Judith Rock - The Rhetoric of Death

“Pieces of breech lacing braided together,” Charles said, “or even long shoe ribbons might do it.”

“Or the cords we string our crosses on,” the rector offered.

“The ties that gather shirtsleeves to the wrist,” Jouvancy said, “yes, I see. But-”

“And the older among us string our spectacles around our necks,” Le Picart went on. He reached into his cassock and brought out his reading spectacles, hanging on a stout length of cord.

“Not to mention all the other kinds of cord and string there must be around the college,” Charles said.

“Around the college? But, surely-” Jouvancy’s voice trailed off.

“So the question is,” Charles went on, “what kind of thing would exactly fit this mark. You can see that the braided pieces are thin, but not too thin. And they would have to be strong. Stronger than ordinary string, certainly.”

Jouvancy frowned. “Would there be marks left on whatever was used?”

“There would be blood, the skin on his neck is broken. Though some-maybe even all-of that could be cleaned off, and would have been by now. I don’t see any material left in the wound that could tell us what was used.”

The rector was shaking his head impatiently. “If you had just strangled someone in a latrine, what would you do next?”

“Weight whatever I had used and drop it in,” Charles said promptly.

“Exactly. You seem to be the only one of us without a talent for murder, mon pere,” Le Picart said to Jouvancy, who was looking at them in alarm. Then the rector frowned. “I rarely visit that latrine, but I saw today that it is over-full of waste. I will have to check with Pere Montville, but I am nearly certain that it was supposed to have been cleaned several days ago.”

“We could have it cleaned now and look for this cord, or whatever it is,” said Jouvancy.

“But, mon pere,” Charles said, “imagine how many broken lengths of breeches lacing and other odds and ends of cord must surely be in there. And with all that they will have soaked up by now-” he grimaced and shrugged.

“I agree,” Le Picart said. “Time will be better spent searching for the killer in other ways. Maitre du Luc, the man you chased when Philippe disappeared-are you still certain that he was wearing Philippe’s shirt?”

“Unless it really was Philippe, and he came back later and was killed then. Which is possible, but unlikely, I think. The yellow shirt and the dark hair and the build were enough like Philippe’s that I never doubted it was him I was chasing. But, as you saw, when I found Philippe’s body, the shirt was gone. I fished for it in the latrine and did not find it. Also, when I went looking for him that day, someone pushed me to the ground from behind. I thought then it was Philippe. Now I think it was the killer, making sure I would give chase and leading me away from the latrine and the college. Probably so we would not institute a thorough search here before the body sank in the latrine.”

“That seems a logical conclusion,” the rector said grimly. He looked from Jouvancy to Charles. “You understand, I trust, how essential it is, as we search for this killer, to avoid scandal to the college and the Society.”

“We? Are you not calling in the police?” Charles said, trying to keep the note of challenge out of his voice and wondering just how far Le Picart would go to avoid scandal. “The college of Louis le Grand is still a liberty, then? The king’s law does not run here?”

“Of course it does.” Le Picart’s chin lifted and he drew himself up. “And of course I will ask the help of Lieutenant-General La Reynie. I had already asked him to search for Philippe. As you know. My point is that we must do everything morally possible to avoid scandal to the college and the Society of Jesus. The decisions that must be made to find the killer will be made by those in authority, Maitre du Luc. With regard to your own involvement, I advise you to remember our very recent conversation in my office.”

Into the ensuing silence, Jouvancy said, “This is going to kill his father.”

“Mon pere,” the rector said gently, “M. Doute is lodging at the Prince of Conde’s townhouse. Will you go to him? This terrible news will come better from family.”

“Of course, I will go immediately.” Jouvancy hesitated. “Do you want me to take Pere Guise with me? He is almost closer to them these days than I am, it seems.”

“No. Just you, mon pere.”

Jouvancy bowed his head in acquiescence. And relief, Charles thought. But suddenly, the rhetoric master’s eyes widened and he clutched the rector’s sleeve. “What about Antoine, mon pere? Could this mean that he, too, is in danger? Though that seems… why would anyone… after all, it was only an accident…” He looked in mute appeal at Le Picart.

“Antoine is safe in the infirmary,” the rector said. “And we will all be on our guard. This evening I will gather the faculty, and after them the lay brothers, and find out if anyone knows more about this. I have already told Philippe’s confessor and his tutor what has happened. They are coming to take the first watch beside the body. For now, we must do our best to keep this from the students. I do not want it to grow in the telling into some farfetched drama that will only confuse things. Did you recognize the little boy who was wanting to use the latrine when we arrived there, Pere Jouvancy?”

“Yes, mon pere, that was Robert Boisvert. From Rheims. He is new and very shy. I doubt he has told anyone about his vision of a shit-covered professor.” Jouvancy gave Charles the ghost of a smile. “I will have a word with him before I leave.” The smile fled as Jouvancy laid a gentle hand on Philippe’s body. He started to speak, but his mouth quivered and he pressed his lips together until he had mastered himself. “How will we ever find his killer,” he said, “with all of Paris to search?”

“Unfortunately, we cannot assume that the killer is beyond our walls,” Le Picart said.

Jouvancy stared at him. “But-I can hardly imagine-” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Are you saying, mon pere, that until this man is found, we must look askance at everyone here-at least at everyone who shares Philippe’s height and build and coloring?”

“Yes,” the rector said flatly. “Everyone.”

The summer dark finally came, but Charles lay awake, thinking about Philippe Doute, imagining the air growing thick with prayers around his coffin. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Philippe’s body as it was when he’d pulled it from the latrine. He flopped over onto his back and distracted himself by reliving the tense gathering of the Louis le Grand faculty earlier that evening. Leaving a skeleton staff of proctors to see to the students, Pere Le Picart had called the professors and tutors to the chapel and told them baldly that Philippe had been murdered. Everyone, of course, had been horrified and, equally of course, no one had admitted to knowing anything. Pere Guise, magisterial and grim, had risen to ask who had been the last to see Philippe alive, looking all the while at Charles. Charles had patiently recounted being sent from the classroom to find the boy, which nearly everyone already knew. Guise had stood again to ask how long Charles had been gone on this errand. Twenty minutes, perhaps a little more, Charles had said. Too long, Guise had said with ominous quietness. Much too long. Long enough, perhaps, to strangle Philippe? I did not even know Philippe, Charles had replied furiously. As they glared at each other in the charged silence that followed, old Pere Dainville had bounced up with surprising agility, called ringingly for charity in this most difficult and unprecedented time, and added a tart warning about letting feeling falsify the premises of one’s arguments.