The Man with the Lead Stomach (5 page)

‘I certainly was hoping he’d be back this evening. The general is far too old to be going out like this. He and Madame had left for Versailles yesterday to accompany the King’s daughter to the Opéra. When they go to the palace they sleep in a damp attic, too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. Madame has always complained about it. Monsieur doesn’t say anything but his war wounds play up every time he spends the night in the palace. When he comes back I have to rub him down with vintage schnapps like an old warhorse.’

‘So you couldn’t be sure of them coming back this evening, could you?’

‘The princess usually says they are free to return to their mansion. She has her retinue of servants to accompany her back to Versailles. That’s what I hoped would happen. But Monsieur does not like turning his back on his duties in such a way.’

I’ve established one thing at least, thought Nicolas, whilst noting that it did not prove whether or not the Ruissecs would have returned home.

‘Is your eyesight poor?’ he asked.

Picard looked at him in amazement.

‘I heard you say that you were reading your Book of Hours. With these same spectacles?’

‘Oh, I can see but my eyes tire quickly. Too much marching in the sun … I used to be able to hit a bottle with my pistol from twenty yards but now I can’t see more than a few inches ahead of me and my sight is becoming increasingly blurred.’

Nicolas resumed: ‘Did you remove your spectacles when the vicomte arrived?’

‘There was no time to remove anything. Though if I’d done so
my sight would have been even poorer. In any case he rushed past and climbed the stairs four at a time.’

He took off his glasses. ‘To tell you the truth, Monsieur, I only wear them for reading my Book of Hours and Monluc’s
Commentaries
, which Monsieur gave me. That marshal really was a brave—’

Nicolas interrupted him, disliking nothing more than the ramblings of witnesses.

‘Was it usual for him not to speak to you when he returned home?’

‘Not at all, Monsieur. He was always affable, with something kind to say, always enquiring about me and my old war wounds. It is true though that he’d seemed a little out of sorts to me for some months now.’

‘Out of sorts?’

‘Yes, a bit ill at ease, wrapped up in himself, putting on a forced smile. I even said to myself, “Picard, something bad will come of this.” I’ve got a feel for this sort of thing. One day in a little village—’

‘What in your opinion was the cause of this gloominess?’

‘It’s not for me to say. I just felt it.’ Picard was clamming up. He bit his lip as if he had already said too much.

‘Out with it. I’m listening.’

‘I’ve nothing more to say.’

He seemed sad and was playing with one of his lovelocks. Nicolas felt he would get nothing more out of him for the moment.

‘Picard,’ he said gently, ‘I need your help. I don’t want Monsieur de Ruissec to go through the ordeal of seeing his son in
this state. Here’s what I suggest. While my men are removing the body, you will make sure that your master remains in his rooms. As soon as they’ve finished I will let you know and I will then inform the comte of the arrangements that have been made. Up until then I require silence and discretion.’

Picard was staring at him, his eyes clouded with tears.

‘What are you going to do with Monsieur Lionel?’

‘All you need to know is that if his parents do have to see him again we shall ensure that it is not too horrific a sight. May I rely on you?’

‘This old soldier hears you, Monsieur, and I will carry out your orders to the letter.’

Nicolas was about to dismiss him, then changed his mind.

‘This Lambert,’ he said casually, ‘he seems an honest and faithful servant …’

Picard looked up and his mouth tightened. His lower lip pouted as if to signal his disagreement with the police officer’s words.

‘That’s for my masters to decide.’

Nicolas noted that this form of words seemed to exclude the Vicomte de Ruissec.

‘But what do you think of him?’

‘If you must have an answer it’s that I expect nothing good from the two-faced rogue. A spoilt child grown into a spineless adult; he gives in to anyone who does him favours and is easy to lead down the slippery slope.’

‘Does the comte know your feelings?’

‘Huh! What could a poor man such as myself have done against such privilege? How could I fight against someone of such worth? Monsieur Lionel doted on him. Unfortunately, the
master who becomes his valet’s servant is quite the fashion
nowadays
, Monsieur. And speaking to the general is no easy task …’

‘Did you see him this evening?’

‘Who? Lambert? Yes I did, Monsieur. When the Lieutenant General of Police requested my master to withdraw to his rooms, I accompanied him, then went back downstairs to wait in the corridor. Some time later I saw Lambert appear. He told me he’d been woken by the noise. He came up to speak to you.’

‘Are there several ways of getting from the servants’ quarters to the interior of the mansion?’

‘Either you go through a door opening on to the main
courtyard
then up the steps to the front entrance, or you go over the top.’

‘The top?’

‘Through the attics in the roof space, where the washing is put to dry. There’s a small staircase that links up with the workrooms on that floor. It’s used at night when everything is shut and a servant is sent for.’

Nicolas wrote down all these details in his little notebook.

‘Did Lambert seem his usual self to you?’

‘More or less. But I don’t often see him.’

‘Did anything about his appearance strike you?’

‘Monsieur, you now know my eyesight is poor: I could barely make out his outline, like a shadow.’

‘Thank you, Picard. You have been most helpful.’

The major-domo thanked Nicolas with a soldierly nod of the head. He hesitated before withdrawing and finally added: ‘Monsieur, find the person who brought our child to this.’

‘I will. You may be sure of that.’

Nicolas watched him walk away in an attempt at a military gait but which merely betrayed his stiffness and pain. He recalled another old soldier: one who had hanged himself in a cell in the Châtelet and whose death meant that Nicolas’s nights were
sometimes
haunted by feelings of remorse …

Picard’s interrogation had indeed proved helpful. The dead man’s identity had been confirmed. The major-domo’s remarks about the vicomte’s melancholy matched Lambert’s. The
fondness
that Picard clearly felt for the vicomte did not affect his judgement. Lastly his view of the manservant’s character tallied with his own. So Nicolas would have to be even more cautious before coming to a definite opinion. The fact remained that Lambert exerted a considerable influence on his master but whether it was for better or for worse had yet to be seen.
However
, there was nothing to suggest that the servant had been informed of his master’s death before reaching the first-floor rooms.

All that remained for Nicolas to do was to have the body taken away as soon as possible, after one last formality: emptying the dead man’s pockets. He proceeded methodically, trying not to look at the horrifying spectacle of the face, but his search did not prove very fruitful: a few crown coins, an empty silver snuffbox, a piece of pink ribbon and a red wax stamp. In the pockets of the cloak on the bed he found a wet and still folded handkerchief, and round the hem a few specks of a powdery, coaly substance that had resisted the damp. The hat, which he carefully shook out and examined minutely, yielded nothing of particular interest.

Nicolas met up with Bourdeau in the corridor and, after allowing Lambert to withdraw, took the inspector off into the bedroom.

‘Have you found anything?’

‘A spoilt child, a shady servant who was a bad influence,’ replied Bourdeau. ‘But it does seem that he learnt of his master’s death directly from the major-domo.’

The inspector kept some of his observations to himself, which might be of use to him in the future.

Then it was time for the unchanging ritual: the body was lifted up, placed on a stretcher, covered with a brown blanket and taken away. After a final look at the scene of the crime and having extinguished the candelabrum, Nicolas closed the door and affixed the sealing wafers, which he signed carefully. He put the bedroom key in his pocket, where it joined the items he had picked up and the pistol found near the body. He undertook all this without much thought as to what he was doing, like an automaton. In the course of his short police career he had already followed these procedures on various occasions but each time he was aware of their sinister meaning, the end of a human life.

He sent Bourdeau out to check that the coast was clear and then had the bearers go downstairs, telling them to make as little noise as possible. He hoped that the Comte de Ruissec would have no inkling of what was happening. He remembered that when they had reached the Hôtel de Ruissec the shutters on the façade had seemed closed. The police carriages were waiting in the street: the rumble of the cart would not be heard from inside the high walls of the building. He decided to wait until all was quiet again and to take advantage of the silence to broaden the scope of
his investigation. He wanted to explore the grounds behind the main building, beneath the wing containing the vicomte’s rooms. He left Bourdeau to keep guard and had Picard show him the door that led outside.

The major-domo had lent him a lantern but the moon was bright enough. To the right he could make out the wing he was looking for. It was a very simple construction on two levels, a ground floor with wide oval carriage entrances allowing a glimpse of stables or sheds for carriages, and a first floor where the vicomte’s rooms were situated. Everything was identical to the main building with a double-pitched mansard roof above it. Nicolas headed towards the wing. He opened one of the doors; he knew where he was by the strong stable smell and the prolonged neighing of those horses that were awake. The entrance was cobbled and climbing roses were growing up between the two doors. He crouched down and carefully examined the ground beneath the vicomte’s windows, then stood up again and beamed his lantern towards the wall. He stayed there for some time, then tried to gain a more precise idea of the layout.

The irregular shape of the garden – a trapezium with its apex extending beyond the stables – was disguised by the symmetry of two long rectangular parterres that ended in a
rond-point
decorated with trellises. The other parts were made up of patches of greenery interlinked by small grass pathways planted in the shape of a maze. Each of the two parterres was decorated with stone corbeils. The central alley ended abruptly at a large circular marble pond ornamented with a group of lead cupids and tritons
that acted as water spouts. A cobbled alley formed a sort of terrace in front of the steps leading to the large rooms on the ground floor. A small door, through which Nicolas had come out, was situated in the right angle where the buildings met and was half hidden in a sort of sunken rotunda.

Nicolas turned left again and discovered a closed carriage gateway, which must have led on to an adjacent lane
perpendicular
to the road on which the Hôtel de Ruissec was situated. He walked all the way round the boundary wall, stopping here and there and crouching down several times in the dead leaves. He ended his walk in a tucked-away corner where, behind a hedge, he discovered a garden shed full of tools, watering cans, a ladder and seedlings in pots. He went back towards the central pond and, as he drew near, the smell of stagnant water became stronger and stronger, mingled with the heady aroma of boxwood. An impression flashed through his mind and then was gone.

After a last glance at the parterres full of rosebushes, Nicolas met up with Bourdeau and Picard, who were talking together. He was always surprised by his deputy’s ability to gain the immediate trust of ordinary people. He asked the major-domo to inform his master that Nicolas needed to see him. Picard obeyed and came back without saying a word; he opened the door of a large drawing room, lit some candelabra and asked Nicolas to enter.

The gentle, flickering gleam of the candles filled the room with enough light to reveal a wall with a
trompe-l’oeil
vista of an imaginary landscape. A large archway led the eye towards a park, suggesting the countryside in the background. To extend the perspective the painter had placed two incomplete marble banisters halfway, which appeared to flank the beginning of a
flight of steps and gradually disappeared into the distance. The archway, resting on two Ionic columns, also had pilasters that supported an attic whose panel was decorated with musician cupids sculpted in the round. The open windows on the right and left of the work added to the illusion, increasing the suggestion of space beyond the real room. Nicolas admired this surprising blend of painting and sculpture. He was lost in contemplation before it, rediscovering in this life-size work of art one of the themes of his childhood dreams. The few engravings that
discreetly
decorated Canon Le Floch’s austere interior in Guérande had provided plenty of scope for his imagination. He had spent hours gazing at the scenes they depicted, especially the one of Damiens’s ordeal in the Place de Grève, until he felt caught up in the events themselves. Then in a sort of waking dream he would invent endless adventures, whilst deep down always secretly worrying that he would never return to a peaceful and protective existence. What he could see in this reconstruction of real life both fascinated and attracted him with its baroque extravagance and opera-like décor. He held out his hand as if trying to enter it.

An angry voice rang out, bringing him back to reality.

‘“Shall the throne of iniquity have fellowship with thee, which frameth mischief by the law”, taking pleasure in the wickedness of the images?’

Nicolas turned. The Comte de Ruissec stood before him.

‘Psalm Ninety-four. You are, Monsieur, or so I assume, neither a Huguenot nor a Jansenist. I have known two men who were accustomed to quoting the Scriptures: one was a saint and the other a hypocrite. Here indeed we have his master’s sleuthhound,
lost in contemplation before this graven image that is a mere parody of life.’