Maxim Jakubowski: The Best British Mysteries III

Rats were the key. If he could not get Marat’s men to search Fleuriot’s house, then he would have to get someone else to do it. The carpenter Duplay, with his wood yard next door, was at least a chance. He could think of nothing better.

He walked quickly toward the Rue St Honoré, hoping not to give himself time to think of all the things that could go wrong. He had no choice. He kept telling himself that – no choice! It was a drumbeat in his head as he strode along the cobbles, crossed to avoid a cart unloading barrels, and came to the archway at the entrance to the carpenter’s house. He knocked before he had time to hesitate.

It was opened within two minutes by a young woman. She was small and very neat, rather like a child, except that her face was quite mature, as if she were at least in her middle twenties. She inquired politely what she could do to help him.

‘I believe the Citizen who lives here is a carpenter,’ he said, after thanking her for her courtesy.

‘Yes, Citizen. He is excellent. Did you wish to purchase something, or have something made, perhaps?’ she asked.

‘Thank you, but I am concerned for his stock of wood, possibly even his finished work,’ he replied. ‘I have reason to believe that food is being stored in the house next door – cheese, to be precise – and there are a large number of rats collecting…’ He stopped, seeing the distaste in her face, as if he had spoken of something obscene. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Perhaps I should not have mentioned it to you, but I feel that the Citizen…’

There was a click of high heels on the wooden stairway and Carton looked beyond the young woman to see a man whose resemblance to her was marked enough for him to assume that they were related. He was about thirty, small and intensely neat, as she was, almost feline in his manner, with a greenish pallor to his complexion, and myopic green eyes which he blinked repeatedly as he stared at Carton. He was dressed perfectly in the manner of the Ançien Régime, as if he were to present himself at the court of Louis XVI, complete with green striped nankeen jacket, exquisitely cut, a waistcoat and cravat, breeches and stockings. It was his high heels Carton had heard. His hair was meticulously powdered and tied back. He fluttered his very small, nail-bitten hands when he spoke.

‘It is all right, Charlotte, I shall deal with the matter.’

‘Yes, Maximilien,’ she said obediently, and excused herself.

‘Did you say “rats”, Citizen?’ the man asked, his voice soft, accented with a curious sibilance.

With a shock like icy water on his bare flesh, Carton realised what he had done. Of all the carpenters in Paris he had knocked on the door of the one in whose house lodged Citizen Robespierre, and apparently his sister. He stood frozen to the spot, staring at the little man still on the bottom stair, as far away from him as he could be without being absurd. Carton remembered someone saying that Robespierre was so personally fastidious as to dislike anyone close to him, let alone touching him. He had constant indigestion for which he sucked oranges, and anything as gross as a bodily appetite or function offended him beyond belief.

‘I am sorry to mention such a matter,’ Carton apologised again. He found himself thinking of Jean-Jacques and his grief, and how alive Marie-Claire had been, how full of laughter, anger, and dreams. ‘But I believe Citizen Fleuriot next door is hoarding cheese, and it is unfair that he rob the good citizens of food by doing so, but it is also a considerable danger to his immediate neighbours, because of the vermin it attracts.’

Robespierre was staring at him with his strange, short-sighted eyes.

Carton gulped. ‘I have not the power to do anything about it myself,’ he went on, ‘but I can at least warn others. I imagine Citizen Duplay has a great deal of valuable wood which could be damaged.’ He bowed very slightly. ‘Thank you for your courtesy, Citizen. I hope I have not distressed the Citizeness.’

‘You did your duty,’ Robespierre replied with satisfaction. ‘The “Purity of the People’“ – he spoke as if it were some kind of divine entity – ‘requires sacrifice. We must rid France of vermin of every kind. I shall myself go to see this Citizen Fleuriot. Come with me.’

Carton drew in his breath, and choked. Robespierre waited while he suffered a fit of coughing, then when Carton was able to compose himself, he repeated his command. ‘Come with me.’

Carton followed the diminutive figure in the green jacket, heels clicking on the cobbles, white-powdered head gleaming in the last of the daylight, until they reached Fleuriot’s door. Robespierre stepped aside for Carton to knock. The door opened and Fleuriot himself stood in the entrance, face tight with annoyance.

Carton moved aside and Fleuriot saw Robespierre. A curious thing happened. There could not be two such men in all France, let alone in this district of Paris. Fleuriot’s recognition was instant. He turned a bilious shade of yellowish-green and swayed so wildly that had he not caught hold of the door lintel he would have fallen over.

‘I have been told that you have some cheeses,’ Robespierre said in his soft, insistent voice. ‘A great many, in fact.’ He blinked. ‘Of course I do not know if that is true, but lying would make you an enemy to the people…’

Fleuriot made a strange, half-strangled sound in his throat.

Carton closed his eyes and opened them again. His mouth was dry as the dust on the stones. ‘It’s possible Citizen Fleuriot does not own the cheeses?’ he said, his voice catching. He coughed as Robespierre swivelled around to stare at him, peering forward as if it were difficult to see. Carton cleared his throat again. ‘Perhaps he is frightened of someone else, Citizen?’

‘Yes!’ Fleuriot said in a high-pitched squeak, as if he were being strangled. ‘The good citizen is right!’ It was painfully clear that he was terrified. His face was ghastly, the sweat stood out on his lip and brow, and he wrung his hands as if he would break them, easing his weight from foot to foot. But the fear that touched his soul was of Robespierre, not of Philippe Duclos. He gulped for air. ‘The cheeses are not mine! They belong to Citizen Duclos, of the local committee. I am keeping them for him! He has threatened to have my head if I don’t…’ His voice wavered off and he looked as if he were going to faint.

Robespierre stepped back. Such physical signs of terror repelled him. The Purity of the People was a concept, an ideal to be aspired to, and the means to achieve it was obviously fear, but he did not want ever to think of the reality of it, much less be forced to witness it. ‘Philippe Duclos?’ he asked.

‘Yes…C-Citizen…R-Robespierre,’ Fleuriot stammered.

‘Then Citizen Carton here will help you carry the cheeses out, and we will give them to the people, where they belong,’ Robespierre ordered. ‘And Citizen Duclos will answer with his head.’ He did not even glance at Carton but stood waiting for an obedience he took for granted.

Carton felt oddly safe as he followed Fleuriot inside. Robespierre was a tiny man with no physical strength at all -Philippe could have broken him with one blow – but it was not even imaginable that he would. Robespierre’s presence in the yard was more powerful than an army of soldiers would have been. Carton would not even have taken a cheese for Sabot without his permission.

When the food was all removed, the yard was completely dark, but Robespierre was easily discernible by the gleam of his powdered hair. Carton approached him with his heart hammering.

‘Citizen Robespierre?’

Robespierre turned, peering at him in the shadows. ‘Yes, what is it? You have done well.’