a long, mournful face like a bloodhound, straightened as they approached, tugged a sheet back over a corpse, and plunged his hands into a basin of dirty water.
“Morning, Bouille,” said Brasseur. “Do you have anything more for us about the Rue du Hasard murders?”
“Here’s my report,” said the concierge with a quick swallow from his pocket flask. Aristide glanced over Brasseur’s shoulder. Deceased, female, had been identified by her father as Marie-Célie-Josèphe-Élisabeth Montereau, age twenty-two years and five months, in good health and well-nourished, bearing no scars or highly individual features. Examination of the corpse had revealed a wound consistent with a single shot to the heart from a small firearm, as stated in the police surgeon’s report. Deceased had worn one chemise of good linen, one gown of white muslin bearing no marks or repairs (other than such damage caused by the shot that had killed deceased), one rose-pink carmagnole jacket of lightweight wool showing little wear (other than the aforementioned damage), one pair red leather shoes without high heels and showing little wear, one pair thread stockings showing little wear, one scarf of pink cashmere… .
Brasseur glanced quickly over the second sheet, the report on Louis Saint-Ange, rolled the papers into a tube, and tapped it against his lips. “Nothing much new here.”
“Might I see the girl?” Aristide said.
Bouille shuffled to one of the draped forms and folded back the sheet. Aristide gazed at the pallid, pretty young face, calm and inscrutable in death, and raised a hand to brush away a stray thread that had fallen across her cheek.
Bouille glanced at his notes. “Do you want to see the other one? We’re done with them, and the identification’s in order. The relatives can claim them whenever they like.”
“Who formally identified Saint-Ange?” Brasseur asked. “His servant?”
“Hmmm … Barthélemy Thibault, domestic official, identified him; and the girl’s father, Citizen Montereau, confirmed it.”
“Montereau!”
Bouille nodded. “We showed him the second corpse, just as a matter of form, and Montereau recognized him. Seemed very surprised. Claimed he was a relation.”
“Well, well.” Brasseur wrote a few lines in his notebook. “Nothing else?”
“Sorry. Be sure to tell the relatives they can claim the bodies,” Bouille reminded them as they retreated. “Daude’s done with the inventory of the clothing and effects. He’s very efficient that way.”
Very efficient, Aristide thought, as they climbed the steps out of the corpse-stink.
CHAPTER 6
After a quarter-hour at the Basse-Geôle, neither Aristide nor Brasseur felt inclined toward more luncheon than a roll and a stiff two-sou glass of cheap brandy, commonly known as eau-de-vie or “water of life,” from a street hawker. They continued to the faubourg Germain and, telling the cabman to wait, alighted from their fiacre in a spacious, cobbled courtyard. A groom hurried forward to lead the horse to a marble watering-trough.
The manservant who led them inside wore no aristocratic livery, but the republican austerity of 1793 and 1794 seemed to have made little other impression on the ex-Comte de Soyecourt’s manner of living. A chilly, elegant marble foyer led upstairs to a series of richly furnished antechambers and salons, hung with satin curtains and decorated with delicate carved and painted paneling, where silent servants were hanging black draperies over windows, mirrors, chandeliers, and clocks. Montereau rose from a writing-desk to meet them as they entered the library.
“Citizen Commissaire? They told me at—at the Basse-Geôle that someone would call. Coffee for the citizens, Michel,” he added, to the lackey.
Aristide took stock of Montereau as Brasseur introduced himself and Dautry pulled out his notebook. The dead girl’s father was thickset and dark, lines of grief marking what would have been in better times a
“Morning, Bouille,” said Brasseur. “Do you have anything more for us about the Rue du Hasard murders?”
“Here’s my report,” said the concierge with a quick swallow from his pocket flask. Aristide glanced over Brasseur’s shoulder. Deceased, female, had been identified by her father as Marie-Célie-Josèphe-Élisabeth Montereau, age twenty-two years and five months, in good health and well-nourished, bearing no scars or highly individual features. Examination of the corpse had revealed a wound consistent with a single shot to the heart from a small firearm, as stated in the police surgeon’s report. Deceased had worn one chemise of good linen, one gown of white muslin bearing no marks or repairs (other than such damage caused by the shot that had killed deceased), one rose-pink carmagnole jacket of lightweight wool showing little wear (other than the aforementioned damage), one pair red leather shoes without high heels and showing little wear, one pair thread stockings showing little wear, one scarf of pink cashmere… .
Brasseur glanced quickly over the second sheet, the report on Louis Saint-Ange, rolled the papers into a tube, and tapped it against his lips. “Nothing much new here.”
“Might I see the girl?” Aristide said.
Bouille shuffled to one of the draped forms and folded back the sheet. Aristide gazed at the pallid, pretty young face, calm and inscrutable in death, and raised a hand to brush away a stray thread that had fallen across her cheek.
Bouille glanced at his notes. “Do you want to see the other one? We’re done with them, and the identification’s in order. The relatives can claim them whenever they like.”
“Who formally identified Saint-Ange?” Brasseur asked. “His servant?”
“Hmmm … Barthélemy Thibault, domestic official, identified him; and the girl’s father, Citizen Montereau, confirmed it.”
“Montereau!”
Bouille nodded. “We showed him the second corpse, just as a matter of form, and Montereau recognized him. Seemed very surprised. Claimed he was a relation.”
“Well, well.” Brasseur wrote a few lines in his notebook. “Nothing else?”
“Sorry. Be sure to tell the relatives they can claim the bodies,” Bouille reminded them as they retreated. “Daude’s done with the inventory of the clothing and effects. He’s very efficient that way.”
Very efficient, Aristide thought, as they climbed the steps out of the corpse-stink.
CHAPTER 6
After a quarter-hour at the Basse-Geôle, neither Aristide nor Brasseur felt inclined toward more luncheon than a roll and a stiff two-sou glass of cheap brandy, commonly known as eau-de-vie or “water of life,” from a street hawker. They continued to the faubourg Germain and, telling the cabman to wait, alighted from their fiacre in a spacious, cobbled courtyard. A groom hurried forward to lead the horse to a marble watering-trough.
The manservant who led them inside wore no aristocratic livery, but the republican austerity of 1793 and 1794 seemed to have made little other impression on the ex-Comte de Soyecourt’s manner of living. A chilly, elegant marble foyer led upstairs to a series of richly furnished antechambers and salons, hung with satin curtains and decorated with delicate carved and painted paneling, where silent servants were hanging black draperies over windows, mirrors, chandeliers, and clocks. Montereau rose from a writing-desk to meet them as they entered the library.
“Citizen Commissaire? They told me at—at the Basse-Geôle that someone would call. Coffee for the citizens, Michel,” he added, to the lackey.
Aristide took stock of Montereau as Brasseur introduced himself and Dautry pulled out his notebook. The dead girl’s father was thickset and dark, lines of grief marking what would have been in better times a
Similar Books
![Their Unusual Mating [Paranormal Protection Unit 5] (Siren Publishing Classic)](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/474040/thumbs/152x264/their-unusual-mating-paranormal-protection-unit-5-siren-publishing-classic.png)
