friope and you resented Caminet’s mockery. And what was the reason for this constant contempt? Did he suspect that the two of you had one of those shameful friendships which, if it had been exposed, could have put you in great danger? So, with your backs to the wall and nowhere to turn, you decided to take action. You knew the master was exasperated by his behaviour. So you collected rumours, gossip. You wanted to be sure, to have proof, to meet blackmail with blackmail. Isn’t that it?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur Nicolas,’ replied Parnaux with an eagerness which would have deceived the most hardened of police officers, but in which Nicolas saw nothing but relief. ‘I admit all that.’

  ‘Alas, the value of your chivalrous confessions won’t gain you any privilege or leniency in the present situation. You’re still trying to deceive the law by concealing something basic. Who is Friope?’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s my workmate.’

  ‘No! We all know that Anne Friope is a girl and, moreover, pregnant. She has just lost her child. Yours, I assume? Don’t worry, her life isn’t in danger. I’m sorry to have to tell you this news so abruptly, but your lack of openness has forced my hand. Deceivers like you always rely on the gullibility of those they exploit. That is to show contempt for the march of truth.’

  Head bowed, Parnaux was weeping again.

  ‘I await your explanation.’

  ‘It’s true. We took a lot of precautions. But there was always the moment when we changed into our work clothes. Caminet, who was always late, arrived one day without warning and saw Friope. He threatened to expose us, unless …’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘… she yielded to him. We resisted as long as we could. Last Saturday, he gave us an ultimatum. It was then that, in my desperation, I decided to follow him. That’s God’s honest truth!’

  ‘But that doesn’t explain why Friope disguised herself as a boy.’

  ‘We had met by chance and it was the only way we could find to be together. The name helped, especially as Anne had no contract … Master Mourut accepted the idea, it was less expensive for him.’

  ‘And more risky!’ said Bourdeau. ‘He must have been in good favour with his guild to allow himself such liberties!’

  ‘We weren’t harming anyone. Anne did her job as well as anyone else – better than Caminet, for example. Can I see her?’

  ‘Later. She’s in good hands and is being well looked after. Is that all you have to tell us?’

  ‘Help us, Monsieur Nicolas!’

  ‘I’d like to. If only you’d asked my advice before! Well, we’ll see.’

  After the gatekeeper had closed the cell door, they left the prison in silence. Bourdeau and Semacgus waited while Nicolas stopped for a moment to write in his black notebook. Then they walked through the rainy night to the nearby tavern in Rue du Pied-de-Boeuf. The host greeted them joyfully and, without even asking them, brought a pitcher of their favourite wine.

  ‘What do you suggest this evening, countryman?’ Bourdeau said.

  ‘Alas, with the day we’ve had, no customers, no dishes. I’ve been preparing, though, a steamed shoulder of veal to be served cold in its jelly tomorrow. I’m happy to serve it to you now, nice and hot. It’s been cooking with its bones, some strips of bacon, a little tarragon vinegar, carrots, onions and plenty of spices. The clay casserole has been sizzling away in the oven for three hours. I just have to reduce the sauce and it’s ready to serve.’

  ‘There’s an account that makes the mouth water,’ said Semacgus. ‘And while we wait for you to reduce the sauce, what is there for us to nibble on?’

  ‘A dish I was keeping for myself, but which I shall give up in your honour and in that of my countryman here.’

  ‘And what is this dish?’

  ‘Soft roe and herring eggs, my own recipe.’

  ‘Good,’ said Nicolas. ‘Now that we’ve concluded this important negotiation, I await your counsel, like King Arthur at his table.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ remarked Semacgus. ‘Hardened as I am by the years, Parnaux’s statement seemed quite convincing to me.’

  ‘Although Nicolas did have to drive him into a corner. In my opinion, his honesty had to be dragged out of him little by little.’

  ‘Bourdeau
’s right, but fear is a bad counsellor. We may see it that way because we knew the answers to the questions we were asking. What mattered most to him was protecting Friope. But let’s not jump straight in to accepting what he was telling us. There are plenty of details, but the crucial part is still missing …’

  ‘And,’ Bourdeau went on, ‘based only on his statement, without any other witness to confirm it, we’re asked to accept a quarrel, a struggle, a third man, a flight, a lifeless body. And to crown it all, Caminet nowhere to be found, dead or alive. Plus a baker who died in such strange circumstances that there’s nothing to indicate for certain that he was murdered, or if he was, exactly how! Not to mention a false baker’s boy, a clandestine couple, a miscarriage, along with a bit of mutual blackmail and what ensued!’

  A long silence greeted this vehement speech.

  ‘Our doubts are centuries, our uncertainties are gone in a flash,’ murmured Semacgus after a while.

  ‘An investigation is like a ladder, the wise man should stay in the middle,’ concluded Nicolas.

  Bourdeau was looking at them, dazed.

  ‘It’s the homage of your peers to such a fine flight of oratory!’

  They all burst out laughing, only to be interrupted by the triumphant arrival of the eggs and the soft roe arranged on slices of toasted bread and topped with a steaming, fragrant sauce. The three men immediately fell on them greedily. The host explained that, to avoid them splitting, especially the eggs, he cooked them in a lot of butter at a carefully calculated heat. Everything depended on the speed: you had to be careful not to sear them or overcook them. You threw in some sliced shallots to give them colour and taste. Next, you had to mix a spoonful of good mustard, a pinch of brown sugar and a squirt of dry white wine in a bowl. Once this was well combined, you had to throw it in the pan as quickly as possible, not stinting on the pepper and parsley.

  ‘And why not poach them first?’ asked Semacgus.

  ‘It’s all because of the seasoning. It sets better and the difference between the surface and the inside doubles the pleasure.’

  ‘We, too,’ said Nicolas, resuming the interrupted discussion, ‘must make the various ingredients hang together, as I often say …’ He filled their glasses. ‘There are some things we know for certain. Almost all the protagonists in the case were at La Gourdan’s, except Friope.’

  ‘There’s nothing to prove that she wasn’t,’ said Bourdeau.

  ‘That’s true! As for Caminet, if he was killed on the way out of the brothel, then logically he can’t have been involved in his master’s murder, if murder it was. Madame Mourut, on the other hand, was at liberty to do whatever she wanted, unchecked, from the time she returned from Rue des Deux-Ponts until her husband’s body was discovered. Not to mention La Babine … But there’s no reason for her to bear a grudge against her master and, besides, she has an alibi. The chronology of these events is becoming somewhat confused in my mind. Pierre, this is something you excel at. I’d like you to draw up a chart of the activities of all the suspects, hour by hour, from Sunday evening until the discovery of Monsieur Mourut’s body on Monday morning.’

  ‘Yes, I will. It will be very useful to determine any links there may be between the crime or crimes and the intrigues at La Gourdan’s on the subject of flour. We mustn’t procrastinate. Everything seems to point to the fact that Mourut was involved in the monopoly in some way, and may even have been an active member of a society whose main aim was to control the grain market. What conclusion are we to draw from that?’

  The tavern keeper brought in three plates filled to the brim. The veal was so tender that the meat shook like jelly. There was another pause.

  ‘What if,’ resumed Semacgus, ‘the evidence of domestic dramas within the Mourut house is blinding us? Your investigation may be getting diverted, obscuring the true reason for this tragedy. There are too many deceptive ingredients here, leading us astray. It seems to me, my brave knights, and you, Sir Lancelot, that if we knew more about the way Master Mourut died – and, trust me, I am doing the best I can to discover it – there would no doubt be matter there for new hypotheses.’

  ‘If what you suggest is correct, Guillaume, it means that we can’t dissociate the two cases. There may be a connection that escapes us between all this and the unexplained aspects of our trip to Vienna.’

  ‘Not to mention,’ said Bourdeau, ‘the curious intrigue of which Louis was the innocent victim.’

  Semacgus gave them a lift in his carriage, which had come to the narrow Rue du Pied-de-Boeuf at the appointed time. Nicolas found the house silent. He went up to the third floor, where he discovered his son asleep, with Mouchette at his feet. He sat down in an armchair, thought for a moment about the march of time before giving in to exhaustion. In the morning, Louis found his father asleep by his bedside.

  Notes

  1. The hermit of Ferney: Voltaire.

  2. De Gévigland: see The Saint-Florentin Murders.

  IX

  VINCENNES

  Can anyone be proved innocent,

  if it is enough to have accused him?

  JULIAN THE APOSTATE

  Thursday 4 May 1775

  Rested – although his limbs ached from his night in the armchair – washed and shaved, and with his hair brushed, Nicolas went downstairs to Monsieur de Noblecourt’s apartment, where he came upon a charming scene. His host, in his usual morning garb of madras and scarves, was talking to Louis, who was sitting opposite him in the place normally occupied by his father during their dawn conversations. The commissioner leant against the doorpost, allowing himself a little respite to listen to what they had to say.

  ‘You have to understand, my boy, that appearance is essential. If the appearance you present to those who observe you does not correspond to polite custom, they will be sure to condemn your shortcomings. The attitude you adopt to avoid the pitfalls and appear harmonious and polite must not seem studied or learnt. It should come naturally from your temperament, the secret spirit that results from your inner union. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course, Monsieur. But I also need to know what should be avoided, as well as the practical rules that form the basis of an honest man’s reputation.’

  ‘Your father and I, and all our friends, are here to show you the way. I think particularly of Monsieur de La Borde, who is so familiar with the ways of the Court. Let’s begin at the beginning. Your mind and body should always be in agreement, so that everything develops in harmony. Just as a face is more pleasant when there is a symmetry of the features, always look for balance, above all in the manner of expressing yourself. Aim not for effect, but for the most natural utterance, unmarred by any ostentation, any raising of the voice that would be disturbing to the ear and destructive of the effect of the words. But don’t worry, you have that tone as your birthright. You will have to take care not to exaggerate it, which would make you fall into affectation and pedantry.’

  ‘I will make sure, Monsieur, that it is as it should be.’

  ‘Be sure to avoid priggishness! Don’t fall into that fashionable malady, mockery. Never think that it’s necessary in society to make spiteful remarks or offensive insinuations. Some will tell you that it is in this way that one acquires the wit and language of those circles. But remember, any praise you will attract by taking that path would rebound against you and lead eventually to your being ridiculed in your turn. Never hurt anyone in that manner. That’s the behaviour of a coward. Your victim won’t always understand your words, but if he does you may find yourself with a duel on your hands. There are enough opportunities to risk your life over serious matters. But then I think you know what I’m saying. Didn’t I hear something about compasses?’

  Louis bowed his head and smiled. ‘Are you mocking me, Monsieur?’

  ‘No,’ replied Noblecourt, choking with laughter, ‘just using a little affectionate irony! This harmony I advocate should equally be applied to your appearance. Consider your father. From the Marquis de Ranreuil
he has inherited that presence that everyone envies him. Keep your head straight, and make sure your limbs are symmetrical. Physical ease is also the mark of an honest, well-tempered soul. Nor is it seemly to put both your hands in your pockets, or behind your back: it’s coarse and would make you look like a porter.’

  ‘These are principles worth pondering,’ said Nicolas, abruptly stepping forward.

  Louis stood up and yielded his place to him. His father reported to Noblecourt the events and discoveries of the previous day. He leafed through his black notebook with such a pensive air that the former magistrate became anxious.

  ‘To see you, one might say that you have come straight from the lair of Trophonios.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ asked Louis, ‘who is this Trophonios?’

  ‘Well,’ said Noblecourt, delighted with the question, ‘the oracle of the Boeotian Trophonios was located in a tomb-like cave. Anyone who ventured to consult him came out burdened by sad thoughts, with gloom in their eyes and unsteady steps.’

  Nicolas described the strange inscriptions on the walls of the Hénéfiance house. Somewhat to Noblecourt’s annoyance, Louis was stamping his feet with impatience.

  ‘If you’ll allow me, Father, it’s child’s play to understand what was meant. At Juilly, everyone was very familiar with that kind of thing!’

  ‘Good Lord! I didn’t think that the education dispensed by the Oratorians was so broad! Go on.’

  ‘Don’t take it badly, but your reading is not correct. It isn’t about a line through the K and an I painted in green, but … Did you make a drawing of the letters?’

  Nicolas showed him his little black book, open on the sketches in question.

  ‘It’s as I thought,’ said Louis after a moment’s examination. ‘You need to take it a different way entirely. The K with a line through it is a K barré, a cabaret or tavern. The green capital I is a grand I vert, or Grand Hiver.’