“Monsieur Callot, your servant says that Monsieur Henri Brion is not yet at home.”
“No. He is not.”
“Where do you suppose he is?”
“Nowhere I care to mention before my great-niece.”
Charles decided that he would have to leave finding the elder Brion to Lieutenant-General La Reynie, but before he could ask about Gilles, Isabel Brion spoke.
“Martine is to be buried on Monday morning, maitre. Her funeral Mass will be at Saint-Nicolas du Chardonnet, do you know it? It is just a little south of the Place. Will you-oh-but no, forgive me-” She colored and looked away, and Charles thought he knew why.
“I know what is being said about her death, mademoiselle,” he said gently. “But if my rector permits, I will be there.”
M. Callot spoke from the flickering shadows on Charles’s other side. “And that which is being said, maitre, do you swear it is false?”
His great-niece gasped. “Uncle Callot! Be quiet! Of course it is false, you have only to look at him to know he tells the truth!”
“I am not a young girl, Isabel, to have my mind made up by a handsome face.”
Charles felt himself go as red as the flames in the fireplace. Thankful for the room’s dimness, he turned toward Callot. “I assure you, monsieur,” he said evenly, “the Society of Jesus had nothing whatever to do with Mademoiselle Mynette’s death. You well know that there are always those ready to accuse us of any ill thing that happens.”
Callot grunted. “But money is money. A significant sum of money, which more than a few would do much to have.”
“Including your nephew, I understand.”
The old man bridled at Charles’s riposte. “So you’ve learned more about the unhappy courtship my nephew forced on his son? Ah, well, it is true enough.”
Charles decided that bluntness was the fastest way to what he needed. “How much did young Monsieur Brion dislike being forced into courtship?”
“He didn’t kill her! He would never kill anyone!” Isabel Brion shook her head so hard that one of her pearl earrings fell into her lap. “He was obeying my father. Although I would dearly have loved having Martine as my sister, I begged my father and begged him to stop forcing Gilles, but he-he-oh, may God forgive him, my father is so greedy!” Trying to hold in tears, she rose and went to the small mirror beside the fireplace to replace her earring.
“Is your father in such urgent need of money, mademoiselle? And where is he, does he know of Mademoiselle Mynette’s death?” Charles ventured.
“I don’t know where he is. Or whether he knows she is dead. He is the master here and comes and goes as he will.” She sighed. “As for money, who is not in need of more?” She turned from the mirror and wiped her eyes with a tiny black linen handkerchief. “But to get it, my father has made Gilles desperately unhappy. He wants to be a monk. And my father will never let him.”
“Having his religious vocation thwarted could make a man very angry,” Charles said quietly. “Where is your brother, mademoiselle?”
Too late, she saw the danger of what she said. “Gilles is across the river with the Capuchins, where he always is!” she flung at Charles. “Go and see, if you don’t believe me!”
“Ah, it seems you are no longer so handsome, maitre,” Callot murmured.
“Mademoiselle,” Charles said, “someone viciously murdered your friend and must be discovered. At any cost. No one is beyond suspicion.”
“What about me, then?” she demanded.
Charles started to say that she could hardly have a reason to wish her friend dead but then held his tongue. For all he knew, she might have some motivation, though he couldn’t imagine what it would be. “Where were you, then, mademoiselle, when she was killed?”
“Here,” Isabel Brion said hopelessly, all the fight suddenly gone out of her. “Asleep, I suppose. Then I went to her house with Uncle Callot and she was dead.” She turned to the fire, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Blessed Virgin, I wish I had been with her to keep her safe. Or that she had come to us, as my father wished!”
“Can anyone swear that you were here asleep?” Charles pressed her, thinking that he might as well do the thing thoroughly.
She spun around in surprise, realizing that he was taking her seriously. “My maid. She sleeps in my chamber.”
Not necessarily proof, but Charles let it go. He could not believe in Isabel Brion as her friend’s killer. Though not believing is hardly the same thing as knowing, the ruthlessly blunt part of himself pointed out. He turned to Callot. “And you, monsieur?”
“The same. Asleep. Though with no one to swear to it. I have no valet. But you have only to look at me to know that I have not the strength to do what was done.”
Charles was not sure he believed that, either, but Callot seemed as unlikely a killer as his great-niece. Beyond the salon windows, the December dusk was closing in and the corners of the room were filling with shadows. Charles shifted in his chair, knowing he should leave. “What about Mademoiselle Mynette’s maid, the one who found her?”
“Renee? Oh, she’s too lazy to kill anyone,” Isabel Brion said dismissively. “And from the smell of her, she’d drunk herself to sleep the night before. She’s a good enough woman, though, good-tempered, and she’d been with the Mynettes for a long time.”
“I see. Well, it grows late and I must take my leave, mademoiselle, monsieur.” Charles got to his feet. “When Monsieur Henri Brion comes home, I beg you-”
The salon door opened, and Charles turned eagerly, thinking that the notary had at last returned, but it was a much younger man who stood hesitating on the threshold.
“Gilles!”
Isabel rushed to embrace her brother, but Callot remained sitting by the fire, eyeing his great-nephew.
“I’m so glad you’ve come home,” she cried. She looked over her shoulder. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said to Charles, and stepped away from her brother. “Maitre du Luc, may I present my brother, Monsieur Gilles Brion?”
The young man turned his wary, slightly open-mouthed stare on Charles, and his sister made an exasperated noise.
“Gilles?”
Her voice prodded him into an awkward bow, and Charles inclined his head in return. Gilles Brion stood barely as tall as his sister, small boned and delicate. He seemed younger than Isabel, though Charles didn’t know his age. His elaborate light brown wig dwarfed his sallow face. Finely embroidered lace frothed at the neck and cuffs of his ash-brown broadcloth coat, and the heels on his water-spotted but well-made shoes were unnecessarily high. Without them, he probably wouldn’t even reach the tip of his sister’s nose.
Poor Martine, Charles thought, before he could stop himself. Or, perhaps, poor Capuchins…
Mlle Brion laid a hand on Gilles’s arm. “We have been talking about Martine.” Her eyes searched his face. “You may not know, Gilles, but she-she is dead. Someone killed her.”
“Dead?” Young Brion-it was hard not to think of him as a boy, though he must be in his twenties-was suddenly radiant. His eyes shone and he clasped his hands to his breast. Seeing the look on his sister’s face, he let his hands fall and tried for a suitably shocked countenance.
“That is terrible, Isabel. But how can she be-” He shook his head in seeming confusion. “Who would kill Martine?” His eyes went from face to face. Everyone was watching him intently, and no one answered him. The blood drained from his cheeks, leaving his eyes dark as caves. “Who, Isabel?” He clutched her hand. “Have they found him? If they have not found him, the commissaire will say it was me!”
“Was it?” Charles said pleasantly.
Gilles caught his breath, suddenly as red as he’d been pale, and his jaw set with anger. “How dare you say that!”
So, Charles thought, not quite as limp as he seems. “I was only startled by your own words, monsieur. Why
