The Saint-Florentin Murders: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #5. Jean-Francois Parot

facts are more inconvenient than I. That’s not all, Monseigneur. I should like to be assisted by Bourdeau. I trust you will consent.’

      ‘The name sounds familiar. Isn’t he one of our officers?’

      ‘One of our inspectors, Monseigneur.’

      ‘That’s right,’ said La Vrillière, striking his forehead, ‘he’s your loyal deputy. I like loyalty. Of course I consent.’

      ‘What about Monsieur Lenoir?’

      ‘Leave it to me. I’ll reconcile the two of you. He’ll be informed that this is my affair and you answer entirely to me. It’s a private matter, and requires the greatest discretion. The Lieutenant General of Police will have to accede to your demands for any help or support that you may require. I hope that you will show the same zeal and efficiency in this affair as you have in others. A study has been set aside for you on the mezzanine, and orders will be given that you must be obeyed in all matters. My valet, Provence, will be your guide in this house. You can trust him, he’s been with me for twenty years. Now do your work. Monsieur, I am at your disposal.’

      The minister’s tone was certainly in keeping with the circumstances. Nicolas had often noted in this unloved little man, lacking in personal prestige, a kind of unexpected grandeur which occasionally appeared, its roots constantly irrigated by the will and trust of the monarch. Thus, in a few short moments, the Duc de La Vrillière had been transfigured, animated by the concerns of State and the order it was his task to impose upon it. Everything vital having been said, Nicolas bowed and left the room. The valet was waiting at the door, and asked Nicolas to follow him. They took the same route by which they had come. Back on the ground floor, they came to a large hall that led to a succession of antechambers. In the third room on the right, the valet pointed out the entrance to a large study, which Nicolas judged to be situated more or less beneath that of the minister. The valet closed the door behind him. A fire was blazing in a white marble hearth, above which stood a bust of Louis XV. He stood for a moment contemplating it, suddenly overwhelmed with memories. Then he sat down at a small desk inlaid with bronze and lacquer and equipped with paper, quill pens, ink and lead pencils. He took out his little black notebook, an indispensable tool of his investigations. He was swept by a wave of excitement. It was the habitual thrill of the hunter setting off on the trail, the same ardour that sent him galloping off into the thickets of the forest of Compiègne. Already his mind was revolving around this case with which he had been presented, and his intelligence and intuition were on the alert.

      Out of curiosity, he opened a door, which revealed to him a magnificently prepared bedroom. Behind this room were a fine bathroom and water closet in the English style, such as he had not seen since his return from London. He went back into the study and rang the bell. The valet appeared. The man was about fifty, with a crumpled, colourless face and faded eyes. He wore a grey wig, and his silver-trimmed blue livery hung loose on his slender frame. The only thing striking about him was how nondescript he was.

      ‘What’s your name, my friend?’

      ‘Provence, Commissioner,’ the man said, avoiding his gaze.

      ‘What’s your real name?’

      ‘Charles Bibard.’

      ‘Where were you born?’

      ‘In Paris, in 1725 or 1726.’

      Nicolas had been right about his age. ‘Why Provence, then?’

      ‘It was my predecessor’s name. Monseigneur’s father, by whom I was subsequently engaged, didn’t like change.’

      ‘Well, Provence, can you tell me what happened here this morning?’

      ‘To be honest, I don’t know much. Just before seven, I was busy making Monseigneur’s apartments ready for his return from Versailles when I heard cries and screams.’

      ‘Where were you?’

      ‘In the bedroom. I went downstairs to the ground floor. The kitchen boy, the one who opens up in the morning, was screaming in terror and wringing his hands.’

      ‘Was he alone?’

      Nicolas noticed a slight hesitation.

      ‘Everything was so chaotic … I think the Swiss Guard was there. Yes, I can see him now, just buttoning up his livery.’

      ‘What happened then?’

      ‘Jacques – Jacques Despiard, the kitchen boy – was kicking up such a fuss, it was impossible to understand what he was on about. He was stamping his feet like someone possessed. The caretaker arrived and helped us restrain him, then we left the caretaker to watch over him and went down into the servants’ pantry.’

      ‘So the door was open?’

      ‘Yes. That was where Jacques had come from. The key was still in the door at the end of the passage.’

      ‘And what did you find?’

      Nicolas waited intently for the answer. Experience had taught him that a witness’s first observations often turned out to be the most enlightening.

      ‘It was still dark and the kitchen boy had dropped his candle. We went to look for another candle and lit it. There was nothing to see in the kitchen except some bloodstained footprints, but as soon as we got to the door of the roasting room we discovered Monsieur Missery lying face down on the floor in the middle of a pool of blood. We rushed to him, and I noticed there was a kitchen knife next to him.’

      ‘What was the position of his head?’

      ‘His right cheek was against the floor.’

      ‘And where was the knife?’

      ‘Also on his right. He was still breathing and, just as we were going to help him, the Swiss Guard turned and saw, slumped to her knees against the draining board, the body of a young woman. Her head looked as if it was detached from her trunk. The wound was terrible, Monsieur, she was like a pig that’s been bled.’

      ‘What happened then?’

      ‘We carried Jean Missery to his room on the mezzanine.’

      ‘The floor where we are now?’

      ‘That’s right, Commissioner, but on the other side of the courtyard, where you find the service rooms, the linen room, and accommodation for the Swiss Guard and the caretaker. The caretaker went to fetch a doctor from Rue Saint-Honoré. At that moment, Monseigneur arrived and took matters in hand. He immediately went down to the servants’ pantry.’

      ‘Alone?’

      ‘Yes. Then he came back up and asked for the key I’d taken from the door and double-locked everything. Here it is – he gave it to me to give to you.’

      Nicolas recognised the minister’s way: his insecure character did not exclude a certain decisiveness and the greatest concern for detail. The valet handed him a thick envelope bearing the Saint-Florentin family seal.

      ‘What did the doctor say?’

      ‘That he’d recover. He bandaged the wound in his side, and told us to let him rest and to keep an eye on him.’

      ‘We’ll continue this conversation later. These initial facts are enough for the moment. Please show me to the kitchens.’

      As they were leaving the room, Nicolas noticed that the valet’s shoes, and their heels, were immaculate. He recalled a quip by Semacgus, although he did not immediately see its relevance to his observation. His friend liked to say that the doors of gilded salons were not closed to those whose minds were full of dirt, but that those same people would be turned away if there was dirt on their shoes. It was an interesting detail, which it would be worthwhile investigating further. The man led him down a smaller staircase, no doubt used by the servants. Nicolas, who had lowered his head in order not to miss the poorly lit steps, noticed some brownish prints still visible on the wood.