Doctor Death (35 page)

The judge seated under the canopy was the same Claude Renard who had been a dinner guest at Madame Ponti’s the night Father Abigore was found, or rather rediscovered, in her ice cellar. There was something wrong with the way his face had been put together, as if all the individual parts—nose, ears, chin, and eyebrows—were too big for his head. It made him look like a caricature by Honoré Daumier, I thought, but his voice was surprisingly beautiful and cut through the murmuring unease in the audience without difficulty.

“Commissioner. Would you please inform this court of the circumstances of Antoine Leblanc’s death?”

The Commissioner rose. His position did not come with an elegant black cape like the lawyers wore, but he was wearing what he called his “courtroom” jacket—a somehow official-looking garment in double-breasted black wool, with broad lapels and
a double row of silver buttons. He claimed to have had it for thirty years, and while on another man it might have seemed just old-fashioned, it lent the Commissioner’s stout figure a heavy dignity.

“I arrived at the residence of the deceased Sunday evening at about seven o’clock,” he began. “But initially I did not find him at home. Instead, I and my companion—Mademoiselle Karno—found a young boy, unconscious and locked up inside the property’s private chapel . . .”

He continued his account of the chain of events while the journalists hungrily recorded every word. I noticed that Emanuel Leblanc, Imogene’s uncle, began to stir uneasily, clearing his throat and looking as if he was considering springing to his feet and interrupting.

“. . . and can you describe what you found on your return, Commissioner?”

“The door to the chapel had been hit by several shots from a hunting rifle, fired from the outside against the area around the lock. Inside the chapel, Antoine Leblanc lay dead on the floor, and Mademoiselle Karno was sitting on the floor by the unconscious Louis Mercier. The dog had been shot as well. It was recent, the smell of powder was pronounced, and the corpse was still warm.”

“What, in your opinion, had happened?”

“There is not much doubt. Antoine Leblanc forced his way into the chapel—it was sheer luck that no one inside was hit by any of these shots—and then shot first the dog and then himself.”

Now Emanuel Leblanc did indeed shoot up out of his chair.

“That is not true,” he said so loudly that it had to be called a shout. “My brother was a good Catholic. He would never . . . How do we know that Mademoiselle Karno did not shoot him? What witnesses, what proof beyond her words?”

It was probably naïve, but until then it had not occurred to me that anyone would doubt my explanation. That someone might actually believe that
I
had killed Leblanc was so absurd that I just gaped at his agitated older brother. He was less than a meter away, and as long as the Commissioner was standing in the witness box I did not even have his solid figure between me and Emanuel Leblanc’s anger. Suddenly I wished that we had been seated somewhere else.

“Sit down,” barked Renard. “May I draw your attention to the fact that you have not been called as witness here and that you are present solely to support Mademoiselle Leblanc? If I wish to hear your opinion, you may be sure that I will ask you. For now it is the Commissioner’s testimony that interests us.”

Through all this Imogene Leblanc just sat and looked straight ahead, her expression unchangeable. But I noticed that a red, almost circular spot was beginning to appear on her cheek and upper lip, in spite of the thick layer of powder she had applied. I tried to remember if the skin symptoms of lupus worsened due to emotional excitement and stress.

The Commissioner began to list the points of evidence that suggested suicide—the dead man’s naked foot, the angle of the shot, the powder residue and burns that indicated that the shot had been fired at close range.

“How was the deceased positioned when the shot went off?”

“He was standing. If he, for example, had been lying down, one would have been able to tell that from the state of the floor.” He did not elaborate on the fact that there would have been blood, brain matter, and bone fragments immediately around the head instead of spread out over a much greater expanse around the fallen corpse.

“Where was the rifle when you entered?” asked Judge Renard. “In relation to the body?”

The Commissioner hesitated for only an almost undetectable moment.

“When I entered, Mademoiselle Karno was holding the weapon,” he said.

“You see!” exclaimed Emanuel Leblanc.

Judge Renard shot him a sharp look but did not say anything this time. He thanked the Commissioner and let him step down.

Then it was my father’s turn to give testimony. He laid out in his usual thorough way the findings of the autopsy, describing the wound and explaining precisely what damage the shot had done, giving the angle.

“When the rifle was fired, it must have been held parallel to the body, with the muzzle close to the chest, pointing up under the chin of the deceased. There was powder residue and small burns from the muzzle flash on the deceased’s shirt.”

“Is it your opinion that he was able to do this himself?”

“I consider it most likely.”

“He is her father!” shouted Emanuel Leblanc. “Of course he has to call it suicide!”

“Monsieur Leblanc. Last warning. If you interrupt again, I will have to ask the court constable to escort you out.”

I glanced at the officer in question. He stood by the window and looked reassuringly broad shouldered, in the gendarme’s black uniform jacket and kepi, armed with a carbine rifle and both a nightstick and a pistol at the hip.

My father looked at the judge and not at Leblanc when he answered.

“The court is, of course, welcome to ask another doctor to carry out a second examination,” he said. “There is no doubt about the angle of the shot. There is no doubt, either, that the deceased was standing when the shot went off. If I may demonstrate?”

Judge Renard nodded, and my father called over the court constable.

“How tall are you?” he asked.

“One meter and seventy-two, m’sieur.”

“Good. Leblanc was one meter and eighty-six, so a little taller than you. The hunting rifle, on the other hand, is longer than your carbine, and that evens out the difference to some extent.”

While the court officer stood looking exceptionally uncomfortable, my father positioned the carbine so that the butt rested on the floor and the weapon was held close to the body.

“The hunting rifle’s muzzle was about forty centimeters from the entry wound. As you can see, a possible killer would need to hold the weapon in
this
way, which is not exactly a natural position, and thereafter bend down to press the trigger
here
—at the level of the victim’s shin. Mr. Officer, if someone tried to shoot you in this way, what would you do?”

“Me, m’sieur?”

“Yes.”

The court officer looked confused for a moment. Then he slowly pushed the barrel to the side so that it was no longer pointing at his head.

“Like this, m’sieur?”

“Precisely. As you can see, it would be exceedingly easy for Leblanc to avoid the shot entirely.”

I could see that his cool presentation of the circumstances made a certain impression even on Emanuel Leblanc. He now looked more tortured than outraged, and I could not help but feel a twinge of pity. He, too, had been raised in the Catholic faith. What my father was in the process of proving, or at least presenting as likely, would make his brother’s death even harder to bear because suicide to him equaled damnation. A murderer who had repented and confessed would have a better chance at eternity than he.

“Mademoiselle Karno. Would you approach?”

I was abruptly pulled out of my consideration of the afterlife. This was an inquest and not a trial, so there were no defendants or prosecutors to attack or defend me, but to explain and describe in detail was still worse than I had expected. The darkness of the chapel, its sounds and smells, came crowding back to me. I could almost feel the chill and the hard stone floor, even though I stood here in daylight, in the stuffy and overheated courtroom. When my gaze fell on Louis Mercier for a moment, I could see his eyes grow wider and wider as I described the drama of which he had been an unconscious part.

“Monsieur Leblanc thought that it was his daughter, Imogene, who had locked herself in with Louis. He began to threaten to shoot out the lock if she did not open the door.”

“What did you do then?”

“I said that I could not unlock the door, that I did not have a key. But then he realized that I was not Imogene, and he fired. The bullets went through the door. I barely had time to throw myself down on the floor next to Louis.”

“And then?”

“I feared for my life and for Louis’s. I tried to calm Monsieur Leblanc, to pretend that his crimes had not yet been uncovered, that he did not need to kill us. I did not succeed. He recognized me and presumably understood that discovery was inevitable. He even admitted to me that he had murdered Father Abigore.”

“In what way?”

“He said that the priest would have died anyway—that he had just saved him from further suffering.”

“But he did not mention Mother Filippa?”

“No. Only Father Abigore.”

“We will discuss the two killings more closely later,” said the judge. “Let us return to the circumstances surrounding Monsieur
Leblanc’s death. You feared for your life, you say. But . . . you were not the one who was killed?”

“No. I think he considered it. But instead he shot first the dog and then himself.”

“Why did you take the rifle afterward?”

“I was still afraid.”

“But he was dead. You must have known that he could no longer harm you.”

“Yes. But . . .”

How could I explain the terror I had felt? The icy fear that it was not over, that there was more. I did not know myself where it had come from. Did I imagine that he would get up again and come at us with half his head missing? All I felt certain of was that there had been no relief, no sense that evil had been conquered, that we could all live safely from now on.

Even standing here at his inquest, surrounded by respectable citizens and armed guards, even now there was no relief.

“I was afraid,” I repeated. “I just wanted to be able to defend myself and Louis if . . . someone came.”

“Who would that be?”

“I don’t know.”

My cheeks grew warm. I knew I seemed exactly what I never wished to be: an irrational female who had reacted with her feelings instead of with logic and intellect.

Judge Renard nodded briefly, as if that was also the conclusion he had reached.

“Very well,” he said. “You were afraid. You had, of course, been exposed to some violent events. You may return to your seat.”

I skulked back to my chair with my head bent, and Marot was called forward in my place.

With practiced ease he related the circumstances of Father
Abigore’s murder and presented the evidence against Leblanc. It sounded convincing.

Louis Mercier, too, made a thoroughly good impression—he stood up straight and looked the judge directly in the eye as he told of the message he had brought to Abigore and of his abduction. Marot had been right; not once did the judge ask about Leblanc’s motive.

It was only when they came to Mother Filippa’s death that the police inspector had to be more circumspect. I was called forward again to describe the disagreement and the words I had heard Leblanc shout at Mother Filippa the day before she was killed:
You are not God’s servant. You are the devil’s.

Then with an expressionless face and voice, Imogene repeated that her father considered it highly inappropriate that the abbess allowed herself to be accompanied by a wild animal, one that she even kept with her at night.

The last comment caused a stir among the spectators, and Imogene bent her head so one could not see her eyes.

“Was the wolf dangerous, then?” asked Judge Renard.

“That depends on what the judge means by dangerous,” said Imogene.

“Might it attack people?”

“No. It was better behaved than most dogs.”

“How then could it be dangerous?”

“I think my father meant . . . He considered it to be . . .
morally
dangerous. He wanted me to leave the convent. But I did not want to. Regardless of what he did!”

There was a passion in that exclamation in sharp contrast to her general lack of expression.

“Mademoiselle, would you describe your father as a violent man?” asked Renard.

She hesitated so long that the judge was about to repeat the question.

“He is dead,” she said. “Do you want me to speak ill of him now that he cannot defend himself?”

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” said Judge Renard in his gentlest tone yet. “We will not trouble you further.”

Inspector Marot now presented the torn-out page from Vabonne’s Bible and explained where it came from and who had written the comments. Judge Renard considered it with raised eyebrows.

“How is this relevant?” he asked.

“Your Honor, I must now offend your sense of decency, and I wish to apologize in advance for doing so.”

You could almost see how the scribbling journalists straightened up and pricked up their ears. I thought of Sister Marie-Claire and her attempt to save Mother Filippa’s dignity in death and felt a stab of discomfort in my chest.

“Please speak, Inspector.”

“I think I will instead focus your attention on certain discoveries in the inquest report,” said Marot. “Then the judge can determine if it is suitable for public hearing.”

The press’s representatives drew a collective breath of disappointment. But in their reports in the evening edition they managed to extract quite a bit from Judge Renard’s involuntary gesture when he saw the passages the inspector indicated:
Judge Renard became deathly pale as he read. Abhorrence and shock were clearly written on his features, and his right hand flew up to his mouth, as if to prevent an expression of horror and disgust from escaping. The public will never know precisely which horrifying circumstances shook so deeply a man who has sat in judgment of cold-blooded murderers, corpse violators, and rapists with perfect equanimity. We can only speculate. But of his agitation there was no doubt.