The Whispering of Bones (21 page)

C
HAPTER
17

“N
o,” Charles said flatly. He handed
Le Cabinet jesuitique
back to the Novice House rector. “Amaury de Corbet would never have this poison in his possession. Who found it? Who says it's his?”

Bridling at Charles's vehemence, Pere Guymond said, “A lay brother found it. Some of the mattresses were stuffed with new straw yesterday, and new herbs were put in to fight fleas. When the brother reached into Monsieur de Corbet's mattress to put in the herbs, he found the book and brought it to me. Before you ask, we keep no copy of this anywhere in the Novice House. Nor have I ever before found one here.”

“I'm sorry to tell you that this book is again circulating in Paris,
mon père
. I discovered that by chance last week. The Provincial knows of it and so does Lieutenant-Général La Reynie.”

“God save us. That's the last thing we need. But if the book is circulating, that would seem to make it even more likely that Monsieur de Corbet brought this with him. Even if someone else hid it in the mattress, Monsieur de Corbet surely would have felt it through the new straw in the night. You know how thin a novice's mattress is.”

Charles smiled wryly. “I do know how thin they are, but if Monsieur de Corbet felt something uncomfortable in his mattress, he would probably just move to a different position. He's spent ten years in the army and navy. I served in the army and I can tell you that even Jesuit novice beds are better than what he's used to. In any case, if the mattress was emptied and restuffed, others obviously had the chance to put something inside.”

“Possibly. But I think you say all this because Monsieur de Corbet is your friend. You have no proof.”

“Forgive me,
mon père
, but neither do you have proof.” Charles braced himself for an indignant reply.

But Guymond only said, “Come, let us walk. We'll call less attention to ourselves.” They walked on toward the main building, brushing occasional wet yellow leaves from their cassocks. “Even if Monsieur de Corbet did not bring this into our house,” the rector said, “someone did. Someone who lives here, because no one else could reach the novice chambers, especially his.”

“Where is Monsieur de Corbet's chamber?”

“On the top floor, at the far end of the building from the street entrance. It's one of the Martyr chambers, the one called Miki, after the Japanese martyr.”

“Ah. Yes, I heard one of your lay brothers talking about fleas in the martyrs' rooms. Who shares the chamber with Monsieur de Corbet?”

“Only two others, since Paul Lunel never arrived. The head chamber novice is Monsieur Joliot. And the other—” Guymond closed his eyes, trying to remember. “I can never remember his name. To myself, I call him the lawyer. He's—”

On a hunch, Charles said, “Monsieur Jean Renier?”

“Yes, that's him.” The rector looked sideways at Charles. “Interesting that you knew who I meant—since, so far as I know, today is the only time you've spoken with him.”

“Once was enough.” Charles grinned. “‘The lawyer' describes him perfectly. I'd hardly opened my mouth before
he
was questioning
me
. I could hardly shut him up. I wonder if you could send him off to Rome and make a canon lawyer out of him.”

The rector sighed and lowered his voice. “I've had that very thought. Unfortunately, he has to finish his novitiate first. Why is talent so often annoying?” Guymond shook his nearly bald head as though shaking off flies. “I simply don't understand this book being here at all! A novice has taken no vows. If he changes his mind, if he wants to leave for any reason, he is free to do so. He has no need to convince anyone that terrible things are true of the Society of Jesus. And a novice who wants to be here would never bring this book in. What would be the point? Besides all that, you surely remember how impossible it is to keep anything hidden in a Novice House.”

“An especially aggrieved novice might be spiteful enough to try to damage the Society and urge others to leave with him. This book could be used for that. Though, as you say, keeping it hidden long enough for that would be difficult.”

“I cannot, of course, read anyone's mind. But I would say, from past experience, that the second-year novices have been here long enough to be fairly sure of their choice. And the new ones haven't been here long enough yet to lose their first fervor.”

“I doubt that the guilty person is a novice,” Charles said flatly. “No, I don't say that to protect Monsieur de Corbet. I say it because this book may have been brought here because someone
knew
it would be found. Wanted it to be found.”

“But why?”

“The book is already making you look askance at your novices. You say your lay brother looked through it before he brought it to you. If he's literate enough, he's probably wondering about what he read.”

“You're saying that someone wants to destroy trust among the men here? Trust and even vocations?”

“That's what I'm saying. We also don't know how long this copy has been here. Monsieur de Corbet's mattress may be only its most recent hiding place. And we don't know if this is the only copy.”

Appalled, Guymond stared at Charles. “No. We don't.”

“May I ask what you're going to do,
mon père
?”

“It was found in Monsieur de Corbet's bed and I will talk to him first. He's still the most likely culprit. If he's guilty, I'll dismiss him. Either way, I will notify the Provincial. And Lieutenant-Général La Reynie, since this trash is illegal to possess or distribute in France.”

“Monsieur La Reynie already knows
Le Cabinet jesuitique
is circulating in Paris. But he needs to know you found it here.” Charles hesitated. “
Mon père
, may I be present when you question Monsieur de Corbet? I ask because I have been charged by La Reynie with asking questions in our houses that might help to find Paul Lunel's killer. In addition to Lunel's death, a Louis le Grand scholastic has disappeared, as I am sure you know. And I, myself, was attacked. And suddenly, this book is among us. I cannot help but wonder if all this destruction—and effort at destruction—go together.”

“A devilish thought.” Guymond crossed himself. “Yes, you may listen while I question Monsieur de Corbet. But you may not speak unless I give you leave. Agreed?”

“Agreed,
mon père
.”

“Then I will call him from the refectory.”

The rector and Charles went into the gallery, where Guymond stopped a lay brother.

“
Mon frère
, be so good as to go to the refectory and send Monsieur Amaury de Corbet to me, in the Chapel of Saint Ignatius.”

“Yes,
mon père
.”

The brother hurried out into the garden, and Charles and Guymond went along the gallery to a range of rooms bordering the south side of the front courtyard. In the small Chapel of St. Ignatius, Guymond knelt before the painting of the saint above the altar and prayed with his head in his hands. Charles knelt, too, and prayed that Amaury would be able to clear himself of any knowledge of
Le Cabinet
. He got up as the lay brother who'd been sent for Amaury entered the chapel. He was alone. The brother waited until the rector looked over his shoulder and rose to his feet.

“
Mon père
, Monsieur de Corbet is not in the refectory. I'm told that he was taken on an errand with the provisioner. I wasn't told when they would return.”

Swallowing frustration, Guymond thanked the brother and dismissed him to dinner. Then he turned to Charles.

“Talking to Monsieur de Corbet will have to wait until he returns. Shall I send you word when he comes back?”

“Yes. Thank you,
mon père
.”

The rector returned to his prayers and Charles made his way to the street door.

Out in the rue du Pot-de-Fer, he turned toward the college, but as he passed the narrow cleft beside the Novice House door and the church, his steps slowed. He thought about the running servant boy he'd stopped, Michel Poulard, and wished he'd asked the boy if he knew Mlle Ebrard. Because Charles strongly suspected that she'd been talking to the boy in front of the Novice House on Friday, before she'd ducked down that dead-end lane. And a short while ago, the boy had disappeared down that same lane. But what connection could there be between Rose Ebrard and a thirteen-year-old servant boy? No matter how hard he tried, the only connection Charles could think of was books. And the boy had grown suddenly wary when Charles had mentioned books. Hoping against hope that he was wrong about all that, Charles started walking again.

No matter how much you hope
, his pessimist inner voice said,
she still has a bookselling aunt who ignores the needles in her neighborhood market and sends her willing niece to buy them at the market near the Novice House. Do they even sell needles at that particular market?

Charles said dismissively back,
Of course they sell needles there; everyone needs needles.
But he turned around and strode down the rue du Pot-de-Fer in the other direction, toward the market.

The market was near the abbey of St. Germain, where four streets came together. It was was loud with hawkers and bargaining buyers and reeked of fish. Charles gave a wide berth to the fish cart parked at its center and bristling with fins and tails, and started inspecting market booths. But after a few minutes, he realized that even if he didn't find any needles, there might be a regular needle seller who happened to be absent. He approached a pair of basket-laden maidservants and asked if there were ever needles on offer.

“Oh, no,” the older one said, when she and her friend had finished looking him up and down and giggling. She had a scatter of pockmarks on her cheeks, but her dimples and dancing black eyes made her still comely enough. “Not at this market. Why, do you want to sew your own cassock?”

“We do sew our own cassocks.”

That sent both girls into fresh giggles, especially the other one, whose lush roundness Charles was trying not to notice. “Oooh, I'd sew it for you,” she teased, and let her eyes stray appreciatively over him again. “But you'd have to take it off.”

He nearly choked on the stifled urge to tease back, which pretty girls still roused in him, and bowed slightly. But his twitching mouth belied his attempt at clerical dignity, and he gave up and smiled at them as he moved quickly away. His smile died as the cold prickling that told him he was being watched spread down his spine, and he turned abruptly. No one was behind him. Pretending that something had bitten him and scratching his calf, he let his eyes wander over people and booths and shadows beneath the trees . . . and came to rest on Rose Ebrard.

She was standing on the path between the row of booths. Her back was to him, and he went quickly behind a small booth selling ribbons, where he could see what she did without being noticed, even if she turned. But as he stopped at its corner, the prickling returned. He spun on his heel, but again, no one was behind him. But a short black cloak was swirling out of sight around the booth's other side and Charles went after it. He saw three men, all wearing short black cloaks, walking quickly toward the city wall. Two were wigless, their own straight hair showing under black hats. Dressed entirely in black—even to their stockings—they looked almost like priests.
Dévots
, Charles thought, laymen and laywomen who went to all the church's services, gave selflessly to the poor, and sometimes lived an almost monastic life, though most of them had families, and the men often had businesses. Most of the men were also members of one or another Congregation of the Holy Virgin, the same kind of congregation the Louis le Grand students belonged to. Indeed, all Congregations of the Holy Virgin were directed by Jesuits. So why would a
dévot
be covertly watching a Jesuit? Charles was uneasily certain that one of them
had
been watching him. But if he went after them, he'd lose Rose Ebrard, and every instinct was telling him to keep watching her.