‘Has he regained consciousness?’
‘No – which is the only thing that worries me. The wound in itself was not the kind to put him in such a state. I fear there may be something else. He may have hit something in his fall, or it may be an inflammation of the cerebral humours. I really don’t know. When it comes to this kind of symptom, our knowledge is far from complete.’
Nicolas was pleased to hear these remarks. It was comforting to know that at least one doctor was devoid of the pedantic arrogance of many of his colleagues, made no attempt to spin yarns, and approached with simple modesty and praiseworthy level-headedness the unfathomable mysteries it was his job to diagnose and treat.
‘May I see the wound?’
‘There is no reason why not. You will observe that the blood loss is clearly defined and that the wound is clean. If you lift the bandage a little, you can see how clean it is.’
The commissioner bent over the supine body. There was a bevelled cut across the abdomen, between the lower ribs. No comparison, he thought, with the gaping hole in the maid’s neck. The kitchen knife perfectly matched the appearance of the wound. To set his mind at rest, he asked the question. The doctor’s answer did not surprise him.
‘The kitchen knife, which is of the sharp kind, was certainly responsible for this. That’s obvious.’
‘And the young woman’s wound?’
‘It’s up to you, my dear fellow, to find the stopper that would plug up that hole!’
‘I have a specific question to ask, Doctor,’ said Nicolas. ‘Does your observation of your patient, Monsieur Missery’s, wounds point to a suicide, as some witnesses suggest?’
The doctor made a face and shook his head. ‘As always, people talk without knowing what they’re talking about. I have only one comment to make, but it’s an important one. Would a man who intends to commit suicide strike himself on the right-hand side and risk injuring his liver and dying in terrible pain? The choice of death by a knife implies that you strike the heart, in other words on the left. Please note that I don’t have all the facts that would allow me to plump for one hypothesis over another. However, let’s imagine that someone attacked him from behind and, holding his head in a vice-like grip, struck him with a weapon held in his right hand. In the heat of such an attack, he may well have missed and struck the wrong side. The wounded man, having certainly lost a lot of blood, fainted and his attacker may well have thought he had killed him. Even if he didn’t, the desired aim might have been to stop him escaping, thus ensuring that suspicion would fall on him.’
‘Monsieur, you have clearly thought this through carefully, and what you say is very enlightening.’
Dr de Gévigland had articulated what Nicolas had already been thinking. As he had spoken, the commissioner had seen in his mind’s eye, like the images in a magic lantern on the boulevards, Marguerite Pindron on her knees at the foot of the draining board in the roasting room. Were she and the major-domo both victims of a single attacker, whose steps he had detected and followed as far as the monumental gate of the Saint-Florentin mansion? Could it be that the same person had struck twice in succession in the same place? But in that case, why were the two wounds so different and apparently caused by such dissimilar objects? And why had one of those weapons been found on the floor while the other, still of an unknown nature, appeared to be missing? Was someone trying to convince them of a different theory? Nicolas’s mind was racing. Someone had worked hard to create a situation so clear-cut that it would be accepted completely: a man kills a woman and then commits suicide. The two pools of blood in the roasting room, so different in appearance, flashed through his mind. He pulled himself together. An autopsy on the chambermaid’s body was essential, and he expected a great deal from its conclusions. Then the refining fire of reason would clarify the various hypotheses.
‘I would be grateful, Monsieur,’ said Nicolas, ‘if you could inform me as soon as your patient has regained consciousness. An officer will soon be here to keep an eye on him and make sure that he has no contact with anyone. For the moment, he remains our only suspect.’
‘I only hope, Commissioner, that this won’t take too much time. I’m needed back at my practice. If he regains consciousness, the wound itself will be a mere detail. A little rest, a good dressing, and everything will heal up nicely.’
Nicolas was back in the great vestibule on the ground floor when several carriages entered the courtyard. From one of them, Bourdeau emerged, rubbing his hands with glee. He was followed by a number of officers with a stretcher. Nicolas walked down some steps to greet his deputy.
‘Good Lord,’ said the inspector, ‘this really is the high life! The Saint-Florentin mansion! Our minister’s house! It seems we haven’t been dismissed after all.’
‘What you say is right, my dear Pierre,’ replied Nicolas with a laugh. ‘They can’t do without our services, and I assure you that the case we are dealing with is not a trivial matter.’
‘And our friend Lenoir in all of this?’
‘I fear he has been overtaken by events. But we’ll be good chaps and keep him informed. We must never insult the future.’
‘You’re very indulgent today!’
‘It’s the joy of having something to get my teeth into.’
He ordered the officers to wait, and led Bourdeau towards the stables. There, surrounded by the odour of horses, he related the facts of the case in detail. The inspector’s first reaction was that the drama would turn out to be a trivial one, in which case recourse to such experienced authorities as themselves was like using a ton of gunpowder to open the door. Nicolas pointed out the ambiguous clues, the prints and other incongruous and suspicious details which had caught his attention. The inspector agreed that there was plenty to think about and added that it could turn out to be a distinctly tricky affair, given the place where the tragedy had occurred. He concluded with a laugh that, devil take the difficulties, here was a way to re-establish themselves in favour as long as luck was with them as they made their way through the thickets of this new investigation. Nicolas was delighted to see him looking so cheerful again and told him, embroidering the truth somewhat, that it was the Duc de La Vrillière himself who had wanted him to assist in the case. Bourdeau made no response to this, but the air of pride he immediately assumed spoke for itself. The commissioner loved him all the more for being so forthright and simple in his emotions.
With the officers, they proceeded to the kitchens. Before the body was taken away, Nicolas asked Bourdeau to examine the scene of the crime, in the hope that a fresh pair of eyes might spot some details that had escaped him. Like him, the inspector was struck by the very unusual nature of the wound to the young woman’s neck. He also observed that she was wearing two small garnet earrings. Their presence might be of some significance, for a chambermaid on duty would never wear such ostentatious jewellery. This suggested that Marguerite Pindron had been more conscious of her appearance that evening than usual. Which in turn suggested that she might have had a rendezvous with a suitor … The quality of the slippers also intrigued Bourdeau. They would have to find out the provenance of these luxury items. As for the rest, his observations tallied with those of the commissioner. He searched the place meticulously, anxious to find the object that could have caused such a terrible wound. But to no avail. As he was coming to the end of his search, he stopped and looked at the corner of one of the draining boards. He bent down and delicately picked up between two fingers a small piece of metallic thread, which he held out to Nicolas.
‘Looks like silver thread to me,’ said Nicolas. ‘What do you think?’
‘I agree. Someone knocked against this wooden corner. Look at it, it’s a nest of splinters. The embroidered garment they were wearing got caught and this came off. It must have been a sudden knock, and in his haste the person who was wearing the coat didn’t notice.’
Who, could Nicolas remember often wearing a coat with silver embroidery? The late King, of course! But who else? He racked his brains.