Judith Rock - The Eloquence of Blood

Charles, beyond speech, shook his head.

Callot tightened his grip. “Pray, maitre!”

From somewhere, Charles dredged up the opening words of the prayers for the dead, and Callot joined him. When they finished the familiar, steadying words, Charles’s brain was working again. He realized that the weeping woman kneeling beside Martine was Isabel Brion.

“Did you and Mademoiselle Brion find Mademoiselle Mynette’s body?” Charles asked.

“We came to see how she was, after being so upset yesterday. The girls still hadn’t found Martine’s paper, of course. Nor did my lazy, useless nephew, so far as I know-I haven’t seen him yet today, he’s probably still sleeping. And when I get my hands on him-dear Blessed Virgin, if I’d known what was happening here-no servants but a kitchen boy and that drunken maid. I tell you, Henri is as guilty of her death as anyone, the miser! If she’d been properly looked after, this wouldn’t have happened, how could it? If Martine had only told us how things were, we would have taken her in. But as you heard, she didn’t want to come to us because of Gilles. I see now that Henri let this household fall apart to try to force her to come and live with us. Because he didn’t want to spend any of the Mynette money on this house and its servants!” The old man was shaking with fury. “And the servants certainly knew the donation was missing.” He sighed. “In fairness to my unspeakable nephew, I should have known they’d start leaving as soon as they heard that. What can you expect-they knew they’d be out on the street soon enough if the paper wasn’t found, so they went looking for more secure places.” Callot shook his head and breathed hard to steady himself. When he could speak again, he said more quietly, “When Isabel and I arrived here, Martine’s maid was screaming. She’d just come down and found her. The idiot woman reeks of wine.” Callot wiped his eyes and jerked his head at an alcove to the right of the stairs. “I sent the kitchen boy for the commissaire.”

The sergent stood at the alcove’s entrance now, and beyond him was a tall man in a commissaire’s long black legal robe and black hat. A clerk scribbled at his side, taking down the testimony of a sobbing woman in a smoke-blue skirt.

“The commissaire is still questioning the sot of a maid,” Callot muttered. “Much good that will be to him. Dear God, who would do this?”

Charles patted the old man’s arm and went to Isabel Brion. Seeing that she was kneeling in blood, he pulled her gently to her feet. She looked up at him, her face drowned in tears.

“Maitre du Luc? How could this happen? Poor Martine, she never harmed anyone!” She covered her face with her hands.

With his arm around her for fear she would fall, Charles led her to a carved bench against the wall and settled her on it. Then, hoping his face showed nothing of the storm of pity and anger that raged inside him, he went back to Martine’s body and bent over it. The barest of touches told him that while the front of the bodice was soaked in blood, the skirt was hardly stained. He leaned closer, studying the ragged rip in the right side of the young woman’s neck. Swiftly, closing his ears to Mlle Brion’s gasp of surprise, he raised Martine’s upper body so he could see her back. There was blood there, but it could as easily be from the blood pooled on the floor as from another wound. But that would not be sure until the body was undressed. There was, at least, no other visible wound. Charles started looking for the blade. A small knife, he thought, but deadly sharp. If the blade hadn’t ripped open the great artery, the wound in her neck would have been much too small to kill her. He combed the floor and the staircase, looked under the bench, but found nothing. There were blood splashes, though, on the plaster wall nearest her body, which made Charles think that the murderer had almost certainly been splashed himself. Even so, the man had been self-possessed enough to take the weapon away with him. Charles leaned down and touched Martine’s hand. It was cooling-she would cool quickly on the cold floor-but some of her body’s warmth was still there. Not long, then. She had been alive to see the morning, if not the light. He went to the open house door and looked at the elaborate lock. Then he saw the iron key, as long as his hand, hanging beside the door. He went back to Isabel.

“Mademoiselle, did the maid have to unlock the door to let you in?”

She hesitated. “No, she didn’t. When we heard her scream, my uncle pushed on the door and it opened.”

Charles nodded. “Another question, mademoiselle. Did Martine Mynette’s mother have an uncle who was a Jesuit?”

“Oh. Yes, she did. But he died a long time ago. Before Martine and I were even born, I think. I remember my father saying that he was a teacher at Louis le Grand.”

It was the answer he’d expected. “Thank you, mademoiselle. Shall I find your great-uncle and ask him to take you home?”

“No. No, I thank you, but I want to stay here. Martine was my dearest friend. When they will let us, I will help the maid do the last things for her.”

Charles had to swallow before he could speak. “You are a good friend to her. I will pray for you and for Mademoiselle Mynette. If you will allow it, I will come tomorrow to see you and Monsieur Callot.”

She nodded, and he took his leave of her. He went to where Martine lay and looked once more at her still face. Then he left the house, deaf to the growl of angry talk as he passed the crowd around the gate. He walked quickly, numb with grief for this girl he’d met only yesterday, blackly full of anger at whoever had destroyed her. Before he reached the college, snow came. It settled on his shoulders, stuck to his eyelashes, and half blinded him. It comforted him, silencing the streets and seeming to shroud the houses in cold white mourning.

“Dead?” Pere Le Picart looked up from his desk. “Dear Blessed Virgin,” he whispered. And then, “God forgive me.”

It was Charles’s turn to stare. Then he understood. The girl had been the unexpected and unwelcome obstacle between the college and the Mynette fortune. Which the college badly needed. Le Picart had no doubt been trying not to think about-let alone hope for-the only two things that would remove the obstacle: failure to find the lost donation entre vifs, or the girl’s death.

Le Picart let his held breath go. “How did she die? Some sudden illness?”

“Sudden, yes. But no illness.” In spite of the rector’s small fire and the worn red-and-green carpet on the floor, Charles huddled deeper into his cloak, cold to the bone, though not from the snow. He took a deep breath. “She was stabbed.” He crossed himself.

Le Picart did likewise, his eyes wide with horror. “Ah, no! May God receive her soul,” he whispered.

“I should also tell you it is definite that Martine Mynette’s adopted mother was the Anne Mynette you spoke of,” Charles added.

Le Picart looked down at his clasped hands, braced on the desk as though for an ordeal. “The police were there?”

“The local commissaire and a sergent, yes.”

“Do they suspect someone?”

“I don’t know, mon pere.” Charles sighed. “I was crossing the Place on my way to the Brion house when I saw a crowd outside the gate of the Mynette house. I went in, and the commissaire was questioning a maid. From what I learned, it’s obvious how the killer got in. The house door was not locked or barred when the maid found the girl’s body.”

“A thief, perhaps, and she interrupted him?”

“Perhaps.”

For a long moment, the only sound was snow against the window. Listening to its soft patting at the glass, like some small creature wanting in, Charles tried to think how to say what he had to say.