* * * * *
"So there you have it," he said, when he had done relating the interview to Brasseur. "The last known destination seems to have been the stables at the H?tel de Beaupr?au."
"But what the devil did Beaupr?au do with it then?" Brasseur demanded. He strode to the window of his office and stood glaring out at the traffic on the street. " 'Further arrangements.' What further arrangements? How do you arrange to rid yourself of a corpse? You could," he continued, talking half to himself, "bundle it out of the city in the middle of the night, but there's always the very good chance that some interfering customs inspector at the barrier will want to see what you've got in your cart. And you can't just strip it naked and throw it in the river, because people would eventually find it and see the wounds, and even then there's always the small possibility that it would be identified, and then you're right back where you started."
"Burn it?" Aristide suggested halfheartedly.
"Not as easy as you think. You'd need a lot of firewood and oil, and you'd hardly escape notice."
"What about surgeons?"
"What about them?"
"Surgeons and professors of medicine want bodies to dissect. We know bodysnatchers didn't steal it, but perhaps Beaupr?au disposed of Saint-Landry's corpse to a resurrectionist. Who's to say it hasn't already been a subject on someone's covert dissecting table?"
"With a Masonic symbol cut in its flesh, and a slit throat just shouting out 'murder' in front of a couple of dozen medical students, or more?" Brasseur shook his head. "We agreed, didn't we, that Beaupr?au probably stole the body so no one would see the Masonic marks and start putting two and two together. So that won't wash." He fetched the decanter and a glass from a cabinet and poured himself a brimming glass of wine. "Care for a drop? I certainly could use one!"
Tuesday, 17 January
"If Beaupr?au wants to keep that Masonic compass and square away from prying eyes," Aristide said the next morning at breakfast, over rolls and butter and milky coffee, "he'd need to hide it where it'll never be seen again. Could he possibly conceal the body somewhere inside his own house? You've seen those cellars; there may be some hidden rooms."
"But how do you keep it from stinking?" Brasseur said. "It's January now, but corpses have an unfortunate habit of making themselves known when the weather turns warm." His wife cast him a disapproving glance and he smiled weakly. "Sorry, ch?rie, but this is important."
"How do you keep any meat from stinking and rotting after a few days?" Aristide said. "Salt it down, dry it, smoke it?"
"Oh, yes, in front of a couple of dozen servants. I am not going in to the Marquis de Beaupr?au's pantry to snoop inside a barrel of salt beef. The commissaire'd have my head."
Madame Brasseur slapped down her napkin and rose from the table. "Disposing of bodies! A nice subject for the breakfast table! I'll finish my breakfast with Jeanne in the kitchen, thank you."
"What would you do, madame, with a inconvenient corpse that no one must ever see again?" Aristide inquired, exchanging a malicious glance with Brasseur.
"Grind it into sausage meat, I expect," she snapped, with an exasperated swish of petticoats. "Heaven knows what they're putting into them, these days!"
"Not a bad idea," Brasseur said with a sigh as the door closed behind his wife. "Though I can't really entertain the notion that his high-and-mightiness the Marquis de Beaupr?au would go that far with his friend's body, nor that he's cozy with the sort of ruffian who'd actually be willing to lend a hand to something that ghastly." He sighed and loudly blew his nose. "Don't mind me, lad. This affair is so confused that I don't know which side is up any more."
"But Madame's on the right path, I think," Aristide said. "You don't necessarily need to get rid of the body completely, make it vanish into thin air, do you? You just need it-and the cut throat and the Masonic marks in his flesh-to be unrecognizable."
"Not in the form of sausages, I hope?"
"No, not sausages?at least I hope not?but wait?" He grimaced and clutched at his head with both hands, trying to retrieve an elusive memory. Salt beef?dried?smoked?
What was it that was nagging at the edge of his thoughts?
Dried?smoked?preserved-
"My God, it certainly was barely recognizable?"
"What's that?"
"I've just?no, he couldn't-but?"
"Would you care to tell me what's the matter?" said Brasseur.
"I have an idea about what he might have done-"
"Who? Beaupr?au?"
"Yes-it's possible-and it's appalling?" He gulped down a last swallow of coffee and snatched up his hat and coat from a peg on the wall. "I may be gone for a while," he added, thrusting a roll into his coat pocket, and sped away, leaving Brasseur staring behind him.
The Cavalier of the Apocalypse Page 32
