The Rhetoric of Death (34 page)

“Are you looking for someone,
mon frère
?”

Fabre stared mutely at Charles, his eyes wide with shock.

“Mon frère?”
Fear clutched at Charles's heart. “What is it?”

“He's dead,” Fabre whispered.

“Who?” Charles shook Fabre roughly by the arm. “Who's dead?”

“Maître Doissin,” Fabre finally got out, his voice shaking.

Charles stared in bewilderment. “Was he ill? I didn't know. What happened?” And in the next breath demanded, “Antoine—is he all right?”

“Yes, he didn't—he was in the little study, he—”

“Wait here.”

Charles pulled Jouvancy out of the jubilant crowd and told him what had happened.

“Go to Antoine,” Jouvancy said grimly. “I'll follow as soon as I can.”

Charles shepherded Fabre out of the building. “Tell me the rest as we go.”

“It was
gaufres
,” the lay brother whispered, still staring at Charles.

“What? Do you mean those little sweet wafers?” Charles pulled Fabre out of the way as a pair of workmen hauled on ropes to raise a joist. “Start at the beginning!”

“Someone left them—a package of them—with the porter. For Antoine.”

“Who left them?”

Fabre shrugged. “Frère Martin just gave me the package to take to Maître Doissin. Since gifts go first to the tutor and—”

“I know. When was the package left?”

Fabre shrugged again.

“Did Maître Doissin seem well when you gave him the package?”

“He was just as usual. We started talking and he unwrapped the
gaufres
and ate one. He offered me one, but I said no. They had syrup on them and I don't like them like that, thank St. Benedict!” St. Benedict, once the target of poisoning, was everyone's protector against it.

Charles crossed himself. “Thank St. Benedict indeed. What happened then?”

“We talked about candles and sheets for the chamber.” Fabre's voice was shaking and Charles could hardly hear him. “Things like that. Maître Doissin kept eating the
gaufres
and then he started spewing. Then he couldn't breathe. He just—collapsed. Antoine and the other boys ran in from the study, but I made them go back. Then I yelled out the window for help. A proctor came and then Frère Brunet arrived with his medicines. But by then, Maître Doissin couldn't swallow anything. Before God,
maître
, if I'd known anything was wrong with the
gaufres
—”

“You couldn't have known. It wasn't your fault.” They were almost at the door of the building where Antoine lived. “Go and find out everything Frère Martin can remember about who brought the package and when, every detail. And find out—” Charles caught himself. Find out where Guise was, he'd been going to say. But he couldn't ignore the fact that Fabre owed his escape from the tannery to Guise. “Never mind. Just talk to Frère Martin.”

“But he already told me he hardly saw the man—”

“Ask him again, talk him through it, he may remember something. Then come and tell me. Go on, hurry!”

Stifling a sob, Fabre stumbled back the way they'd come. At the top of the stairs Charles could hardly make his way through the excitedly appalled tutors and lay brothers blocking Antoine's chamber door. Doissin lay on the floor in pools of vomit and Frère Brunet was on his knees beside him, closing his bulging eyes. Golden
gaufres
, shining with syrup, were scattered over the floor like giant's coins, their sugar and vanilla sweetness strong even under the smells of death. The death that would have been Antoine's, if this poor hapless man hadn't been so greedy. Charles leaned down to Brunet.

“Was it poison,
mon frère
?” he said quietly.

The infirmarian looked up. “I think so. Most likely in the syrup. Aconite, perhaps, though a few others could act as fast. Those
gaufres
should be picked up,
maître
, but keep the syrup from cuts or scratches, it could kill you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw a gawking elderly lay brother lean into the room and pick a
gaufre
off the floor.

“Leave it!” He slapped it out of the man's hand. “Unless you want to die like Maître Doissin.”

The brother's dull eyes were full of offense as he rubbed his slapped hand. “Why? He was possessed. I always thought so, the way he fell asleep all the time. A demon killed him, why shouldn't I take a
gaufre
?”

“Why not, indeed?” someone said sardonically, and Frère Moulin's face appeared, looking over the old man's shoulder into the room. He grimaced and shook his head.

“Mon frère,”
Charles said quickly, “will you see that our brother here washes his hands, and thoroughly?”

Moulin grunted assent, and Charles shut the chamber door and went into the study, closing that door, too, before the boys' avid eyes could see around him. Antoine's companions traded frustrated looks and slumped on their benches, but Antoine ran to Charles, who put an arm around him. One of the boys snickered and Charles shot him a look that made him bury his face in his Cicero.

Antoine looked up at Charles. His wet eyes were huge in his pale face. “Maître Doissin is dead.”

“Yes,
mon brave
, he is. I'm sorry.” Charles
was
sorry, and not just because an innocent man had been murdered. For all his laziness, Doissin had given Antoine warmth and kindness, and Antoine had liked him.

The other boys erupted in questions. “Why? How? Was he sick? That old lay brother said it was demons!”

Deciding that a modicum of truth was better than demon rumors, Charles led Antoine back to his desk, sat him down, and addressed them all.

“Maître Doissin was suddenly very sick and died of it.”

Antoine whispered, “We should pray for him,
maître
.”

Charles led them in prayers for the suddenly dead. Then he waited a moment and said, “You are all to stay here until someone comes for you. I see that you have books and work to do, yes?”

All four of them looked with distaste at the quills, paper, Ciceros, and Latin grammars in front of them.

“Good,” Charles said briskly. “To your books now.”

The other three made at least a show of settling to work under Charles's stern eye, but Antoine sat motionless.

“Maître?”
His voice was so small that Charles had to squat on his haunches to hear him. “Did he die because of me? Like Philippe?”

Charles took the boy's cold hands. “Look at me,
mon brave
.”

The child brought his eyes up fleetingly and then looked down at his desk again, studying its scarred and initialled surface as though it were an examination text.

“Philippe and Maître Doissin died because a grown-up person did evil things,” Charles said softly. “None of it is your fault. Do you understand?”

A tiny nod—in which Charles did not believe at all—was all his answer.

“Your uncle Jouvancy is coming for you,
mon brave
. You won't be left alone.”

Charles patted his shoulder, murmured stern encouragement to the others, and went back to the chamber, where Brunet was praying beside the body. Charles took a towel from Antoine's cupboard, covered his hand with it, and collected the spilled
gaufres
. As he laid them on the thick paper they'd come in, he wondered whether, if he'd killed the booted man in Père La Chaise's garden, Maître Doissin would be alive. And whether, in the divine economy of sin, one outcome would have been better than the other.

P
ère Jouvancy arrived a few minutes later and led Antoine away, holding his hand as though he would never again let the child out of his sight. Frère Fabre returned, and he and Charles spoke at the head of the stairs, empty now of gawkers. Fabre's freckles stood out sharply against his blanched skin as he tried not to look at the rewrapped package of
gaufre
s in Charles's hand.

“What did you learn from the porter,
mon frère
?”

“He—he said—maybe a woman left them. Maybe an hour ago. He didn't see her face because she wore a long veil. Or a big shawl, maybe.
Maître
, it could have been a man dressed in woman's clothes.”

“Did she—or he—sound young or old?”

“Young. But some people sound young when they're not. She—he—just said that the package was for Antoine.”

“Did the porter say anything else?”

“The
gaufres
might have come from the bakery next door. He said the little girl brought him one yesterday.”

Charles's heart sank. If the LeClercs had sold them, the rector and the police would descend on the bakery, which was the last thing Pernelle needed. Not that he thought for a moment that the LeClercs had poisoned the
gaufres
. The bakery wasn't even open today, it being Sunday, but the
gaufres
could have been bought yesterday and then poisoned. But what poisoner would be stupid enough to buy the
gaufres
next door?

“Do you have any cuts or scratches on your hands, Frère Fabre?”

The boy gaped at him. Charles grabbed one cold clammy hand and then the other. Finding stage scenery paint stains but no grazes, he thrust the package at Fabre.

“Stay here and give these to the rector when he comes. Do not put them down or give them to anyone else. Tell the rector to keep them wrapped. Frère Brunet will tell him the rest. Then wash your hands. Thoroughly. With soap. I'm going to see Mme LeClerc. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

Leaving Fabre holding the package at arm's length as though it might explode, Charles went to the street passage. The porter got up from his stool.

“Frère Martin,” Charles greeted him, “tell me again about whoever brought the
gaufres
.”

“I told it all to the boy. Poor cabbage, you'd think he'd never seen death.” Martin repeated his story, but it wasn't quite the story Fabre had told. Martin was certain that the person under the mourning veil was a woman. Small, he said, and by the voice, young.

“Little hands,
maître
. Gloved. Hot weather for that, but carrying poison, that explains it.”

“Who else has come and gone in the last hour or so? Professors, students? They may have seen something, if I can find them.”

The porter shook his head. “No one at all. Did young rooster head tell you those
gaufres
maybe came from next door? Little Marie-Ange brought me one yesterday. But it wasn't poisoned, as you see!” He laughed heartily as he opened the postern for Charles.

Life,
Charles thought sourly,
was much less harrying for the unimaginative
. To his relief, the bakery door stood open, no doubt to let out the strong smell of burned pastry that met his nose. Mme LeClerc, arranging cream cakes behind the counter, whirled when she heard him and her hard, unwelcoming expression stopped him in the doorway.

“Oh, it's you,” she said, with a relieved smile. “But you should still be resting,
maître
!”

He managed a smile. “I'm well enough. Forgive me for startling you, madame.” His eyes went toward the back of the shop, where he heard Pernelle's voice.

“Yes,
maître,
she is there, helping clean up our ass-brained apprentice's mess. Roger would insist on letting him practice pastry on Sunday. Are you come to see your lady?”

“One small moment. Madame, did you sell
gaufres
yesterday to a woman in a mourning veil?”

“I did not. Why?” She finished arranging the cakes on their wooden tray and stepped back to look critically at them, her head on one side.

“But you did make
gaufres
?”

She looked up. “How did you know?”

Not wanting to get Marie-Ange in trouble, Charles didn't reply. Instead he said, “We've had another tragedy in the college. Someone left poisoned
gaufres
for Antoine.”

“Mon Dieu!”
She pressed both hands to her mouth. “Is he—?”

“He didn't eat them, madame, he's well. Sadly, however, his tutor did. And died.”

“St. Benedict protect us! As I hope for salvation,
maître,
I never poisoned any
gaufres
!”

“Calm yourself, madame, I never thought you did. But I wondered if someone might have bought them here and then poisoned them.”

“Poison?” Marie-Ange burst out of the workroom, towing Pernelle behind her. “Who is poisoned?”

“Marie-Ange, no, I told you to keep mademoiselle out of sight!” Madame flapped her apron at them and Pernelle stopped, smiling at Charles. Marie-Ange ran to him and pulled anxiously at his sleeve.

“Is it Antoine,
maître
?”

“Not Antoine, his tutor,” Charles said. “Antoine is fine.”

The little girl's worried frown relaxed. Pernelle ignored Mme LeClerc's clucking and walked quickly down the shop to him.

“More murder? You look terrible, Charles.”

“More murder, yes.” But he was smiling. The shadows under her eyes were gone and the pink in her cheeks contrasted prettily with the shabby gray kirtle and bodice she wore, which were clearly Mme LeClerc's. A flour-dusted apron bunched the wide gown in thick folds around her waist, and the skirt barely covered her white-stockinged calves.

“Veiled, you said,
maître
?” The baker's wife was frowning and staring at nothing. “I
did
see a woman in mourning pass by today.”