The Saint-Florentin Murders

by Jean-FranCois Parot

  ‘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 …’

&
nbsp; ‘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?’

  ‘I have no idea what’s going on,’ replied the major-domo. ‘I went to bed very late, and now I wake up and find you here! Did someone attack me while I was asleep?’

  ‘Come on,’ said Nicolas. ‘Make an effort to collect your thoughts. We need to know your exact whereabouts last night.’

  ‘Monseigneur was away. He was at Versailles with the King. Madame, indisposed as she so often is, did not dine. At about eleven o’clock, I had a last look around the house and then came up to bed.’

  ‘Did you go down to the kitchens?’

  The man showed no particular emotion. ‘I had no reason to do so, the fires had been out since Saturday. So I came back to my room.’

  ‘Did you have a candle?’

  ‘Yes, you can see the candlestick there, on the desk.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I undressed, blew out the candle, and fell asleep.’

  ‘The candle in that candlestick?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Here.’ And he pointed to a small marquetry bedside table on his left, half hidden by the bed curtains.

  ‘Why is it on the desk now?’ asked Nicolas. ‘Was it you who moved it?’

  Missery shook his head.

  ‘You, then, Doctor?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Nicolas.

  ‘I fell asleep.’

  ‘Did you have any visitors?’

  He sensed a kind of imperceptible hesitation in the way the major-domo replied, ‘No, nobody.’

  ‘Doctor,’ said Nicolas, ‘may I have a word with you for a moment in private?’

  He drew him into the corridor, leaving Bourdeau to watch over the wounded man.

  ‘In your opinion, could that wound, which you described as benign, have led to a significant loss of blood?’

  ‘It’s strange that you should ask me that question,’ replied the doctor. ‘Just now, when I was replacing the bandage, I had another look at the cut. No vein or major vessel was damaged. There was no haemorrhage. And there are hardly any bloodstains on the man’s breeches!’

  ‘That tallies with my own observation. So what do you make of his loss of consciousness?’

  ‘Oh, you shouldn’t let that go to your head: some sensitive people faint at the slightest nick. There’s no accounting for it! Anyway, our man doesn’t appear to be aware of the gravity of the situation, and certainly isn’t reacting like someone who has just tried to kill himself.’

  They went back into the room.

  ‘How is it, Monsieur,’ Nicolas resumed, ‘that you are not in your nightshirt?’

  The man touched himself, and seemed only now to become aware of what he was wearing. ‘I have no idea. I put on a freshly ironed nightshirt last night.’

  ‘It’s nowhere to be found,’ said Bourdeau.

  Missery seemed both appalled and frightened by this observation.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘what was your relationship with the Duchesse de La Vrillière’s chambermaid, Marguerite Pindron?’

  For the first time since the beginning of the interrogation, Missery looked up with a kind of contained fury. ‘She’s my mistress. Everyone will tell you that and it’s true, and I defy anyone to …’ He broke off.

  ‘To what?’ asked Nicolas.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Jean Missery, you have to face certain facts. You are accused and suspected of having murdered your mistress, Marguerite Pindron, and of having tried to kill yourself in order to escape the just punishment for such a crime. As of now, you are in the hands of the law. On my orders, your condition permitting, you will be taken to the royal prison of the Châtelet to await the decision of the Criminal Lieutenant and an investigation of the case. This arrest does not imply a final judgement on your actions, but forms part of the necessary precautionary measures when there has been a murder. I can assure you that everything will be done to either invalidate or confirm the facts and presumptions for which you may well feel the full weight of the law.’

  As he listened to Nicolas’s solemn words, the major-domo collapsed on his
bed, weeping, gasping and wringing his hands. He was soon nothing but a shapeless heap.

  ‘Bourdeau,’ said Nicolas, ‘call the officers and have this man conducted to his destination. Make sure he’s bound and guarded.’

  Nicolas was still haunted by the memory of a sad case in which a suspect had killed himself in his cell. He felt that a surfeit of precautions and the observation of simple rules was necessary to avoid any recurrence of such a tragedy. Monsieur de Gévigland and Bourdeau helped Missery to his feet. He was made to put on his coat, which the commissioner took hold of for a moment and examined attentively. Bourdeau picked up the shoes and had a good look at them before helping the major-domo to put them on. The officer at the door of the room called his colleagues, and the suspect was taken away, closely guarded by the men from the Châtelet.

  Nicolas turned to the doctor. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I thank you for your valuable assistance and your very helpful comments. We will doubtless have need of your testimony.’

  ‘I am at your disposal, Commissioner. Rest assured of my continued assistance. In addition, I would be honoured and delighted if one day, at your convenience, you would come to lunch or dinner. I live in Rue Saint-Honoré, opposite the Capuchin monastery. My wife and I would be happy to count you among the regular visitors to our dwelling.’

  He wrapped himself in his cloak, adjusted his cocked hat, bowed to the two police officers and went out. Nicolas had been struck by the benevolence emanating from the doctor, and the elegant simplicity of his attire, embellished with a ribbon tying up his natural, unpowdered salt-and-pepper hair. Once the doctor had gone out, Bourdeau gave a slight bow.

  ‘Everyone kowtows to the marquis,’ he said. ‘No sooner do they know him than they guess his rank, even if he calls himself Le Floch. Monsieur de Gévigland made no mistake! He fell into your snare.’

  Nicolas did not reply to this gibe, which his friend had not been able to refrain from coming out with. To him, Bourdeau was all of a piece, with his faults and his qualities, the latter far outweighing the former in his judgement. The inspector was truly devoted to him, had twice saved his life, and had not hesitated to risk his career for his sake. Having fallen from favour together, they were now coming back into the light of day, more united than ever. What accumulated resentment, what brooded-over bitterness nourished these attacks of acrimony which Bourdeau seemed unable to control? The merest trifle could revive an unknown wound. The tragic death of his father, torn to pieces by a boar during a royal hunt, did not explain everything. The cruel game of respect and contempt which underlay a society based on the privileges of birth was something he found hard to accept. There was also a touch of possessive jealousy towards those who yielded to the commissioner’s innate seductive charms. Their attentions disgusted the inspector, who always dreamed of an exclusive friendship. Fortunately, Noblecourt, La Borde and Semacgus escaped this devouring jealousy. They did not in any way threaten long-established habits, and their own feelings for the inspector were a bastion and an anchor in his life. Yes, the sensible thing was not to respond to his remarks. Nicolas dreaded that the regular recurrence of these ideas might one day lead his friend to take up extreme positions, the consequences of which he would be unable to control. It was an abscess that needed to be lanced, and perhaps he would make up his mind to speak to him about it. But the hour had not yet come for that discussion.