do.’
‘Jean Missery?’
The girl opened her eyes wide in surprise and began trembling. ‘No, not him! The young man who called on her some nights.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘No, she called him Aide.’
‘Aide? That’s unusual. Are you sure that was his name?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about the major-domo?’
‘Oh, him! … He was always after her, and even …’ Suddenly, she began shaking uncontrollably, she threw her head back, and her limbs tensed. Nicolas’s first thought was that he was again confronted with a phenomenon he had once before observed in a young servant girl. Helped by Bourdeau, he laid her out on a bench. Gradually, the attack receded, and she regained consciousness, surprised to see the two men bending over her.
‘My dear,’ said Nicolas, ‘you must calm down, nothing is going to happen to you. I’ve promised to look after you and I’m going to keep my word. Pierre, be so kind as to walk back with her.’
Once alone, Nicolas reflected. Of course, he was making progress with his investigation, but he had a growing feeling that the case was proving to be more complex than he had thought at first. The paths that might lead to the truth kept dividing, meeting again, merging, with so many abrupt and unexpected turns that you ended up losing your way in frustration. Why had the young servant girl had a sudden seizure just as she was talking about the major-domo? He vowed to mention it to Dr Semacgus. He recalled past conversations about strange cases of girls prone to that kind of attack. Clearly, none of the women or girls in the Saint-Florentin mansion were indifferent to Jean Missery. Bourdeau reappeared, followed by a young man with a waddling gait. Tow-coloured hair framed a regular, pimply face. His forehead was covered in sweat, and he was pulling on the lapels of his linen jacket as if trying to draw it tighter around himself.
Nicolas launched into the interrogation without further ado. ‘Are you Jacques Despiard, the kitchen boy? How old are you?’
‘That’s me, Monsieur. I’m twenty-five.’
‘How did you come to discover the bodies?’
‘Every morning, I open the kitchens and light the stoves and the hearths in the roasting room. It takes a while to get things heated up properly, especially to get rid of the smoke. I always begin with the roasting room, because that’s where the fire takes longest to get going. This morning, no sooner had I entered than I saw all that blood and the two bodies.’
He had started stammering, and passed his hand over his face as if to dismiss the vision. Nicolas took advantage of this pause.
‘So it was light in the roasting room?’
The young man grew agitated, looking wildly from one of the two impassive police officers to the other, as if searching for help or inspiration.
‘Do you understand my question?’ asked Nicolas. ‘At what time did you open the kitchen?’
‘At six, I think.’
‘I see. So it was dark?’
‘If you say so.’
‘The commissioner isn’t saying anything,’ Bourdeau cut in, irritably. ‘This is about you, and we’d be grateful to you if you could remember what happened.’
‘The inspector’s right,’ said Nicolas gently. ‘How could you see the bodies in a dark basement room at six in the morning, at this time of year?’
‘Did you have a candle?’ asked Bourdeau.
‘I can’t remember … I don’t know. You’re confusing me. All that blood … Leave me alone!’
‘Calm down. We’ll come back to that when you’ve recovered. In the meantime, tell me about the victim.’
The young man’s eyes shone through his tears. ‘She was so beautiful! She always had a kind word. What a monster!’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘The major-domo, Missery, of course. He killed her, he wanted all of them. But they said …’
‘They said what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You need to understand that, if you withhold the truth, you could well end up in a dungeon in the Châtelet prison, where other means will be used to make you talk. What can you tell us about Missery?’
The young man hesitated. ‘A nasty piece of work,’ he said at last. ‘He takes it out on everyone. He sets traps for us to fall into, so he can throw us out on the street. To replace us with his pets, I suppose. He even threatened Monsieur Charles.’
‘The 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 for himself. 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 coughing fit. Moaning, he put his hand on his side, where his wound was. Gradually,
