valet?’
‘Yes, Commissioner. Charles Bibard. Missery was planning to report him to Monseigneur for reselling pieces of candle from the house.’
‘Perhaps Missery is just an honest man who can’t tolerate certain excesses?’
The witness’s face was red with indignation. ‘Him, honest! He’s trading illicitly with all the suppliers, taking a commission on every delivery and building up a nice little nest egg forhimself. As if his wife’s fortune wasn’t enough for him. And he may have wept for her, but he’s certainly had plenty of consolation since.’
‘What do you know about that inheritance?’
‘Only what everyone said. In her will, his wife left him all her fortune, but it would revert to her family if he died – unless, of course, he’d remarried and had children.’
‘Thank you for your information. Try to clarify your whereabouts at the time of the murder, and we’ll speak again.’
The young man fled as if he had a hundred devils at his heels. Provence appeared and announced formally, ‘Commissioner, the doctor says that Monsieur Missery has regained consciousness.’
Nicolas and Bourdeau followed him to the other wing of the Saint-Florentin mansion. The inspector noted with curiosity the route they were taking through the maze-like building. On their arrival, and having dismissed the valet, they saw the major-domo sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, his chest bandaged with pieces of his torn shirt. His eyes were closed and his head drooped over his chest. Monsieur de Gévigland was taking his pulse and passing a bottle of salts under his nose with the other hand.
‘I thought,’ said Nicolas, ‘that your patient had regained consciousness?’
‘So did I,’ replied the doctor. ‘But no sooner was he conscious than he fell into a swoon. It’s only a slight relapse. He’s finding it hard to extricate himself from the mists of sleep.’
At that moment, the man sneezed and his eyes opened then closed again, dazzled by the light. He was shaken by a coughingfit. Moaning, he put his hand on his side, where his wound was. Gradually, his breathing became easier and more sonorous. Meanwhile, Bourdeau was examining every nook and cranny of the room. While the doctor had his back to him, he took, with a wink to the commissioner, several objects from a drawer in the chest. Truly, his deputy was incomparable and never missed an opportunity. He continued his investigations discreetly. Now Missery was staring in surprise at the faces peering down at him.
‘I don’t feel well,’ he said in a thick voice.
Nicolas noticed a strange smell emanating from his mouth.
‘What are you doing in my room?’ asked the major-domo. ‘What’s happened?’
Although his features were drawn, his face was still virile. His sparse grey hair, however, made him look older, forming a kind of crown around the baldness that had already pushed his hairline back off his forehead. His eyes went from one face to another like those of a frightened animal. He was biting his lip, giving the impression that his mind, still wandering in the mists of unconsciousness, was engaged in intense reflection.
‘My dear fellow,’ said the doctor, ‘it is for you to enlighten us. We found you—’
Nicolas seized him by the arm to stop him saying any more. ‘Asleep and wounded,’ he said. ‘I am a police commissioner at the Châtelet. Could you tell us what happened to you?’
‘I have no idea what’s going on,’ replied the major-domo. ‘I went to bed very late, and now I wake up and find you here! Did someone attack me while I was asleep?’
‘Come on,’ said Nicolas. ‘Make an effort to collect your thoughts. We need to know your exact whereabouts last night.’
‘Monseigneur was away. He was at Versailles with the King. Madame, indisposed as she so often is, did not dine. At about eleven o’clock, I had a last look around the house and then came up to bed.’
‘Did you go down to the
‘Yes, Commissioner. Charles Bibard. Missery was planning to report him to Monseigneur for reselling pieces of candle from the house.’
‘Perhaps Missery is just an honest man who can’t tolerate certain excesses?’
The witness’s face was red with indignation. ‘Him, honest! He’s trading illicitly with all the suppliers, taking a commission on every delivery and building up a nice little nest egg forhimself. As if his wife’s fortune wasn’t enough for him. And he may have wept for her, but he’s certainly had plenty of consolation since.’
‘What do you know about that inheritance?’
‘Only what everyone said. In her will, his wife left him all her fortune, but it would revert to her family if he died – unless, of course, he’d remarried and had children.’
‘Thank you for your information. Try to clarify your whereabouts at the time of the murder, and we’ll speak again.’
The young man fled as if he had a hundred devils at his heels. Provence appeared and announced formally, ‘Commissioner, the doctor says that Monsieur Missery has regained consciousness.’
Nicolas and Bourdeau followed him to the other wing of the Saint-Florentin mansion. The inspector noted with curiosity the route they were taking through the maze-like building. On their arrival, and having dismissed the valet, they saw the major-domo sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows, his chest bandaged with pieces of his torn shirt. His eyes were closed and his head drooped over his chest. Monsieur de Gévigland was taking his pulse and passing a bottle of salts under his nose with the other hand.
‘I thought,’ said Nicolas, ‘that your patient had regained consciousness?’
‘So did I,’ replied the doctor. ‘But no sooner was he conscious than he fell into a swoon. It’s only a slight relapse. He’s finding it hard to extricate himself from the mists of sleep.’
At that moment, the man sneezed and his eyes opened then closed again, dazzled by the light. He was shaken by a coughingfit. Moaning, he put his hand on his side, where his wound was. Gradually, his breathing became easier and more sonorous. Meanwhile, Bourdeau was examining every nook and cranny of the room. While the doctor had his back to him, he took, with a wink to the commissioner, several objects from a drawer in the chest. Truly, his deputy was incomparable and never missed an opportunity. He continued his investigations discreetly. Now Missery was staring in surprise at the faces peering down at him.
‘I don’t feel well,’ he said in a thick voice.
Nicolas noticed a strange smell emanating from his mouth.
‘What are you doing in my room?’ asked the major-domo. ‘What’s happened?’
Although his features were drawn, his face was still virile. His sparse grey hair, however, made him look older, forming a kind of crown around the baldness that had already pushed his hairline back off his forehead. His eyes went from one face to another like those of a frightened animal. He was biting his lip, giving the impression that his mind, still wandering in the mists of unconsciousness, was engaged in intense reflection.
‘My dear fellow,’ said the doctor, ‘it is for you to enlighten us. We found you—’
Nicolas seized him by the arm to stop him saying any more. ‘Asleep and wounded,’ he said. ‘I am a police commissioner at the Châtelet. Could you tell us what happened to you?’
‘I have no idea what’s going on,’ replied the major-domo. ‘I went to bed very late, and now I wake up and find you here! Did someone attack me while I was asleep?’
‘Come on,’ said Nicolas. ‘Make an effort to collect your thoughts. We need to know your exact whereabouts last night.’
‘Monseigneur was away. He was at Versailles with the King. Madame, indisposed as she so often is, did not dine. At about eleven o’clock, I had a last look around the house and then came up to bed.’
‘Did you go down to the
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