The Eloquence of Blood by Judith Rock Page A

to what he needed. “How much did young Monsieur Brion dislike being forced into courtship?”
    â€œHe didn’t kill her! He would never kill anyone!” Isabel Brion shook her head so hard that one of her pearl earrings fell into her lap. “He was obeying my father. Although I would dearly have loved having Martine as my sister, I begged my father and begged him to stop forcing Gilles, but he—he—oh, may God forgive him, my father is so greedy!” Trying to hold in tears, she rose and went to the small mirror beside the fireplace to replace her earring.
    â€œIs your father in such urgent need of money, mademoiselle ? And where is he, does he know of Mademoiselle Mynette’s death?” Charles ventured.
    â€œI don’t know where he is. Or whether he knows she is dead. He is the master here and comes and goes as he will.” She sighed. “As for money, who is not in need of more?” She turned from the mirror and wiped her eyes with a tiny black linen handkerchief. “But to get it, my father has made Gilles desperately unhappy. He wants to be a monk. And my father will never let him.”
    â€œHaving his religious vocation thwarted could make a man very angry,” Charles said quietly. “Where is your brother, mademoiselle ?”
    Too late, she saw the danger of what she said. “Gilles is across the river with the Capuchins, where he always is!” she flung at Charles. “Go and see, if you don’t believe me!”
    â€œAh, it seems you are no longer so handsome, maître ,” Callot murmured.
    â€œMademoiselle,” Charles said, “someone viciously murdered your friend and must be discovered. At any cost. No one is beyond suspicion.”
    â€œWhat about me, then?” she demanded.
    Charles started to say that she could hardly have a reason to wish her friend dead but then held his tongue. For all he knew, she might have some motivation, though he couldn’t imagine what it would be. “Where were you, then, mademoiselle , when she was killed?”
    â€œHere,” Isabel Brion said hopelessly, all the fight suddenly gone out of her. “Asleep, I suppose. Then I went to her house with Uncle Callot and she was dead.” She turned to the fire, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Blessed Virgin, I wish I had been with her to keep her safe. Or that she had come to us, as my father wished!”
    â€œCan anyone swear that you were here asleep?” Charles pressed her, thinking that he might as well do the thing thoroughly.
    She spun around in surprise, realizing that he was taking her seriously. “My maid. She sleeps in my chamber.”
    Not necessarily proof, but Charles let it go. He could not believe in Isabel Brion as her friend’s killer. Though not believing is hardly the same thing as knowing, the ruthlessly blunt part of himself pointed out. He turned to Callot. “And you, monsieur ?”
    â€œThe same. Asleep. Though with no one to swear to it. I have no valet. But you have only to look at me to know that I have not the strength to do what was done.”
    Charles was not sure he believed that, either, but Callot seemed as unlikely a killer as his great-niece. Beyond the salon windows, the December dusk was closing in and the corners of the room were filling with shadows. Charles shifted in his chair, knowing he should leave. “What about Mademoiselle Mynette’s maid, the one who found her?”
    â€œRenée? Oh, she’s too lazy to kill anyone,” Isabel Brion said dismissively. “And from the smell of her, she’d drunk herself to sleep the night before. She’s a good enough woman, though, good-tempered, and she’d been with the Mynettes for a long time.”
    â€œI see. Well, it grows late and I must take my leave, mademoiselle , monsieur .” Charles got to his feet. “When Monsieur Henri Brion comes home, I beg you—”
    The salon door opened, and