The Baker's Blood

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  On the severe planes of Sartine’s face a varied succession of feelings could be seen: astonishment, anger, incredulity, amusement – and even affection.

  ‘It’s true that our archives … Well, there’s no need for me to say any more about that. When your principles have prevailed over your excitability, you will reveal your true worth, which is considerable … But tell me, what did you get from that madman in Vincennes?’

  ‘Oh, not much! A few details about a side issue, which have allowed me to link certain events I could not otherwise explain. And I observed, Monseigneur, that a man who is either mad or just talkative may be unjustly imprisoned without trial, which seems to me to run contrary to what a certain Lieutenant General of Police once taught me.’

  ‘Ah, that old Breton stubbornness! You, more than most, possess an inborn sense of what is just and what unjust. Nevertheless, one had to weigh the consequences. Imagine if this individual were released: he would talk and you are in a better position than many to know what he would say. The newspapers in London, the Hague and Berlin would immediately be full of the story, and pamphlets, lampoons and songs would spread it far and wide. In the salons, the wits would revel in it. Have you even thought about the repercussions for the kingdom? Those who rule often have to choose between two evils, one of which is injustice!’ He seemed to hesitate, as if beset by a doubt he could not express. ‘Is anything particular being said about me?’

  ‘Someone as strong as you should not be worried about gossip, Monseigneur.’

  ‘More prevarication! I insist.’

  ‘As far as the prisoner in Vincennes is concerned, you can imagine his bitterness towards you … More generally, it is believed that you still control the police, that Lenoir is merely your underling …’

  ‘Oh, is that what they say?’

  ‘Also that the unrest in the city was deliberately not suppressed, as part of a pre-arranged plan designed to bring down Turgot, whom you wish to see gone.’

  ‘I don’t wish it, I hope for it. Is that all?’

  ‘And others claim that, despite this abhorrence, you have not failed in your duty in any way, and that in exercising this caution, you have weakened the moves intended to chase away the intruder.’

  ‘Oh, they say that, do they? Who exactly says it?’

  ‘My informant mentioned the name of a prince of royal blood.’

  ‘Orléans or Conti, obviously. More likely Conti … And how do you know what the prince says?’

  ‘I’ve been in the police force for fifteen years, and I was Monseigneur’s pupil.’

  ‘I taught you too well, it seems! What impudence!’

  ‘You also taught me, Monseigneur, that the first rule is that the name of your informant should remain a secret.’

  ‘And you only apply these rules when they suit you.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’d like you to help me.’

  ‘Ah, now he wants my help! The world has turned upside down! Well, all right, then …’

  ‘In connection with the case of the prisoner in Vincennes, did you ever hear of a man named Hénéfiance, grain merchant and speculator in Rue du Poirier? You were Criminal Lieutenant at the time.’

  ‘Of course, although I didn’t follow the case very closely. It was such a delicate matter that it went all the way up to the comptroller general’s office. This man Hénéfiance, if I remember correctly, had been denounced. A public trial was judged unwise, as, given the situation, it might have led to serious unrest. We were still at war … In the interests of the State, the galleys seemed the best solution. I later learnt that, after a year or two at Brest, the man escaped and was never heard from again. He’s believed to have drowned. A boat was found drifting.’

  ‘Why would he have escaped by sea?’

  ‘You may not know that it’s impossible to escape from Brest over land. The whole area is under close watch and constantly crossed by patrols. Any escape is immediately notified. Every bell tower sounds the alarm. What’s more, anyone not speaking Breton would be unlikely to survive.’

  It struck Nicolas that, for someone who had supposedly not followed the case closely, Sartine knew a great deal about it. He refrained from making any comment on this, being more than satisfied with what he had obtained from the minister. By now, the coach had found its way back to the Grand Châtelet.

  ‘And how are you getting on with the Chevalier de Lastire?’

  ‘Very well, whenever our paths cross. But events have decided otherwise. I can perfectly well understand that he’s been keeping a close eye on the recent unrest and that the Mourut case was of little interest to him. That said, we do sometimes meet and exchange information.’

  Sartine seemed lost in thought for a moment, but soon pulled himself together. ‘He has in fact been reporting back to me. On the night of Sunday to Monday, for example, he predicted what would happen in Versailles. He has a good nose. Listen to his advice. I shall leave you now. Would you by any chance be on your way to one of those macabre sessions that seem to fascinate you so? Might you have another corpse on your hands?’

  ‘Not at all, Monseigneur,’ said Nicolas, jumping out of the coach. ‘Just some missing rabbits.’

  He watched as the coachman cracked his whip and set the coach in motion, while Sartine stared out at him through the window.

  In the duty office, he found Bourdeau and Semacgus deep in conversation.

  ‘How pleased I am to see you both here. I have so much to tell you.’

  From the expressions on their faces, he guessed that they were not short of things to tell him either. Without a word, Bourdeau handed him a folded sheet of paper, which Nicolas opened. On it was a question mark crudely drawn in charcoal.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘After much searching, I found out that the tavern of the Grand Hiver was located in Rue du Faubourg du Temple, near the Courtille. After going in the wrong direction and getting a bit lost, I discovered a charred section of wall and part of a sign, all that remains of an establishment that’s been in ruins for fifteen years. But worse was to come. I was looking furiously at the ruin when an errand boy handed me this paper. By the time I looked up, the rascal had already run away, so I wasn’t able to ask him who had sent him.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Nicolas, ‘that someone’s trying to distract us from something. Our adversary was no doubt hoping to draw me there in order to stop me being somewhere else.’

  He looked closely at the paper. Semacgus noticed how interested in it he seemed. ‘Does it remind you of something?’

  ‘I do seem to have seen something like it before. The shape is unusual … I’ll have to think about it.’

  He told them about his visit to Rue du Poirier and the misadventures that had befallen Rabouine and Tirepot.

  ‘This is really not our day!’ cried Bourdeau. ‘How are we to lay hands on our man now? The thread is broken and the bird flown!’

  ‘We may find him again. He’s searching us out as much as we’re pursuing him. Why should he leave us alone now? I have the curious impression it’s me he has a grudge against.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Semacgus, beaming, ‘I have some important news for you. Quite surprising news, too. Nicolas, show me your boots.’

  Surprised, the commissioner leant on the table with both hands and raised his right foot. Semacgus crouched, donned his spectacles and, red in the face and breathing in short gasps because of his paunch, carefully extracted some small fragments stuck to the sole. Having got his breath back, he examined them carefully.

  ‘It’s just as I thought. You’ve come back from the same place as the other day, so there’s no need to be surprised. The same causes produce the same effects. This fully confirms all my hypotheses.’

  ‘Are you finally going to tell us, Guillaume, the meaning of these strange words of yours?’

  ‘First, I’m going to tell you a story which, as you’ll see, will bring us back both to the death of Master Mourut and to Rue du Poirier. A quarter
of a century ago, when I had put in at Pondicherry on board the Villeflix, a leading merchant from the Isle de France1 was found dead in the room he occupied in the governor’s palace. In the ensuing panic, there was much speculation regarding the cause of death. Some suspected poisoning, so frequent in the Indies. As a merchant ship was proposing to take the body to Port-Louis, the governor asked me to embalm the body. Wanting to set my mind at rest, I decided to perform an autopsy. I discovered disorders identical to those observed in Master Mourut. Soon afterwards, one of the governor’s servants died in similar circumstances.’

  ‘And were you unable to come to a conclusion in that case, too?’ asked Bourdeau.

  ‘Not at all! There was a witness who stated that the man had been bitten by a hamadryad.’

  ‘What?’ cried Nicolas, who had not forgotten his Jesuit education. ‘Bitten by a wood nymph?’

  Semacgus gave a great laugh. ‘Perhaps in the course of a violent bout of lovemaking! No, hamadryad is the scientific term for the Asian king cobra.’

  He took from his pocket a lead pencil and a piece of paper and skilfully drew the head of the reptile, which Nicolas looked at closely.

  ‘But what’s the connection with Monsieur Mourut? This kind of snake is not common in Rue Montmartre, as far as I know.’

  ‘You’re quite right. The fact remains that our man presented all the symptoms of death by snake venom.’

  ‘So he was bitten or stung?’

  ‘Remember my observation about the strange wound to the hand. I didn’t want to contradict Sanson in front of you, but that necrotised wound kept reminding me of the one I had once examined. Mind you, this was a cut and not the bites characteristic of a cobra’s fangs.’

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t a cobra. Could it have been a viper?’

  ‘I thought about that, but I’m not convinced. The viper’s bite isn’t necessarily fatal to a human being, even a deep one. Of course it can kill a sparrow, a rabbit, a chicken, even a dog, a very young dog at any rate. I know through Monsieur de Jussieu that a man named Fontana, physicist to the Grand Duke of Tuscany, carried out more than six thousand experiments on the subject.’

  ‘What you say about the wound intrigues me,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Is it possible that someone introduced the venom into Monsieur Mourut’s system through it?’

  ‘That’s the hypothesis, if you recall, that I already suggested. Everything points to the probability that we are dealing with a similar situation, in which snake venom replaces the usual kinds of poison!’

  ‘It makes you shudder to think about it,’ said the inspector. ‘But in order to do that, the murderer would surely have had to have such an animal at his disposal.’

  ‘And to keep it warm, since it’s a creature of the Tropics and cannot stand cold.’

  ‘Are there any in the Jardin du Roi?’

  ‘Some stuffed ones, I believe.’

  ‘And in private houses?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. But it’s not impossible. Provided it’s kept at the right temperature.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ observed Nicolas, ‘your ingenious theory suggests that it’s possible to collect the venom, and I don’t quite see how.’

  ‘Nothing easier,’ said Semacgus. ‘I saw it done many times in the Indies. The fakirs and dervishes who handle snakes make them bite into a cloth stretched over a calabash.’

  ‘A calabash?’

  ‘A kind of gourd, actually an emptied and dried marrow.’

  ‘Isn’t it risky?’

  ‘Once you hold its head firmly, the snake has no other way of defending itself. You pin it down with a forked stick. That way, you can gather the secretions from its venom gland. You have to be careful, though, when you let it go!’

  ‘So …’ said Nicolas, thinking aloud. ‘In Rue du Poirier, those rabbits, those castings, that fire in the closed room …’

  ‘And,’ said Semacgus triumphantly, waving the fragments he had removed from Nicolas’s boots, ‘these beige and yellow scales you twice picked up on your boots. Yes, my dear Nicolas, in Rue du Poirier a criminal has been raising a snake whose venom killed Master Mourut!’

  This statement was followed by a long silence.

  ‘All things considered,’ said Bourdeau, ‘this should narrow the field of our enquiries. There is no local trade in this kind of snake, as far as I know.’

  ‘Perhaps gittani,2 who sometimes show snakes at fairs?’

  ‘Highly unlikely. As they’re believed to steal children, they’re closely watched. If they had cobras, it would certainly be known.’

  Nicolas nodded. ‘A private individual, then? We’re forced back on our unknown adversary. We know there was a snake in Rue du Poirier. Why and how?’

  ‘If I may hazard an opinion,’ said Semacgus, ‘you’re missing the point. Let me explain. Here you are, two wily policemen who have noted the existence of this animal and the consequences of its harmfulness, and have in your possession a piece of fabric coming from the Indies. To me, a mere innocent, it seems obvious that the person who uses such a method must have been a sailor, a soldier, a monk or a merchant, which would explain why such a dangerous living weapon is in his possession. Not that this makes your investigation any easier, but it should at least redirect it on more rational lines, I dare say. I would make a good suspect, for example. I’ve visited that part of the world, I know about cobras and I’m so devious as to reveal my own stratagem, thus clearing myself of all suspicion.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Nicolas with a laugh, ‘I fear Guillaume is hoping for another taste of the Bastille.3 He’s right, of course, and we need to prepare our offensive. This is a battle, and the lines are being drawn. Let us review our plans for the days to come.’

  He gave them a chronological account of all the phases of the investigation.

  ‘One thing still intrigues me,’ said Bourdeau. ‘If Hénéfiance was sent to the galleys, his property must have been seized by the crown—’

  ‘Let me stop you there, Pierre,’ Nicolas cut in. ‘If there was no trial and no official sentence, there are no consequences as to the inheritance.’

  ‘Would that explain why the house remains abandoned?’

  ‘Probably, but not why the furniture disappeared. Many objects must have been moved. Why and by whom? That is the question. Not to mention the mystery of the house opposite. Pierre, I’d like you to look into that. Who does it belong to? Go there, question the neighbours, as well as the local notaries. I sense there’s a missing element there that might enlighten us.’

  ‘You would do well,’ said Semacgus, ‘to also check with the navy. I’m sure Sartine will allow you access to the archives of his department, which is responsible for the penal colony at Brest.’

  ‘Why,’ asked Bourdeau, ‘do we still talk of being sent to the galleys when these no longer exist?’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Semacgus in a learned tone, ‘that the King’s galleys were abolished in 1749, after the death of their last general. Thousands of prisoners remained at the disposal of the navy in Toulon, Brest and Rochefort …’

  ‘But if there are no more galleys, the prisoners must be idle.’

  ‘Not at all! As you can imagine, nobody wanted to do without such an easily exploitable workforce. I remember passing through Brest in 1755.4 The convicts were working on the development of the port. With their picks, they were destroying the rocky constrictions on either side of the Penfeld. They were digging, clearing the rock and the silt, pumping, sinking piles, building fortifications and powder magazines. The excavation work was constant and terrifying! That’s where we should be looking.’

  ‘The fact remains,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that however much information we gather, the man from Rue du Poirier keeps slipping through our fingers. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack!’

  ‘We have to reckon with the unexpected. Remember, not so long ago, the consequences of our discovery of traces of pineapple in a victim’s stomach.5 I believe in chance as the obscure manifestatio
n of a will that is somehow beyond us.’

  Bourdeau laughed, although it was not clear to Nicolas whether or not he was mocking him.

  ‘All right,’ said Nicolas. ‘I’ll deal with the navy and the French East India Company. Bourdeau will visit the notaries.’

  ‘And what of Caminet?’ asked Semacgus suddenly. ‘Still nothing? No corpse on which to perform an autopsy?’

  ‘His description has been distributed. The bodies fished out of the river are always carefully examined, as are those found in and outside the city.’

  ‘Good. Then I shall pursue my research into our slippery and venomous murderer among my colleagues at the Jardin du Roi.’

  Night was falling by the time they parted company. In his carriage, Nicolas pressed the release of his repeater watch. It struck seven times. He looked at it: it was fifteen minutes past the hour. He felt extremely weary, with a mixture of tiredness and hunger. Nevertheless he felt unalloyed joy at the prospect of dining with Louis and Noblecourt. The thing that brought a pang to his heart, though, was the thought of Aimée d’Arranet. She was apparently determined not to communicate with him. He forced himself not to revive the feelings of anxiety and, although he would not admit it, of jealousy that her silence and absence aroused in him. The ghost of Madame de Lastérieux interposed itself with painful insistence between him and Aimée’s charming face, plunging him into a grim inner struggle.

  A magnificent coach was parked outside the Noblecourt house. He recognised the arms on the door: the Maréchal de Richelieu was paying a visit to his old friend. His immediate reaction was a certain annoyance: the prospect of a tranquil evening was fading. Going in through the carriage entrance, he felt a genuine sorrow on noting the grim silence that now shrouded Master Mourut’s bakery. When would the hot bakehouse smells that usually greeted him return? Life gave and took away. Those tiny everyday moments were precious instants of happiness, but they only appeared that way once they were gone. Now only emptiness bore witness to the place they had once occupied. From the servants’ pantry came great roars of laughter among which he recognised those of Louis. He entered and went closer to observe the scene. Catherine, brandishing a ladle, was addressing an attentive and good-humoured audience. Even Poitevin, brush in hand, had broken off from scraping the mud off a shoe to listen. Marion was laughing fit to burst, with tears in her eyes, which she wiped with a corner of her apron. Louis, sitting astride a chair, was shaking with laughter. Cyrus was wagging his tail and barking happily. Only Mouchette, perched on the window sill, watched this incomprehensible human agitation with a kind of impassive contempt.