Judith Rock - The Rhetoric of Death

“She bought the poison herself,” Charles said. “I talked to the apothecary who sold it to her.”

“He’s lying! Or wrong. He must be, please, maitre-”

“You saw Maitre Doissin die, Frere Fabre. A hard death. You saw your sister leave the postern just after the poisoned gaufres were left. Agnes must at least explain herself. Will you go for the police? Ask someone where the nearest commissaire lives and bring him, or one of his men.”

It was the best he could think of. He couldn’t leave Fabre here to warn Agnes. And if Fabre didn’t come back-well, that would be information, too.

The boy gave the gate a last anguished look and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I’ll go.”

To Charles’s relief, Fabre returned quickly, bringing a man in the night watch uniform of plumed hat and blue jerkin laced with silver. The man was built like a bull, with hard eyes and a mouth like a trap.

“This is Monsieur Servier,” Fabre panted. “He is-”

Servier cut across the social niceties. “What’s going on?”

“I am Maitre Charles du Luc, from the College of Louis le Grand, monsieur. A tutor died there this afternoon. From poison. Which you may already know, since our rector notified your lieutenant-general. The tutor ate poisoned gaufres intended for a little boy, Antoine Doute. The woman who left the gaufres is Agnes La Salle, maid to Mme Lisette Doute. Mme Doute is the boy’s stepmother and she is staying here with Mme Montfort, who is her sister. I want you to question the maid and the stepmother. The maid was recognized just after she left the cakes, and I know where she bought the poison.”

Servier’s eyebrows rose as he eyed the gate. “You know Montfort’s related some way to the Guises,” he growled.

“The king’s law runs here, not the Guises’, monsieur. And God’s law runs everywhere.”

“Just so you know whose broth you’re stirring. The commissaire’s not going to like this. He’s already had a murder tonight-an apprentice did for his master and they’re all in his house, witnesses, widow, accused, you should see it.” Serious offenders and witnesses were usually questioned first by the neighborhood commissaire, no matter what the hour.

Servier hitched up his belt, which supported a light sword and a small pistol, and took the pieces of a heavy wooden baton from under his cloak. He assembled them into a long, thick weapon, pulled the Montforts’s bell rope, and followed up the pull with a volley of baton blows on the gate. Running feet approached and a grille slid open.

“Tell your master that M. Servier of the watch wants to see Mme Doute and the woman Agnes La Salle.”

“My master is not at home.”

“Then tell your mistress. But first open the gate.”

The man started to bluster and Servier lifted his baton in front of the grille and slapped it loudly against his open palm. The grille slammed shut, bolts were slid back, and the gate began to open. Servier wrenched it wide and strode into the cobbled yard, Charles and Fabre behind him. The servant’s eyes grew round when he saw their cassocks.

“Please,” he said, “wait here.” He backed toward the tall, beautifully carved house door across the court.

“We’ll wait inside, if you please,” Servier said. “Or if you don’t.”

With a helpless gesture, the man hurried ahead of them to the door of the beautiful brick house, whose upper floors made three sides of the court. The lower floors housed stables and outbuildings. A lantern beside the open stable doors raised gleams from the paintwork of a coach standing inside. They followed the servant into an anteroom at the foot of a curving staircase.

“I beg you, wait here!” The man held his hands toward them as though warding off a pack of dogs and ran upstairs.

“Come on,” Servier said over his shoulder to Charles and Fabre. “But if you make a noise and the women get away, I’ll arrest you both instead.”

They went soft-footed up the gleaming stairs, toward the sound of women’s voices exclaiming and arguing. The voices grew louder as the servant emerged from a door carved with fruit and garlands.

“Who’s in there?” Servier demanded, over the man’s protests.

“I am.” The woman who had come out of the salon put enough ice into the two words to freeze the Seine from Troyes to Rouen.

The servant stepped hastily aside and walked to the head of the stairs, blocking their path. Charles made a pretense of rubbing his chin to make sure his mouth was closed. She looked like one of the goddesses cavorting on the painted ceiling above her head. Her pale hair, gathered up behind and dripping ringlets around the perfect oval of her face, was silvery in the candlelight. Little golden pears hung trembling from her ears and her low bodice spilled creamy flesh and ivory lace. One dimpled hand held up shimmering gray satin skirts. Her eyes were the blue of pond ice. Her cold gaze settled on Charles.

“Mon pere? What is this about?”

“Madame Montfort?”

She nodded fractionally.

“I apologize for this intrusion, madame. I am Maitre Charles du Luc, from Louis le Grand. I beg you to hear what M. Servier has to say.”

“I must speak with the maid Agnes La Salle,” Servier growled. “And her mistress.”

“Her mistress is unwell and is seeing no one. Why do you want her maid?”

“Because these good Jesuits have laid evidence that she poisoned a man this afternoon.”

The heavy skirts slipped from Mme de Montfort’s hand. “That is absurd! She has been with Mme Doute all day. You are mistaken.”

“I don’t think so, madame. But others will decide that.” Servier started to climb the few remaining stairs.

“No! Wait. I will bring the maid out, you can speak to her downstairs. Her mistress, my sister, knows nothing of this. She is very near her time. It’s her first and your coming here has already upset her more than enough.”

Servier and Mme de Montfort locked eyes. He smiled at her bosom and withdrew a short way down the stairs, forcing Charles and Fabre down behind him, stopping where he could still see the salon door. When she saw that he would go no farther, she went back into the salon. Voices clamored briefly and she returned with a delicately built girl a few years older than Fabre. The tendrils of hair escaping from her white coif were as red as her brother’s. Watching her over his shoulder, Servier descended to the anteroom. She had not yet seen Fabre, who had withdrawn with Charles into the anteroom’s shadows. When Servier turned around, the girl checked sharply at the sight of his baton, but Mme de Montfort forced her down the last few steps. With an assessing glance at Servier, the girl lowered her dark lashes and folded her hands at her tiny waist. Her breath came fast, swelling her plain black bodice.

“Yes, monsieur?” she said softly.

“You are Agnes La Salle?”

“Yes.” Her lips parted over small even teeth, and her voice grew breathy. “Is there-something-anything-I can do for you?”

“You left poisoned cakes at the college of Louis le Grand today. A tutor ate them and died. I am arresting you for murder, mademoiselle.”

Agnes sprang away from him and clutched at Mme de Montfort. “No! I’ve done nothing, tell him, madame!” Then she saw Fabre. “Denis?” she faltered. Emotions chased each other like clouds shredding and forming across her face. “Tell him, Denis,” she shrieked, flinging herself into his arms. “I am innocent!”

“It’s all right,” her brother said, holding her tightly. “You didn’t know they were poisoned. But I saw you at the college, and-”

She reared back in his arms. “What do you mean, you saw me?”

She wasn’t surprised at the mention of poison, Charles noted. Only at having been seen.