it’s thought to have been lost during the work carried out after the mansion was bought. So on that score nothing’s definite.’
‘Any other observations?’
‘Not really. I did a general inspection of the vicomte’s rooms again. It’s impossible to enter or leave them except, as you might expect, through the door or the windows. I even checked the chimney flue, at considerable risk to my uniform.’
He rubbed the front of his doublet, which still bore some blackish marks.
‘On the other hand I was struck by the titles of the books in the library closet. They were an odd assortment for a young man, works of piety and theology.’
‘So that struck you as well, did it? We’ll have to look into this.’
‘As for the dressing room …’ Bourdeau did not finish his sentence but gave Nicolas a knowing look.
Old Madame Morel reappeared carrying a piping hot tureen. They leapt on the food and for a considerable while thought of nothing else.
‘There’s just one thing missing from this meal,’ said Bourdeau, ‘a good bottle of wine. Cider is a very poor accompaniment to these tasty morsels.’
‘Our hostess isn’t allowed to serve any. As she’s already looked on with suspicion by the pork butchers she doesn’t want to get the wine merchants’ backs up. She told me in confidence thatthey sent in their spies to check whether her establishment was sticking to the rules.’
‘I have the feeling,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that she keeps aside some pitchers of decent wine for certain customers.’
‘Not for us. She thinks she’s really got us by the throat on this one …’
‘I know how keen you are on her pig trotter fricassée. And for the law to break the law …’
‘It’s probably my position that intimidates her, and where wine is concerned she doesn’t dare take the risk.’
Bourdeau sighed. The calm look on his face, which some people were too easily taken in by, was a picture of contentment. He enjoyed these feasts with just the two of them.
‘Let’s get back to our case, Nicolas. What do you expect to find in the Carmelite church?’
‘Everything points to the message being from the Comtesse de Ruissec. It’s a well-formed female hand. Who else would it be?’
‘As I left Grenelle the comte asked for his horse and carriage to go to Versailles.’
Old Madame Morel brought in a large earthenware dish containing the faggots that crackled in their golden brown caul.
‘So, my boys, what do you think of this? And here’s the mustard.’
‘We think it’s delicious as usual, and my friend Bourdeau was also saying that it deserved to be washed down with some wine …’
The hostess put a finger to her lips. ‘The day has yet to come when I take the risk on a pitcher of wine that could attract some unwelcome attention. Not that I suspect you ofwanting to get me into trouble but there’s always some evil individual hanging around who’d be only too pleased to catch me out, to the great satisfaction of you know who.’ She looked around her fiercely and withdrew.
‘You’re right, Bourdeau. She didn’t take the bait. Where were we? Oh, yes, Versailles … That’s not a good omen. Our man is going there for news and to complain to his protectors.’
‘Unfortunately yes. He has the privilege of eating at Court.’
They remained silent for a time.
‘Are you still convinced that we are dealing with a murder here?’ Bourdeau asked eventually.
‘Yes, I am. I won’t say why just yet; I’ll wait for Sanson’s conclusions. Once we’re sure, we’ll have scored a point over the murderer and stolen a march on those who would like to stop justice taking its course. Then there will still be much left to do: why, who, how …’
The meatballs melted in their mouths; they wiped their plates clean with crusts of bread.
Having eaten his fill, Bourdeau lit his pipe. ‘The body is to be opened up this evening at about nine o’clock. Don’t forget your snuff …’
Nicolas smiled; it
‘Any other observations?’
‘Not really. I did a general inspection of the vicomte’s rooms again. It’s impossible to enter or leave them except, as you might expect, through the door or the windows. I even checked the chimney flue, at considerable risk to my uniform.’
He rubbed the front of his doublet, which still bore some blackish marks.
‘On the other hand I was struck by the titles of the books in the library closet. They were an odd assortment for a young man, works of piety and theology.’
‘So that struck you as well, did it? We’ll have to look into this.’
‘As for the dressing room …’ Bourdeau did not finish his sentence but gave Nicolas a knowing look.
Old Madame Morel reappeared carrying a piping hot tureen. They leapt on the food and for a considerable while thought of nothing else.
‘There’s just one thing missing from this meal,’ said Bourdeau, ‘a good bottle of wine. Cider is a very poor accompaniment to these tasty morsels.’
‘Our hostess isn’t allowed to serve any. As she’s already looked on with suspicion by the pork butchers she doesn’t want to get the wine merchants’ backs up. She told me in confidence thatthey sent in their spies to check whether her establishment was sticking to the rules.’
‘I have the feeling,’ said Bourdeau, ‘that she keeps aside some pitchers of decent wine for certain customers.’
‘Not for us. She thinks she’s really got us by the throat on this one …’
‘I know how keen you are on her pig trotter fricassée. And for the law to break the law …’
‘It’s probably my position that intimidates her, and where wine is concerned she doesn’t dare take the risk.’
Bourdeau sighed. The calm look on his face, which some people were too easily taken in by, was a picture of contentment. He enjoyed these feasts with just the two of them.
‘Let’s get back to our case, Nicolas. What do you expect to find in the Carmelite church?’
‘Everything points to the message being from the Comtesse de Ruissec. It’s a well-formed female hand. Who else would it be?’
‘As I left Grenelle the comte asked for his horse and carriage to go to Versailles.’
Old Madame Morel brought in a large earthenware dish containing the faggots that crackled in their golden brown caul.
‘So, my boys, what do you think of this? And here’s the mustard.’
‘We think it’s delicious as usual, and my friend Bourdeau was also saying that it deserved to be washed down with some wine …’
The hostess put a finger to her lips. ‘The day has yet to come when I take the risk on a pitcher of wine that could attract some unwelcome attention. Not that I suspect you ofwanting to get me into trouble but there’s always some evil individual hanging around who’d be only too pleased to catch me out, to the great satisfaction of you know who.’ She looked around her fiercely and withdrew.
‘You’re right, Bourdeau. She didn’t take the bait. Where were we? Oh, yes, Versailles … That’s not a good omen. Our man is going there for news and to complain to his protectors.’
‘Unfortunately yes. He has the privilege of eating at Court.’
They remained silent for a time.
‘Are you still convinced that we are dealing with a murder here?’ Bourdeau asked eventually.
‘Yes, I am. I won’t say why just yet; I’ll wait for Sanson’s conclusions. Once we’re sure, we’ll have scored a point over the murderer and stolen a march on those who would like to stop justice taking its course. Then there will still be much left to do: why, who, how …’
The meatballs melted in their mouths; they wiped their plates clean with crusts of bread.
Having eaten his fill, Bourdeau lit his pipe. ‘The body is to be opened up this evening at about nine o’clock. Don’t forget your snuff …’
Nicolas smiled; it
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