The Eloquence of Blood by Judith Rock Page B

Charles turned eagerly, thinking that the notary had at last returned, but it was a much younger man who stood hesitating on the threshold.
    â€œGilles!”
    Isabel rushed to embrace her brother, but Callot remained sitting by the fire, eyeing his great-nephew.
    â€œI’m so glad you’ve come home,” she cried. She looked over her shoulder. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said to Charles, and stepped away from her brother. “Maître du Luc, may I present my brother, Monsieur Gilles Brion?”
    The young man turned his wary, slightly open-mouthed stare on Charles, and his sister made an exasperated noise.
    â€œGilles?”
    Her voice prodded him into an awkward bow, and Charles inclined his head in return. Gilles Brion stood barely as tall as his sister, small boned and delicate. He seemed younger than Isabel, though Charles didn’t know his age. His elaborate light brown wig dwarfed his sallow face. Finely embroidered lace frothed at the neck and cuffs of his ash-brown broadcloth coat, and the heels on his water-spotted but well-made shoes were unnecessarily high. Without them, he probably wouldn’t even reach the tip of his sister’s nose.
    Poor Martine , Charles thought, before he could stop himself. Or, perhaps, poor Capuchins . . .
    Mlle Brion laid a hand on Gilles’s arm. “We have been talking about Martine.” Her eyes searched his face. “You may not know, Gilles, but she—she is dead. Someone killed her.”
    â€œDead?” Young Brion—it was hard not to think of him as a boy, though he must be in his twenties—was suddenly radiant. His eyes shone and he clasped his hands to his breast. Seeing the look on his sister’s face, he let his hands fall and tried for a suitably shocked countenance.
    â€œThat is terrible, Isabel. But how can she be—” He shook his head in seeming confusion. “Who would kill Martine?” His eyes went from face to face. Everyone was watching him intently, and no one answered him. The blood drained from his cheeks, leaving his eyes dark as caves. “Who, Isabel?” He clutched her hand. “Have they found him? If they have not found him, the commissaire will say it was me!”
    â€œWas it?” Charles said pleasantly.
    Gilles caught his breath, suddenly as red as he’d been pale, and his jaw set with anger. “How dare you say that!”
    So , Charles thought, not quite as limp as he seems . “I was only startled by your own words, monsieur . Why would anyone think you killed her? Where were you early this morning?”
    â€œThat is none of your concern, maître ,” Gilles said through stiff lips.
    Charles rose from the chair and advanced on him. “I met Mademoiselle Mynette just yesterday, Monsieur Brion. This morning I saw her lying in her blood. Finding a murderer is every man’s concern. So I repeat, where were you early this morning?”
    Brion flinched. “Here, of course. Before dawn, I mean. Asleep. Like everyone else. Then I went to the Capuchins for Prime.”
    â€œI understood that you were paying court to Mademoiselle Martine Mynette?”
    â€œNo! I mean—yes. But only because—” Brion stared at Charles like a hunted animal. “My father forced me,” he said defiantly. “She was a good girl. She—but I didn’t want her! I don’t want any girl; I want to be a monk.” His shoulders slumped and he sighed hopelessly. “Everyone knew it, and now the commissaire will think I killed her. Blessed saints, alive she was a stone around my neck, and dead she will pull me down to hell! God knows, I am sorry she is dead, but I had nothing to do with it!”
    Callot finally spoke. “So go and tell your monks they can have you now. Quickly, before your father finds you another heiress. And before the police commissaire comes for you.”
    Brion looked in panic at the windows. “Is he