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

but Nicolas could not recall the nature of the embroidery. Even if it had been silver, that would prove nothing: the duc had visited his kitchens, and in all the excitement of discovering the crime his coat might have caught on the draining board. But he would have to make sure. One thing was certain: the thread had not come from the major-domo’s coat, for that was a quite different colour. He carefully slipped the little piece of silver between the pages of his black notebook, then gave the signal to take the maid’s body away. Nicolas decided to go back up to the mezzanine and install himself with Bourdeau in the study that had been set aside there for him. They would carry out their interrogations there. In the antechambers, they came across Provence, who was pacing up and down in the shadow of the walls.

      ‘Monsieur Bibard,’ said Nicolas ‘what was your master wearing when he got back from Versailles this morning?’

      The man assumed an indefinable expression which might have escaped someone less accustomed than the commissioner to examining faces. ‘A black cloak over a black silk coat, Monsieur. We are observing Court mourning to the letter.’

      ‘But this morning? It seems to me …’

      ‘This morning, as soon as he returned, Monseigneur changed into a grey coat.’

      ‘Was this coat embroidered?’

      ‘Yes, with silver flowers.’

      ‘Of course! You see, Bourdeau, I wasn’t wrong. The late King had one exactly the same. The minister’s loyalty is really touching. Thank you, Provence.’

      The man bowed, apparently relieved.

      ‘One more thing,’ said Nicolas. ‘Would you please have the Swiss Guard, the caretaker and Monseigneur’s coachman come to my study, to start with. I should like to question them in the company of Inspector Bourdeau.’

      They reached the study, whose splendours Bourdeau examined half admiringly, half sardonically. The commissioner waited for one of those acerbic remarks Bourdeau was in the habit of making, but none came: the pleasure of being plunged back into action, he thought, had certainly had a most beneficial effect on his deputy’s character.

      ‘By the way, Nicolas …’ Bourdeau said, reverting to the commissioner’s first name as soon as they were alone. ‘Did you notice our chambermaid’s curious underwear? Please don’t see anything licentious in the question.’

      ‘God forbid, I know you too well!’ said Nicolas, somewhat surprised. ‘But what exactly do you mean?’

      ‘Well, look. We live in strange times, and you know better than I that the honesty of women takes on some quite curious aspects these days. If an elegant woman, getting out of her carriage to enter a theatre or go for a stroll, lets curious idlers see the whole of her legs, she is in no way considered indecent. Showing one’s calves is regarded as something so natural that, far from precautions being taken to prevent the sight, it is made all the easier. So, when she dresses, any woman of quality would fix a long ribbon to her belt to hold up her chemise from behind so that the legs are uncovered all the way up to the back of the knee.’

      ‘I follow you,’ said Nicolas with a smile, ‘but I’m not sure how far you will climb.’

      ‘Oh, I’m stopping there! I’m simply trying to say that our chambermaid wears drawers, a sure sign of dubious or dissolute morals. Add to that the presence of those unusual slippers, and I think you’ll see where these observations are leading me.’

      ‘I suspect our investigation will reveal a great deal about the poor girl. This house is a closed world. I already know what’s going to happen. They’ll all be on their guard, resisting the temptation to gossip. Silence and mistrust will be our lot. But in the end, the hurdles will fall and everyone will have something to say, for good or ill, about everyone else. You know how servants are. The world of service is, like others, filled with hatreds, jealousies, resentments and love affairs. We’re entering a fertile field, and we just have to harvest it. Everything will come together, all we have to do is wait and not frighten anyone off.’

      ‘I’m sure of that,’ said Bourdeau.

      ‘In the meantime, Pierre, get a message to our friends Semacgus and Sanson. I hope the victim’s body can be opened up as soon as possible: I need to have their opinion on that strange wound. I’d also like you to send an officer to keep an eye on the room where the suspect is.’

      The inspector was away for a short time. No sooner was he back than the door leading to the suite of apartments burst open, and a fairly elderly woman entered at an angle, hampered by the wide pannier of her old-fashioned dress. She was in Court mourning. She wore a jade necklace round her already emaciated neck, her face was blotchy, without rouge or ceruse, and her expression was one of barely contained indignation. A black silk fan, which she was shaking violently, accentuated the impression produced by this dramatic entrance.

      ‘Madame,’ said Nicolas with a little bow.

      ‘Monsieur, I am told that you are a commissioner at the Châtelet, and that you have been given the task of investigating the horrible death of that unfortunate creature. My God, how is it possible? What was I saying? Oh, yes, you are investigating, Monsieur. Your name is not unknown to me. Were you presented to the late Queen? Or to Mesdames?’

      ‘I had the good fortune to serve Madame Adélaïde, who often honoured me by inviting me to her hunts.’

      ‘That’s it! You’re young Ranreuil, who was so appreciated by the King. How fortunate we are, Monsieur, to be dealing with someone so well born, even though … Monsieur, you must hear me.’ She threw a fierce glance at Bourdeau. ‘Who is this gentleman?’

      ‘My deputy, Inspector Bourdeau. Fully the equal of myself.’

      ‘If you say so! Monsieur, this is all so terrible, but it was bound to happen. I had been dreading it for a long time. One cannot live like this without running the risk of such a tragedy one day.’

      ‘Madame, may I ask you to tell me whom I have the honour of addressing?’

      ‘What, Monsieur? I am the Duchesse de La Vrillière and this is my house.’

      Notes – CHAPTER II

1. See The Phantom of Rue Royale.

       III

       KNOT OF VIPERS

      There is no true friendship among those

      who serve in the same house

      LOPE DE VEGA

      This majestic announcement only half surprised Nicolas, who had already realised who the lady was. He had glimpsed her on several occasions at Versailles. She was reputed to be sanctimonious and sour-tempered, but he knew how unreliable Court rumours were, how often unjust and biased. Reacting to her with studied indifference had seemed to him the best way to take the sting out of this excessive display of wounded pride. It was, he thought with a smile, a kind of moral purging.

      ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I am your obedient servant …’ Without letting her catch her breath, he continued, ‘I’ve been given to understand that Marguerite Pindron was part of your entourage, as a chambermaid.’

      ‘That’s going a little far, Monsieur. Entourage is a big and noble word. We’re talking about my domestic servants, that’s all – indeed, one of the most subordinate. I don’t know how she came to be working here, it happened quite recently, and, I should add, without my consent.’

      Nicolas knew that with this kind of witness, it was necessary to adopt one of two strategies: either attempt to restrain and channel their natural outpourings, or let them