‘In all conscience,’ concluded Semacgus with Sanson’s approval, ‘it’s impossible for us to express an opinion. It’s always possible that someone arranged things to look that way …’
They all fell silent. At that moment, muffled sounds were heard outside the room. Awa came in and said that a man was asking for Inspector Bourdeau. He rose and followed the cook out of the room. He came back almost immediately.
‘Gentlemen, the dance of death continues. The slave has been found dead, poisoned, in his cell at the Châtelet.’
Notes – CHAPTER 7
1. This magistrate, Monsieur Vermeil, in fact proposed this form of torture in 1781.
2. Henri Louis Duhamel du Monceau, French physiologist, agronomist and general inspector of the navy (1700–1782).
3. A plant-derived remedy recommended by Homer for combating sadness.
VIII
DEAD END
Strange accidents, those of the past and those of today,
The eddies of fate whirl us from joy to sorrow.
EURIPIDES
Wednesday 19 January 1774
It was just after midnight. They decided to return to Paris at once. Semacgus insisted on going with them, as he wanted to examine the victim with Sanson. They were all still stunned by the news of Casimir’s death. The temperature had risen unexpectedly, and a fog had formed, shrouding the gardens in increasingly dense clouds. In the city, where the dampness combined with the smoke from a thousand chimneys, the phenomenon was worse, making the carriage’s progress difficult. As they approached the river, the dangers multiplied. It was impossible to see anything, not even the lanterns and torches carried by the few people still out and about at this time of night.
For a while, the coachman was reduced to getting down from his seat and leading the horses, feeling out the ground with his hands and feet in order to find the corners of the streets. To break the oppressive silence that had fallen inside the carriage, Nicolas reminded his companions that, a few years earlier, winter fogs had become so dense that people had taken it into their heads to hire blind people by the hour from the hospital of the Quinze-Vingts to guide pedestrians and carriages in the middle of the day. So precise was their knowledge of the topography of Paris, superior even to that of the draughtsmen and engravers of city maps, that they were offered five louis as a reward. No one responded to Nicolas’s remarks, and silence fell once again. Once they came off the Pont Royal, it was easier for them to orient themselves. The coachman got back up on his seat and followed the quais as far as the Pont au Change, near the Châtelet.
Grim-faced officers, guards and jailers were running about in all directions in the old royal prison. Nicolas and his companions were led up to the first floor where the prisoner had been kept in solitary confinement in a large cell, quite unlike the usual wretched dungeons, rotten with damp, where the only light and air filtered in through little barred windows at ground level. A fetid odour greeted them as they entered. By the light of the torches, they made out a shape huddled on the straw mattress. It was Casimir, lying on his side in a pool of blood and vomit, his legs bent, his hands clenched over his stomach, his head thrown back, his eyes open and bloodshot. While Sanson and Semacgus busied themselves with the body, Nicolas and Bourdeau carefully examined the cell. Nicolas hated situations like this – there had been two others in his career – and blamed himself when a prisoner died, especially by his own hand. The image of an old soldier driven to crime by poverty rose to the surface of his mind and plucked at his conscience.1 The first thing he noticed now was an earthenware plate on a stool, containing what remained of a dish of saveloys and beans. There was also a clay jug, which he picked up and sniffed: from what he could tell, the wine had been of good quality. This was all so different from what was usual in prison that he pointed it out to Bourdeau and asked him to find out everything he could about the provenance of the food and drink.
‘Look at the spoon,’ said Bourdeau. ‘Silver, damn it! It couldn’t be more obvious!’
‘I agree: everything indicates that he was given special treatment. To think we put this prisoner in solitary confinement to avoid contact with the outside world, and this is what happens! A vital witness, the one solid thread in a tangled knot, snatched from our hands!’
Two guards appeared, carrying a stretcher. The body was laid on it and immediately taken to the Basse-Geôle, escorted by Sanson and Semacgus. Nicolas and the inspector spent most of the next hour questioning the jailers. It transpired that, at about eight o’clock, a man of indeterminate age, so nondescript that nobody would be able to recognise him if they saw him again, had presented himself, dressed like a kitchen servant, to deliver a meal intended for Casimir. Whatever surprise the guards may have felt, no doubts had crossed their minds. The case in connection with which the slave had been imprisoned was already mysterious enough and his treatment unusual: why had he been given such a comfortable cell? The thing that had clinched it was that the man had mentioned the name of Commissioner Le Floch, which had swept away any possible reservation. Soon after the meal had been taken in to the prisoner, they had heard moaning. By the time the door had been opened, the poor man was already in his death throes. A few minutes later, he was dead.
What skill, thought Nicolas, in the pursuit of evil! What could be simpler than an unknown man, presumably in disguise and giving an official name as his password, delivering, as sanctioned by custom, a meal bought and made outside the prison? This is given to the guard, who is told that the price has been settled. There isn’t even any need for direct contact with the victim. Surprised by this unexpected treat and quite unsuspecting, the victim throws himself on the food. What a cowardly, treacherous act! Nicolas trembled at the thought, sure that new accusations would be made against him to add to those already made. In this case, though, there was nothing to link him directly to the crime, since he had been with his friends for the whole of the evening. The odds were that the unknown murderer had not known that, which suggested that he had stopped following Nicolas, at least for the moment.
The autopsy on Casimir’s body took place early the next morning, as soon as Semacgus and Sanson had gathered together the necessary instruments and a few rats. The operation was rapid and conclusive: the prisoner had been poisoned by an unknown substance contained in the food. But this time, the poison had not contained any spices. To Nicolas, this confirmed what he had been thinking: the only reason those crushed seeds, harmless in themselves, had been added to Madame de Lastérieux’s eggnog, was to throw suspicion on Casimir and, through him, on Nicolas. Now that there had been a second death by poisoning, everything pointed to the fact that the same person was responsible, even though, in this latest case, the culprit had not tried to conceal the nature of the poison. As for tracing the supposed kitchen servant who had come right into the heart of the prison, that, said Bourdeau, would be like finding a needle in a haystack. If Müvala and the other young men present in Rue de Verneuil had already vanished so completely into thin air as to cast doubt on whether they had ever existed, then it would surely be impossible to track down Casimir’s killer.
Nicolas asked Bourdeau to question the dead man’s companion Julia, who had been in a prostrate and almost imbecilic state since their arrest, and to put every last police spy and informer in the capital to work, but especially Tirepot, whose skill and foresight always worked wonders. Rabouine would coordinate the operation and centralise all incoming information at the duty office in the Grand Châtelet. As he was giving his orders, a fleeting thought crossed his mind on the subject of the piment bouc, a thought he could not quite seize. It seemed to him that a crucial element, which he had thus far ignored, was trying to rise to the surface of his consciousness. He made no attempt to force it: as so often happened, it would come to him when the moment was right.
He left the Grand Châtelet to pay a visit to Master Bontemps, senior member of the Company of Notaries Royal. The wind had risen, sweeping across the river and driving aw
ay the clouds and fog. Patches of blue appeared in the sky, forming a kind of chessboard over the city. Like many old men, Master Bontemps probably got up early, but seeing him when he was only just out of bed would have far exceeded the rules of decorum, and it was important for Nicolas to win him over, eccentric as he was, if he was going to get what he wanted from him. He set off on foot, and soon found himself wading through almost liquid mud: he was glad he had kept his riding boots on. The mud was already invading Quai de Bourbon, Quai de la Mégisserie and Quai de l’École, and he had to walk quickly to avoid it. He turned left to reach Rue Saint-Honoré by way of Rue des Poulies. Rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre descended towards the galleries of the palace, its tall buildings clearly visible at the end of the street. Master Bontemps lived in an opulent-looking house situated just opposite the Longueville mansion. This mansion had been acquired by the Farmers General as an annexe to their administrative offices. Monsieur de Sartine had spoken to him about the power that Company wielded within the State. The number of buildings it owned was multiplying. According to Monsieur de La Borde, the Farmers General were unstoppable: they were the future. Their administrative department numbered seven hundred people, far more than served the King’s ministers. Thirty thousand employees throughout the kingdom worked for them, directly or indirectly. Nicolas had been surprised to discover that the administrators were recruited through competitive examinations, received training in their work, were assessed throughout their careers, and were paid retirement pensions from a fund to which both the Company and its employees contributed.2 The common people were constantly complaining about this institution, which they held responsible for the burden of taxation and the harshness of the times.
Nicolas presented himself at Master Bontemps’s practice, pleased to have Monsieur de Noblecourt’s letter of recommendation in the cuff of his coat sleeve. Walking through the offices brought back memories of his youth in Rennes: the musty smell of ink and parchments and mildew, the unwholesome sweat of young men spending all day indoors drafting documents, the irritating scratch of quills on paper. The adolescent faces that looked up sharply as he passed were like reflections of his own past self. As he climbed the staircase, a pervasive odour of cat’s urine struck his nostrils, and he had to take a pinch of snuff, a habit usually reserved for autopsies at the Basse-Geôle. He was greeted on the first floor by an elderly servant, dressed all in black, with a ruff so often folded and washed and rewashed that its white was close to grey.
Monsieur Bontemps’s living quarters were vast, dark and dusty. Nicolas was instantly surrounded and hemmed in by dozens of cats who sprang out to inspect the intruder. Some rubbed up against him, while others kept a mistrustful distance and spat at him angrily. The antechamber made him feel as though he had found himself inside a painting from the beginning of the previous century. Tall, dark oak dressers standing against walls covered in embossed leather accentuated the comparison. He was shown into a study whose walls were lined with shelves filled with folios. A gigantic church lamp-holder, all dripping with wax, lit the room.
A small form sat huddled in cushions on a stiff-backed cathedra, entirely wrapped in furs apart from a bald, toothless head. Eyes stared out at him through spectacles with enlarging lenses, in a strange, stern gaze full of suppressed rage. From here and there beneath the furs, cats’ heads peered out, contemplated the visitor, then retreated back into the body that housed them.
‘To what do I owe this visit?’ came a grating voice.
‘Master,’ said Nicolas, ‘your friend Monsieur de Noblecourt asked me to give you this letter.’
He took a step towards the notary, and a huge black cat sat up and started growling, its fur bristling and its tail twisting with slow, serpentine movements.
‘Quiet, Ajax, there’s a good boy!’
The cat moved slowly back, looking offended. The notary took the letter and read it.
‘The old brigand only remembers I’m still alive when he needs me!’ he grunted. ‘I’m still good enough to do what he requires of me. What do you want? Sit down.’
Nicolas looked round and noticed an upholstered stool. He was about to sit down on it when the notary screamed, ‘Not there, you wretch! That’s Friquette’s place, she has her litter there. She’ll scratch your eyes out.’
Not knowing where to put himself, Nicolas preferred to remain standing. The room seemed to come alive. Regiments of cats jumped from the bergères, appeared under the cushions, emerged from behind the books and climbed down the brocade curtains, scratching them as they did so. The smell was over powering. A fight broke out, and the cats launched into a free-for-all, which continued until the master of the house cracked a small whip to restore order, and each animal went back to its hiding place, striking out with its claws as it went.
At last, Nicolas was able to get down to business. ‘In the course of a criminal investigation,’ he began, ‘I’ve had occasion to wonder about the brief but brilliant career of one of your younger colleagues, Master Tiphaine.’
‘Viroulet, what a scoundrel you are! Go and do your doings somewhere else, not on your master.’
From beneath his furs, the notary brought out a kitten. Holding it by the neck, he kissed it on the nose and flung it away from him. It landed on the carpet. He wiped his hands and stroked his furs.
‘These,’ he said to Nicolas, ‘are the perfectly tanned skins of their grandparents. It gives me great pleasure to wear them. They soothe my pains, and they’re so warm I don’t have to spend too much on firewood. Master Tiphaine? Why should you think I want to talk about him? Why don’t you find out what you want to know from your police spies?’
‘It seems to me a sensible thing to do,’ said Nicolas humbly, ‘to turn first to the senior member of the Company. I’m sure that he can but approve of an approach so in accordance with the service of the King.’
‘You’re a smooth talker, aren’t you? You remind me of Croquet when he wants his lights. Senior member! I’d do quite happily without that, believe me. It’s a matter of survival. They’re waiting to see how long I last. Fortunately, my cats keep me alive. Though I’d prefer to be young again, like I was in the days when Noblecourt and I would go wenching every night …’
Nicolas vowed to himself that he’d repeat those words to the former procurator.
‘Tiphaine … Hmm! A nonentity with lots of contacts but not much substance, quite unsuited to our venerable Company. Apparently the rules were relaxed in his case. He’s not even twenty-five yet, and didn’t do his five years as a notary’s clerk. He must have obtained a royal dispensation, which isn’t easy. As for the fellow’s morals, you’d have to visit every brothel and gambling house in town, and question the madams, pimps and girls and every other dispenser of the clap! Not to mention the faro players! Oh, yes, a fine notary, with lots of experience – of trifles!’
A big, grey, thick-furred Chartreux cat was scratching with one paw at the tip of Nicolas’s boot. Fortunately, the mud had covered the leather with a protective layer.
‘I was told by some colleagues …’ – Master Bontemps leant forward and beckoned to Nicolas to come closer – ‘… that the money he needed to buy his practice was provided by a highly placed individual who was keen to have a notary under his influence and owing him his position. The sum arrived miraculously, all in écus, in sacks bearing the seal of the Comptroller General …’3
‘So you’re saying—’
‘I’m not saying anything, I’m not surprised by anything. That’s how the times are. I think you understand me. I don’t have to spell it out for you. Now forget about me and go, my children need feeding.’
The servant appeared, carrying plates loaded with various meats. A terrible hullaballoo ensued, with a lot of squealing, and further fighting. Nicolas bowed and, without any further ado, withdrew. Thinking about this brief interview when he was in his carriage, he observed that it had confirmed everything he and Bourdeau had feared. Master Tiphaine’s practice, acquired in dubious c
ircumstances in violation of the normal rules, was his reward for selling his loyalty and being ready for any kind of compromising act. In which case, descending on his residence and questioning him would probably not have the desired effect. He would show the will to a handwriting expert in order to establish, if not for certain, then at least with a degree of probability, whether or not it was a forgery, and he would place the young notary under strict surveillance to get a better idea of his movements and associates. Only then would they interrogate him and get him to admit the truth.
When Nicolas got back to the Châtelet, he sought out Inspector Bourdeau and asked him to set up the surveillance. Nicolas looked so tired and wild-eyed to Bourdeau that he persuaded him to go back to Rue Montmartre as soon as possible. His earlier sense of exhilaration had given way to a great weariness and a clear need for sleep. Nicolas was still suffering from the after-effects of his English adventure.
Catherine, who had got back from Vaugirard, found Nicolas’s listlessness quite worrying. When Monsieur de Noblecourt pressed him with questions about his interview with the ‘cat man’, he replied distractedly, merely reassuring him that his letter of recommendation had achieved its goal. Then he went upstairs to bed. The bells of Saint-Eustache had just struck four.
Thursday 20 January 1774
A huge black cat was pawing his stomach, making it increasingly difficult for him to breathe. He started to panic, especially as the cat was speaking to him, its yellow-flecked green eyes gleaming with a vaguely human look, and he could not understand any of the hoarse sounds the beast was making. He tried to escape its embrace. Suddenly, the mist cleared, and he gasped, coughed, and opened his eyes to discover Bourdeau’s good-natured face.
The Nicolas Le Floch affair Page 20
