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

looked up, and there was a hint of provocation in her expression. ‘That loose morals have fatal consequences. God teaches us that.’

      ‘I see that we are in a very religious house,’ said Nicolas with a smile. ‘Thank you.’

      She withdrew, bumping into Bourdeau as she did so, without a word of excuse. The two police officers looked at each other, each one sifting through his impressions for himself.

      ‘She certainly has character!’ said Nicolas. ‘A somewhat enigmatic charm and a superb complexion. A bit thin, though.’

      ‘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