The Rhetoric of Death (37 page)

Fabre nodded at the nearest gate. “She's been here most of the summer with her mistress. The house belongs to Mme Montfort, Mme Douté's sister.”

“Mme Douté didn't go to Chantilly with Philippe's body?”

“She said the journey was too much for her. She made M. Douté leave her here.”

“So you knew it was your sister who had left the
gaufres
. That's why you were so upset and tried to confuse what Frère Martin said.”

“Forgive me,
maître!
” Fabre's face was full of anguish. “I told myself it had to be an accident, a mistake, she couldn't have meant to do it!”

“You saw her leave the package?”

“Not leave it, no. I'd just polished the handles and the knocker on the big doors. For Wednesday's performance. I took most of the cleaning things inside and when I came back for the rest, Agnes was turning away from the postern. Her back was to me and she had on a mourning veil, but I knew her by her red petticoat. She had her overskirt lifted away from the street.” He laughed unsteadily. “She wouldn't put off that red petticoat if she was mourning a husband, let alone her mistress's stepson. I didn't call out to her because I didn't have time to talk—once you get Agnes started, you're stuck.” He looked pleadingly at Charles. “Why would she want to hurt Antoine?
Maître
, she couldn't have known the
gaufres
were poisoned!”

“She bought the poison herself,” Charles said. “I talked to the apothecary who sold it to her.”

“He's lying! Or wrong. He must be, please,
maître
—”

“You saw Maître Doissin die, Frère Fabre. A hard death. You saw your sister leave the postern just after the poisoned
gaufres
were left. Agnes must at least explain herself. Will you go for the police? Ask someone where the nearest commissaire lives and bring him, or one of his men.”

It was the best he could think of. He couldn't leave Fabre here to warn Agnes. And if Fabre didn't come back—well, that would be information, too.

The boy gave the gate a last anguished look and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I'll go.”

To Charles's relief, Fabre returned quickly, bringing a man in the night watch uniform of plumed hat and blue jerkin laced with silver. The man was built like a bull, with hard eyes and a mouth like a trap.

“This is Monsieur Servier,” Fabre panted. “He is—”

Servier cut across the social niceties. “What's going on?”

“I am Maître Charles du Luc, from the College of Louis le Grand,
monsieur
. A tutor died there this afternoon. From poison. Which you may already know, since our rector notified your lieutenant-général. The tutor ate poisoned
gaufres
intended for a little boy, Antoine Douté. The woman who left the
gaufres
is Agnes La Salle, maid to Mme Lisette Douté. Mme Douté is the boy's stepmother and she is staying here with Mme Montfort, who is her sister. I want you to question the maid and the stepmother. The maid was recognized just after she left the cakes, and I know where she bought the poison.”

Servier's eyebrows rose as he eyed the gate. “You know Montfort's related some way to the Guises,” he growled.

“The king's law runs here, not the Guises',
monsieur
. And God's law runs everywhere.”

“Just so you know whose broth you're stirring. The commissaire's not going to like this. He's already had a murder tonight—an apprentice did for his master and they're all in his house, witnesses, widow, accused, you should see it.” Serious offenders and witnesses were usually questioned first by the neighborhood commissaire, no matter what the hour.

Servier hitched up his belt, which supported a light sword and a small pistol, and took the pieces of a heavy wooden baton from under his cloak. He assembled them into a long, thick weapon, pulled the Montforts's bell rope, and followed up the pull with a volley of baton blows on the gate. Running feet approached and a grille slid open.

“Tell your master that M. Servier of the watch wants to see Mme Douté and the woman Agnes La Salle.”

“My master is not at home.”

“Then tell your mistress. But first open the gate.”

The man started to bluster and Servier lifted his baton in front of the grille and slapped it loudly against his open palm. The grille slammed shut, bolts were slid back, and the gate began to open. Servier wrenched it wide and strode into the cobbled yard, Charles and Fabre behind him. The servant's eyes grew round when he saw their cassocks.

“Please,” he said, “wait here.” He backed toward the tall, beautifully carved house door across the court.

“We'll wait inside, if you please,” Servier said. “Or if you don't.”

With a helpless gesture, the man hurried ahead of them to the door of the beautiful brick house, whose upper floors made three sides of the court. The lower floors housed stables and outbuildings. A lantern beside the open stable doors raised gleams from the paintwork of a coach standing inside. They followed the servant into an anteroom at the foot of a curving staircase.

“I beg you, wait here!” The man held his hands toward them as though warding off a pack of dogs and ran upstairs.

“Come on,” Servier said over his shoulder to Charles and Fabre. “But if you make a noise and the women get away, I'll arrest you both instead.”

They went soft-footed up the gleaming stairs, toward the sound of women's voices exclaiming and arguing. The voices grew louder as the servant emerged from a door carved with fruit and garlands.

“Who's in there?” Servier demanded, over the man's protests.

“I am.” The woman who had come out of the salon put enough ice into the two words to freeze the Seine from Troyes to Rouen.

The servant stepped hastily aside and walked to the head of the stairs, blocking their path. Charles made a pretense of rubbing his chin to make sure his mouth was closed. She looked like one of the goddesses cavorting on the painted ceiling above her head. Her pale hair, gathered up behind and dripping ringlets around the perfect oval of her face, was silvery in the candlelight. Little golden pears hung trembling from her ears and her low bodice spilled creamy flesh and ivory lace. One dimpled hand held up shimmering gray satin skirts. Her eyes were the blue of pond ice. Her cold gaze settled on Charles.

“
Mon père
? What is this about?”

“Madame Montfort?”

She nodded fractionally.

“I apologize for this intrusion, madame. I am Maître Charles du Luc, from Louis le Grand. I beg you to hear what M. Servier has to say.”

“I must speak with the maid Agnes La Salle,” Servier growled. “And her mistress.”

“Her mistress is unwell and is seeing no one. Why do you want her maid?”

“Because these good Jesuits have laid evidence that she poisoned a man this afternoon.”

The heavy skirts slipped from Mme de Montfort's hand. “That is absurd! She has been with Mme Douté all day. You are mistaken.”

“I don't think so, madame. But others will decide that.” Servier started to climb the few remaining stairs.

“No! Wait. I will bring the maid out, you can speak to her downstairs. Her mistress, my sister, knows nothing of this. She is very near her time. It's her first and your coming here has already upset her more than enough.”

Servier and Mme de Montfort locked eyes. He smiled at her bosom and withdrew a short way down the stairs, forcing Charles and Fabre down behind him, stopping where he could still see the salon door. When she saw that he would go no farther, she went back into the salon. Voices clamored briefly and she returned with a delicately built girl a few years older than Fabre. The tendrils of hair escaping from her white coif were as red as her brother's. Watching her over his shoulder, Servier descended to the anteroom. She had not yet seen Fabre, who had withdrawn with Charles into the anteroom's shadows. When Servier turned around, the girl checked sharply at the sight of his baton, but Mme de Montfort forced her down the last few steps. With an assessing glance at Servier, the girl lowered her dark lashes and folded her hands at her tiny waist. Her breath came fast, swelling her plain black bodice.

“Yes,
monsieur
?” she said softly.

“You are Agnes La Salle?”

“Yes.” Her lips parted over small even teeth, and her voice grew breathy. “Is there—something—anything—I can do for you?”

“You left poisoned cakes at the college of Louis le Grand today. A tutor ate them and died. I am arresting you for murder,
mademoiselle
.”

Agnes sprang away from him and clutched at Mme de Montfort. “No! I've done nothing, tell him, madame!” Then she saw Fabre. “Denis?” she faltered. Emotions chased each other like clouds shredding and forming across her face. “Tell him, Denis,” she shrieked, flinging herself into his arms. “I am innocent!”

“It's all right,” her brother said, holding her tightly. “You didn't know they were poisoned. But I saw you at the college, and—”

She reared back in his arms. “What do you mean, you saw me?”

She wasn't surprised at the mention of poison, Charles noted. Only at having been seen.

“I saw you leave the postern,” Fabre said. “You had on a veil, but I still knew you.” He smiled a little. “I saw your red underskirt.” His eyes pleaded with her to be the sister he'd always known. “The porter gave me the package to deliver and—it was terrible, Agnes. Antoine's tutor ate some of the
gaufres
. I saw him die.”

She tossed her head and pushed him away. “Other women have red petticoats. And what does it have to do with me? Even if I brought the child some cakes, as my mistress told me to, it's hardly my fault if some old man is ill and dies!”

“Antoine?” Mme Montfort's face was rigid with horror. “The poisoned cakes were for Antoine?”

“
What
poison?” Agnes stamped her foot, as though they were all thickheaded. “The baker must have poisoned them!”

“Where did you get them? When?”

“Yesterday. From a shop on the Place Maubert.”

“But you bought poison, Mademoiselle La Salle,” Charles said quietly. “You bought aconite from the dwarf on the Petit Pont. You bought it more than once.”

“You lie! Everyone knows Jesuits lie, what you say means nothing!”

“I saw you go into his shop. M. Rivière, the apothecary, has your name and your purchases in his register.” If there was a register. But that was another matter.

She shrugged indifferently. “My mistress sends me to buy it.” Her calculating gaze flicked from face to face. “Talk to her.”

“Oh, we will,
mademoiselle
,” Servier said. “We will talk further with both of you. At the Châtelet, I think, since the commissaire is so busy.” He grinned evilly. The Châtelet was notorious for its torture facilities.

Agnes screamed and slammed her hand into his face, catching him in the eye, and plunged toward the door. Charles caught her and swung her around. Blinking furiously, Servier grabbed her and pinned her arms against her sides.

“It was her, it was my mistress!” Agnes screamed, writhing against his hold. “She set me to it, I won't die for her and her brat!”

“That's good enough.” Servier gave Charles a satisfied nod. “You hear that?” he said to Mme Montfort, who seemed to have turned to stone. “Your sister's accused of murder. You say she's expecting and ill. Keep her here. I'll be back shortly and if I find her gone, madame, I'll take you instead.”

Agnes threw back her head. “You'll burn, Lisette,” she screamed at the dispassionate divinities on the ceiling. “Tell them, you bitch, it was you, not me!”

Stumbling on her skirts, Mme Montfort fled up the stairs. The manservant, who had been listening from the upper floor, rushed down with a cloak and Charles draped it around the now-sobbing Agnes. Fabre stood frozen, his face wet with tears.

“Judas,” Agnes spat at him, as Servier pushed her over the threshold. “You had your chance to get away from the godforsaken tannery. This was mine! Damn you to hell, you stinking Judas!”

T
he cold stone and stooping shadows of the Châtelet did nothing to quell Agnes La Salle's fury. She stood at bay in a small chamber lit only by a lantern that the watch officer, M. Servier, had set on a scarred table. Servier stood at the table's end and Lieutenant-Général La Reynie, Père Le Picart, Frère Fabre, and Charles all sat behind it on a bench, watching her. Like judges, Charles thought uncomfortably. La Reynie had sent a carriage for the rector, and ordered Servier to stay for Agnes's questioning. When it was over, La Reynie and Servier would take what they'd learned back to the Place Royale to question Mme Douté.

“It's not my fault,” Agnes insisted sullenly. “Mme Douté told me to deliver the package.” She looked at them from under her lashes. “Because of what M. Louis told her.”

“Who is M. Louis?” La Reynie asked sternly.

“Her astrologer. He told her the first wife's brats would kill hers to get all of old Douté's money.”

The three Jesuits crossed themselves. La Reynie's face was rigid with anger. In the anteroom, the rector had told Charles that La Reynie was still haunted by the notorious poison trials ten years ago, when it seemed that half Versailles and Paris had poisoned someone or had been some poisoner's target. And that now he was merciless toward mountebanks who preyed on the ignorant.

“Where did she go to meet with this man?” La Reynie demanded.