The Beast Within (24 page)

For Madame Bonnehon, of course, having always been a person of considerable means, money was of little concern. Indeed, being the attractive and much-admired woman she was, she liked to think that the only things worth living for were love and beauty.

‘It was Roubaud who mentioned the telegram,’ observed Monsieur de Lachesnaye curtly. ‘If there was no telegram, the President wouldn’t have told him he’d received one. Why did Roubaud lie?’

‘It is quite possible,’ exclaimed Monsieur Denizet heatedly, ‘that the President himself invented the telegram as a way of explaining his sudden departure to the Roubauds. According to them, he had said he wouldn’t be leaving till the next day; when he then found himself on the same train as them, he needed to invent some excuse in order to hide the real reason for his journey, which, incidentally, no one knows ... This is of no importance. It is leading us nowhere.’

There was another silence. When the magistrate resumed, he spoke more calmly and chose his words carefully: ‘Madame, I now come to a particularly delicate issue; I trust that you will forgive the nature of my questions. No one respects the memory of your brother more than I ... However, there were rumours, were there not, that he entertained a number of mistresses.’

Madame Bonnehon smiled, appearing not in the least disturbed by the question.

‘Really, my dear sir, at his age!’ she replied. ‘My brother lost his wife in the early years of his marriage, and I have never presumed to find fault with the way he chose to enjoy himself. He lived his own life, and it was not my business to interfere. All I know is that he lived in a manner that befitted his position and that he remained a perfect gentleman to the last.’

Berthe, overcome with embarrassment at this discussion of her father’s mistresses, lowered her eyes; her husband, equally embarrassed, walked over to the window and turned his back.

‘Please forgive me for harping on this,’ continued Monsieur Denizet, ‘but was there not a story concerning a young chambermaid at Doinville?’

‘Ah, yes, Louisette ... Louisette, monsieur, was a thoroughly nasty piece of work. She was only fourteen and she was having an affair with a known criminal. People tried to blame her death on my brother. It was disgraceful. Allow me to tell you what happened.’

What she said was no doubt said in all sincerity, but she was well aware of the President’s private life, and his tragic death had come as no surprise; she felt she needed to uphold the family’s good name. As far as the unfortunate business with Louisette was concerned, even if she secretly admitted to herself that her brother was quite capable of taking a fancy to her, she was equally convinced that Louisette, even at her tender age, was totally depraved.

‘Picture to yourself a young girl,’ she said, ‘sweet and gentle, lovely yellow hair, rosy cheeks, a little angel, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, innocent as the day she was born, never committed a sin in her life! Well, she was not yet fourteen and she was having an affair with a brute of a man, a quarry worker who had just spent five years in prison for killing someone in a public bar. He lived like some wild creature, on the edge of the Becourt forest, in a shack made out of tree-trunks and mud that he had taken over from his father, who had died of shame. He scraped a living by digging rubble out of one of the abandoned quarries, which once, I believe, provided half the stones for building the city of Rouen. Louisette used to go and stay with this monster in his den; he lived there on his own because everyone was so frightened of him that they avoided him like the plague. The pair would often be seen wandering through the woods, holding hands, such a dainty little girl with an overgrown brute like him. What more can I say? It was scandalous, unbelievable! Obviously I only came to hear of all this afterwards. I had taken Louisette on almost out of charity, as an act of kindness. I knew that her family, the Misards, were poor, but what they didn’t tell me was that they had beaten the child black and blue and still not managed to stop her running off to stay with Cabuche the minute she could get out of the house ... And then the accident happened. When my brother came to Doinville he didn’t bring his own servants with him. Louisette and another woman used to go over to his cottage to do the housework for him. One morning Louisette went on her own and disappeared. If you ask me, she had been intending to run away for some time. Her lover was probably waiting for her and took her away with him. The worst of it was that five days later we heard she was dead. People said that my brother had attempted to rape her in the most vicious way and that she had run to Cabuche, terrified, and died of brain fever.
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What really happened no one knows; there are so many different stories that it’s difficult to say. That she died of a fever is true; a doctor certified as much. My own opinion is that she did something foolish - slept out of doors at night or wandered around in the marshes ... Surely, my dear sir, you don’t imagine that my brother maltreated her. It’s a horrible thought. It’s impossible!’

Monsieur Denizet had listened attentively to this account, remaining impassive throughout. Before finally completing what she had to say, Madame Bonnehon became somewhat embarrassed. Eventually, taking her courage in both hands, she declared, ‘I cannot deny that my brother may have been a little playful with her! He liked young people, despite seeming to be so strict. Perhaps he kissed her.’

Monsieur and Madame Lachesnaye appeared scandalized at the suggestion.

‘Really, Aunt!’ Berthe exclaimed.

Madame Bonnehon shrugged her shoulders; what was the point of lying to the law?

‘Yes, he may have kissed her. Perhaps he tickled her. What’s the harm in that? The reason I’m telling you this is because the story didn’t just come from Cabuche. Louisette was telling lies. She deliberately exaggerated things, so that her lover would look after her, I suppose. Anyway, Cabuche, being the unthinking fool he is, ended up genuinely believing that his mistress had been killed. It sent him crazy; he went round all the bars announcing that if ever he laid hands on Grandmorin he’d bleed him to death like a pig!’

The magistrate, who had thus far remained silent, instantly became keenly interested.

‘Are you sure that is what he said?’ he asked, interrupting Madame Bonnehon. ‘Do you have witnesses to prove it?’

‘My dear sir, there are no end of witnesses. This has been a very sorry business and it has been extremely trying. It was fortunate that my brother’s position placed him above suspicion.’

Madame Bonnehon had realized the new turn that Monsieur Denizet’s inquiry was taking, and it rather worried her. She preferred not to involve herself further by asking more questions. Monsieur Denizet stood up, saying that he did not wish to impose on the family’s good will any longer at such a distressing time, and asked the clerk to read out copies of their statements for the witnesses to sign. The statements were very precisely worded, stripped of anything extraneous or compromising. Madame Bonnehon, pen in hand, cast a glance of grateful acknowledgement at the pale, lean-faced Laurent, whom up until then she had barely noticed.

As the magistrate accompanied her to the door with her nephew and niece, Madame Bonnehon took his hands in hers.

‘I hope we shall meet again very soon,’ she said. ‘You know that you are always most welcome at Doinville. Thank you; you are amongst the last of my faithful friends.’

She gave him a rather wistful smile, as her niece walked stiffly out of the room in front of her with a mere nod of the head.

Left alone, Monsieur Denizet had a moment to gather his thoughts. He stood reflecting on what he had just heard. It was all becoming clear. There had certainly been violence on the part of Grandmorin; his reputation was known. This made the magistrate’s findings somewhat delicate; he reminded himself he must be extra careful, and wait until the advice he was expecting from the ministry had arrived. None the less, he was very pleased with himself. What was more, the murderer was already in custody.

He returned to his desk and rang for the usher.

‘Please call Monsieur Jacques Lantier.’

The Roubauds were still sitting on the bench in the corridor, their faces devoid of expression, as if they had grown tired of waiting and had dropped off to sleep. Now and then their features were disturbed by an involuntary twitch of anxiety. The usher’s voice, summoning Jacques, seemed to wake them up with a start. They watched him intently as he disappeared into the magistrate’s office. They then settled themselves back to resume their wait, pale and silent as before.

The murder had been preying on Jacques’s mind for the last three weeks, making him feel very uneasy, as if this investigation might somehow go against him. There was no reason why it should; he had nothing to reproach himself with, not even the fact that he had said nothing on the night of the murder. Yet, as he entered the magistrate’s office, he felt a distinct shiver of guilt run through him, as if he were the one on trial and were about to be incriminated. He answered the magistrate’s questions cautiously, choosing his words carefully for fear of saying too much. That night, he too had come close to being a murderer, and he was afraid it might show in his eyes. He hated having to appear in a court of law; he found it irritating, and he wished people would stop pestering him with matters that didn’t concern him.

On this occasion, however, Monsieur Denizet’s sole purpose was to ascertain the appearance of the murderer. Jacques, being the only witness who had actually seen him, was the one person who might provide exact information. But he could add nothing to his original statement. What he saw, he repeated, had lasted less than a second; it had come and gone so quickly that all it left in his mind was a general impression, a blur. What he had seen was a man slitting another man’s throat. That was all he could say. For half an hour the magistrate doggedly tried to elicit something more precise, repeating his questions time and time again, in every manner conceivable. Was he tall? Was he short? Did he have a beard? Was his hair long or short? What sort of clothes was he wearing? Was he a professional person or was he working class? Jacques became more and more confused and could give only vague answers.

‘Let me ask you one final question,’ Monsieur Denizet said suddenly, looking him straight in the eye. ‘If you saw the murderer, would you recognize him?’

Jacques felt a wave of anxiety run through him; it was as if Monsieur Denizet could see inside his mind. His eyelids fluttered; he seemed to be speaking his thoughts aloud.

‘Would I recognize him?’ he murmured. ‘Yes ... perhaps I would.’

But immediately the strange fear that he might unwittingly have been an accomplice to the crime made him draw back and evade the question.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t be certain. You must remember that the train was travelling at eighty kilometres an hour!’

The magistrate threw up his hands in despair. He was about to ask Jacques to wait in the adjoining room for further questioning, when he suddenly changed his mind.

‘Please wait here a moment,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’

He once again rang for the usher.

‘Please show in Monsieur and Madame Roubaud,’ he said.

As soon as they walked through the door and saw Jacques, a look of anxiety shot across their faces. Had he said anything? Had he been asked to wait in order to bring them together face to face? In the presence of Jacques, their confidence vanished, and they sounded very unsure of themselves as they began to answer the magistrate’s questions. Monsieur Denizet, however, simply ran through their earlier statement. The Roubauds merely had to repeat what they had said before, almost word for word. The magistrate listened with his head lowered, not even looking at them.

Suddenly he turned towards Séverine.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you told the safety officer at Le Havre, whose report I have here, that you were sure a man got into the coupé at Rouen just as the train was leaving the station.’

The question took Séverine by surprise. Why had he mentioned that? Was it a trap? Did he want to see whether what she said now would contradict what she had said before? She looked quickly at her husband. Roubaud felt he must say something.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I don’t think that my wife was quite as definite as that.’

‘Forgive me, Monsieur Roubaud,’ continued the magistrate, ‘but when you admitted that this was a possibility, your wife said: “That’s what happened, I’m sure it did.” What I would like to know, madame, is whether you had any particular reason for saying that.’

Séverine was beginning to feel very worried. She was convinced that if she wasn’t careful he would lead her from one question to another and force her to admit what had happened. On the other hand she couldn’t just stand there and say nothing.

‘No, monsieur,’ she said. ‘There was no particular reason. I must have said it because that was the only thing that seemed possible; how else can it have happened?’

‘So you didn’t actually see the man, and you can tell us nothing about him.’

‘Absolutely nothing, monsieur.’

For a moment it seemed as if Monsieur Denizet was about to abandon this line of inquiry, but the minute he began to question Roubaud he returned to it.

‘Tell me, monsieur,’ he asked, ‘how is it that you didn’t see this man, if he really did get into the carriage, since it appears from your statement that you were still talking to the victim when the whistle blew for the train to leave?’

The persistence of the magistrate’s questions was beginning to disturb Roubaud. He couldn’t make up his mind which line to take; should he abandon the story of this other man or should he stick to it? If they had evidence against him, the theory of the unknown killer was scarcely plausible and could even make matters worse for him. He decided he must play for time and answered the magistrate with long, rambling explanations that shed no light on the matter at all.