The Rhetoric of Death (15 page)

The lay brothers in the laundry were as little pleased as Jouvancy had said they would be, but they parted with a tub of just-heated water, provided towels, and fetched them clean clothes. Half an hour later, feeling unpleasantly boiled and with water still dripping from their hair, Jouvancy and Charles joined the rector in the room behind the infirmarian's workshop. Philippe's body, stripped and washed, lay on a long table. Now that the body was clean, its youth was even more heartbreaking. Steeling himself, Charles picked up one of Philippe's hands to look for signs of a fight. He found no marks at all on the hands, but the one sign he did find on the body was definitive. The deeply incised mark around Philippe's neck told them beyond doubt that the boy had been strangled. But the mark was oddly varied—several-stranded at the sides and patterned—braided, perhaps—at the throat. With aching tenderness, Jouvancy folded the boy's slender, unlined hands over his chest and pulled the shroud up over him.

His voice shook as he said, “Do you think he was in the latrine all this time?”

“Most likely,” Charles said. “The death stiffness has come and gone, and decay looks well advanced. Because of the heat in—in the latrine.”

“At least we know now how he was killed. But I would have had the killer use some other means,” Le Picart said.

Charles and Jouvancy looked at him in surprise. Then Charles began to nod, but Jouvancy blinked in confusion. “Why?”

“If he had been killed with an obvious weapon,” Le Picart said gently, “finding the killer would be easier. Since we forbid all weapons here, a dagger or sword or pistol might be traced to its owner that much more easily. But strangled—every one of us wears something in his clothing that could be woven with other pieces to leave a mark like this.”

“Pieces of breech lacing braided together,” Charles said, “or even long shoe ribbons might do it.”

“Or the cords we string our crosses on,” the rector offered.

“The ties that gather shirtsleeves to the wrist,” Jouvancy said, “yes, I see. But—”

“And the older among us string our spectacles around our necks,” Le Picart went on. He reached into his cassock and brought out his reading spectacles, hanging on a stout length of cord.

“Not to mention all the other kinds of cord and string there must be around the college,” Charles said.

“Around the college? But, surely—” Jouvancy's voice trailed off.

“So the question is,” Charles went on, “what kind of thing would exactly fit this mark. You can see that the braided pieces are thin, but not too thin. And they would have to be strong. Stronger than ordinary string, certainly.”

Jouvancy frowned. “Would there be marks left on whatever was used?”

“There would be blood, the skin on his neck is broken. Though some—maybe even all—of that could be cleaned off, and would have been by now. I don't see any material left in the wound that could tell us what was used.”

The rector was shaking his head impatiently. “If you had just strangled someone in a latrine, what would you do next?”

“Weight whatever I had used and drop it in,” Charles said promptly.

“Exactly. You seem to be the only one of us without a talent for murder,
mon père
,” Le Picart said to Jouvancy, who was looking at them in alarm. Then the rector frowned. “I rarely visit that latrine, but I saw today that it is over-full of waste. I will have to check with Père Montville, but I am nearly certain that it was supposed to have been cleaned several days ago.”

“We could have it cleaned now and look for this cord, or whatever it is,” said Jouvancy.

“But,
mon père
,” Charles said, “imagine how many broken lengths of breeches lacing and other odds and ends of cord must surely be in there. And with all that they will have soaked up by now—” he grimaced and shrugged.

“I agree,” Le Picart said. “Time will be better spent searching for the killer in other ways. Maître du Luc, the man you chased when Philippe disappeared—are you still certain that he was wearing Philippe's shirt?”

“Unless it really was Philippe, and he came back later and was killed then. Which is possible, but unlikely, I think. The yellow shirt and the dark hair and the build were enough like Philippe's that I never doubted it was him I was chasing. But, as you saw, when I found Philippe's body, the shirt was gone. I fished for it in the latrine and did not find it. Also, when I went looking for him that day, someone pushed me to the ground from behind. I thought then it was Philippe. Now I think it was the killer, making sure I would give chase and leading me away from the latrine and the college. Probably so we would not institute a thorough search here before the body sank in the latrine.”

“That seems a logical conclusion,” the rector said grimly. He looked from Jouvancy to Charles. “You understand, I trust, how essential it is, as we search for this killer, to avoid scandal to the college and the Society.”

“We? Are you not calling in the police?” Charles said, trying to keep the note of challenge out of his voice and wondering just how far Le Picart would go to avoid scandal. “The college of Louis le Grand is still a liberty, then? The king's law does not run here?”

“Of course it does.” Le Picart's chin lifted and he drew himself up. “And of course I will ask the help of Lieutenant-Général La Reynie. I had already asked him to search for Philippe. As you know. My point is that we must do everything morally possible to avoid scandal to the college and the Society of Jesus. The decisions that must be made to find the killer will be made by those in authority, Maître du Luc. With regard to your own involvement, I advise you to remember our very recent conversation in my office.”

Into the ensuing silence, Jouvancy said, “This is going to kill his father.”

“
Mon père
,” the rector said gently, “M. Douté is lodging at the Prince of Condé's townhouse. Will you go to him? This terrible news will come better from family.”

“Of course, I will go immediately.” Jouvancy hesitated. “Do you want me to take Père Guise with me? He is almost closer to them these days than I am, it seems.”

“No. Just you,
mon père
.”

Jouvancy bowed his head in acquiescence. And relief, Charles thought. But suddenly, the rhetoric master's eyes widened and he clutched the rector's sleeve. “What about Antoine,
mon père
? Could this mean that he, too, is in danger? Though that seems . . . why would anyone . . . after all, it was only an accident ...” He looked in mute appeal at Le Picart.

“Antoine is safe in the infirmary,” the rector said. “And we will all be on our guard. This evening I will gather the faculty, and after them the lay brothers, and find out if anyone knows more about this. I have already told Philippe's confessor and his tutor what has happened. They are coming to take the first watch beside the body. For now, we must do our best to keep this from the students. I do not want it to grow in the telling into some farfetched drama that will only confuse things. Did you recognize the little boy who was wanting to use the latrine when we arrived there, Père Jouvancy?”

“Yes,
mon père
, that was Robert Boisvert. From Rheims. He is new and very shy. I doubt he has told anyone about his vision of a shit-covered professor.” Jouvancy gave Charles the ghost of a smile. “I will have a word with him before I leave.” The smile fled as Jouvancy laid a gentle hand on Philippe's body. He started to speak, but his mouth quivered and he pressed his lips together until he had mastered himself. “How will we ever find his killer,” he said, “with all of Paris to search?”

“Unfortunately, we cannot assume that the killer is beyond our walls,” Le Picart said.

Jouvancy stared at him. “But—I can hardly imagine—” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Are you saying,
mon père
, that until this man is found, we must look askance at everyone here—at least at everyone who shares Philippe's height and build and coloring?”

“Yes,” the rector said flatly. “Everyone.”

T
he summer dark finally came, but Charles lay awake, thinking about Philippe Douté, imagining the air growing thick with prayers around his coffin. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Philippe's body as it was when he'd pulled it from the latrine. He flopped over onto his back and distracted himself by reliving the tense gathering of the Louis le Grand faculty earlier that evening. Leaving a skeleton staff of proctors to see to the students, Père Le Picart had called the professors and tutors to the chapel and told them baldly that Philippe had been murdered. Everyone, of course, had been horrified and, equally of course, no one had admitted to knowing anything. Père Guise, magisterial and grim, had risen to ask who had been the last to see Philippe alive, looking all the while at Charles. Charles had patiently recounted being sent from the classroom to find the boy, which nearly everyone already knew. Guise had stood again to ask how long Charles had been gone on this errand. Twenty minutes, perhaps a little more, Charles had said. Too long, Guise had said with ominous quietness. Much too long. Long enough, perhaps, to strangle Philippe? I did not even know Philippe, Charles had replied furiously. As they glared at each other in the charged silence that followed, old Père Dainville had bounced up with surprising agility, called ringingly for charity in this most difficult and unprecedented time, and added a tart warning about letting feeling falsify the premises of one's arguments.

At the rector's nod, his assistant, Père Montville, had stood, gestured politely but firmly for Charles and Guise to sit, and shocked the assembly into silence by asking them to rise one by one and briefly state where they'd been at half after two on Monday afternoon, when Philippe left the classroom. Guise was the first to respond, his reproachful baritone filling the chapel as he told them he'd been in the rue Paradis, summoned on family business to the Hôtel de Guise by his aunt. When all who could remember where they'd been had said so, Montville directed the others to come to him privately and then laid out what everyone was to watch for, charging them to bring anything they saw or heard or remembered to the rector or himself. And not to speak of the murder yet to students or anyone else. Then he'd poured political oil on the turbulent waters, telling them that as they thought back to that day, they would surely remember any strangers they'd seen, since the killer, of course, must have come from outside. With a final stern reminder of the danger of scandal to the Society and the college, Le Picart had closed the meeting with prayer.

Charles turned over again and told himself to leave his questions for now and go to sleep or he'd never make it through tomorrow. He was beating his thin pillow into a more comfortable shape when a heavy thump from the little salon made him sit up, listening intently as a vision of Guise creeping toward him rose in his mind. Telling himself not to be an idiot, he gave his pillow a last punch and lay down. And shot to his feet as his door opened a few inches. Mentally cursing the old monastic tradition of lockless sleeping quarters, he heard a soft intake of breath and then the creak of boards as whoever it was retreated. Charles went soundlessly to the door, looked out, and hastily crossed himself. A small figure, glimmering white in the darkness, was vanishing into Guise's chamber, which was almost directly across from Charles's.

Charles hesitated, then hastily drew on his cassock and tip-toed across the passage. Heavenly messengers wouldn't need to open doors, and the white around this one's head looked more like a bandage than a halo. The lambent light in Guise's chamber was just enough to show him that it was empty and he went softly across it to the adjoining study. Guise wasn't there, but the apparition was.

“Antoine?”

The small white shape whirled away from the far wall where it was standing in front of a tapestry. It stretched its arms out stiffly, took a step, and crumpled to the floor with a loud moan. Hoping that the child hadn't hit his head again in the course of his performance, Charles went to him and shook him gently by the shoulder.

“Get up, it's all right.”

But Antoine didn't and Charles was afraid that Guise would come back at any moment. He gathered the boy up and carried him into the passage, shut Guise's door, and hurried down the stairs. As they passed beneath a landing window, Charles looked down at Antoine in time to see the brief bright gleam of an eye.

“Are you all right,
mon petit
?”

The little body went as still as a hunted rabbit.

“What were you doing in there? Where is your godfather?”

Antoine squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and stayed as mute as a rabbit. When they reached the infirmary, Charles put him down on the disheveled narrow bed and spread the blanket over him.

“Frère Brunet,” he called. “Wake up, please,
mon frère
.”

The soft snores from the adjoining chamber turned to gurgles and snorts, and the infirmarian appeared in the doorway in his long shirt, blinking and yawning.

“What is it? Is someone ill?”

“It's Antoine Douté. I found him in the main building,” Charles said loudly and clearly, watching the child's suspiciously still face. “Sleepwalking, it seemed.”

Brunet took the oil lamp from its bracket and bustled over to the bed. He set the lamp on the bedside table, felt Antoine's forehead below the bandage, and lifted one of his eyelids. “Sleepwalking? I didn't know that he sleepwalks. Tsk. He's chilled. But his pulse is steady. You did well not to wake him. Now he just needs to be warmed.” He tucked the blanket around Antoine and peered up at Charles. “It's Maître du Luc, isn't it? It's good that you found him,
maître
. I'll sit with him to see he stays put and give him something soothing if he wakes.”