Judith Rock - The Rhetoric of Death

“You do have a way of showing up in time for murder, Maitre du Luc.”

Charles leapt to his feet.

“Account for your presence here,” Lieutenant-General La Reynie said. “And if you are foolish enough to use that stave you’re holding under your cloak, you will no longer have a presence to account for.”

Without taking his eyes off Charles, the lieutenant-general stepped through the partition’s opening. A thickset man, with a long, heavy pistol as well as a sword in his belt, came in behind La Reynie, eyeing Charles with happy anticipation. Charles dropped the piece of wood and held out his empty hands.

“I am no threat, messieurs. And I know no more of this dead man than you do.”

Probably a great deal less than they did, he thought, watching them ignore Pierre’s body as though it were old news.

“I somehow doubt that.”

“I might also ask what you are doing here, Lieutenant-General La Reynie.”

“Following you, Maitre du Luc, what else?”

The words hit Charles like a mailed fist. “I am a member of a religious house, monsieur,” he said furiously, “and you have no evidence whatever that I am involved in this! The body is already stiff, he must have been killed hours ago. I have been here only a matter of minutes.”

“Yes, but you talked to him yesterday. And whether you spent all of last night on your hard Jesuit bed, I couldn’t say. By the time I learned about this body and put two men outside Louis le Grand, you could have been back inside the college. As for threatening me with your invisible little Jesuit tonsure, the king’s writ runs everywhere. The old days of immunity for clerics in Paris ended a dozen years ago. Though I get arguments about that,” La Reynie added sourly, waving his hand impatiently at the officer hovering beside Charles.

The man grinned evilly. “Turn around.”

Knowing that resistance would get him nowhere he wanted to go, Charles turned to the wall. Swiftly, expertly, and impertinently, the man searched him to the skin. He tossed Charles’s small purse of coins to La Reynie.

La Reynie caught it. “Now go to the outside door and keep everyone out.”

Charles turned around. La Reynie watched his officer out of sight and hefted the nearly flat purse in his hand.

“Did you perhaps rob our friend here, Maitre du Luc?”

“Oh, yes,” Charles drawled, “there is so much wealth in this miserable stinkhole, I hardly knew where to begin.”

“Pity. Then we are back where we started. Why are you here?”

Charles forced himself to swallow his anger. “You know that Philippe Doute’s little brother was ridden down in the street. This poor soul saw the accident. I wanted to ask him about it, to satisfy the child’s father about what happened. That’s all.”

La Reynie went to the pallet and looked down at the dead man. “Very interesting that this man was killed in the same way as Philippe.”

Charles said nothing.

“Pierre Foret,” La Reynie went on thoughtfully, watching Charles. “Quay porter. Sometime pickpocket. Nose smashed in a tavern brawl two years ago, so my sergeant who searched you tells me. Not a bad sort, Pierre, as his sort goes.” He suddenly tossed Charles the purse. “On your own admission, you were the last to see Philippe alive and-”

“Except for his killer.”

“-and you found his body. And now I find you here, standing over this man who was strangled in the same way as Philippe.”

“Search me again.” Charles held his arms out at his sides. “I have nothing that would make that kind of mark.” He let his arms fall. “But that wouldn’t keep you from arresting me, would it? You and Louvois don’t need evidence. You destroy whom you please.”

La Reynie’s brows drew together and his dark eyes flickered. Charles wondered fleetingly if there was a man behind that inscrutable face who minded being feared and hated.

“Have I said that I am arresting you, Maitre du Luc?” The police chief’s voice was smooth as syrup. “On the contrary, I am offering you a choice.”

“What choice?”

“My men can follow you, as they did yesterday. They can watch who comes and goes from Louis le Grand, as they watched you this morning. But I need a fly inside the college, someone to tell me everything there is to know from that vantage point about the murder and the ‘accident.’ What is being said. And not said. Who-if not you-is the favorite for the role of murderer.” He smiled blandly at Charles. “Your good rector is honest as far as his speech goes. But I fear he is telling me only what will not hurt his beloved college and the Society of Jesus. You are not going to have that luxury. There is your choice. Agree to get the information I need, or I will arrest you here and now, on suspicion of that murder and this one and take you to the Chatelet.”

He paused courteously, his head on one side as though eager to answer any questions Charles might have. But Charles’s tongue was as frozen as the rest of him.

“When we reach the Chatelet, I will summon the war minister. M. Louvois is a ruthless questioner, Maitre du Luc. And why? Because his passion is not for morality, but for order. On the whole, a more deadly commitment, I often find. He has few qualms about destroying anyone who brings disorder to the realm. Common criminals, Huguenots, their sympathizers, their co-conspirators. It is all one to Monsieur Louvois. And when you have screamed out your confession of treason in Nimes, I will use it. Against your college, your Society, and your family.”

“Nimes?” Charles just managed to get the word out.

“Nimes,” La Reynie said genially. “Drunken bishops are so often worth their weight in gold.”

Charles closed his eyes and cursed silently. His dear cousin the bishop had never been able to hold his wine. But where in God’s name could La Reynie have seen him?

“You didn’t know he visited Versailles?” La Reynie said, as though reading Charles’s mind. “It was before you came to Paris. Perhaps he was arranging for your new assignment. Or perhaps he was only reminding the king of his existence, since his appointment is still unconfirmed. Thanks to the pope taking his revenge for the church revenue quarrel by refusing to confirm Louis’s episcopal appointments. However that may be, Bishop du Luc grew very merry during an evening of court gambling and poured the whole story of the latest du Luc family scandal into the pretty little ear of one of my court flies. Who poured it into mine.”

“Flies?”

La Reynie laughed. “As in ‘fly on the wall.’ Oh, you will be in good company, I promise you. Indeed, you would be surprised at some of my flies. Where was I? Oh, yes. Bishop du Luc was sober enough not to name you, but it was easy enough to guess who his errant churchman cousin was when a du Luc turned up at Louis le Grand. I am aware that teaching assignments there do not normally go to unknown fledglings from the provinces. No matter how talented, of course.” He bowed ironically. “You should be very grateful to the bishop.” Every trace of amusement was suddenly gone from La Reynie’s face. “Choose, Maitre du Luc.”

La Reynie’s newest fly leaned on the Pont Neuf’s parapet, staring at the unlovely face of his cowardice. Refusing the lieutenant-general would have been his death warrant, whether sooner in the Chatelet or later in the Place de Greve or a Mediterranean galley. At least, thank every saint there was, Pernelle was out of La Reynie’s reach. Out of M. Louvois’s reach, too, and Louvois terrified Charles even more than La Reynie did. And refusing would have unleashed scandal and retribution on the Society, the college, and on the whole du Luc family. God knew, he didn’t want anyone else to suffer for what he’d done.