apparently went on to Bizeul’s house, because an oublieur finishing his rounds saw Brion and Cantel-who lives only a few streets from Bizeul-leave Bizeul’s house together.” Oublieurs were evening street vendors who sold their delicate pastry wafers, called oublies, for after-dinner treats at houses hosting parties. “The oublieur said they were arguing, but he couldn’t say whether Brion went with Cantel willingly or not. Interestingly, I found a little room off Cantel’s courtyard in which there was a pile of straw, blankets, half a loaf of bread, a pewter cup, and a length of rope, cut through. Madame Cantel says that she had a drunk, unruly servant put there overnight. I think that Monsieur Cantel put an unruly notary there. And meant to leave him there until Brion covered his and Bizeul’s losses. I think a servant took a bribe and let him escape, probably shortly before he was killed. When we undressed him here at the Chatelet, there was straw under his cloak, on his coat. I think he was on his way home-your Monsieur Morel said that those streets were a back way to the Brion house.”
Charles stared at La Reynie. “You’ve talked to one of the men who seem to be the last who saw Brion alive. You know that they abducted and imprisoned him. You know that the second man has fled! So why in the name of all hell’s devils have you arrested Gilles Brion for that murder?”
“I don’t think those two men killed Brion. Oh, I have not stopped making absolutely sure of that. But I think that they abducted him because they were furious over the failure of his smuggling scheme and the money they lost. I imagine that they thought they could force him to pay them some part of it. Which is a very good reason to think they didn’t kill him. Dead, he would be able to pay them nothing. And I cannot see why they would follow and kill him after he escaped. He certainly would not have come to the police over his imprisonment; he was in far too much trouble himself. I agree that, of the two, Cantel has made himself far more suspect by disappearing. When I find him, he will find himself housed here until he explains himself to my satisfaction. But, again, why kill the man from whom you hope to get a large sum of money? So, until I know more, I am left with your devout friend upstairs.”
“If Gilles Brion wanted to kill his father, why would he do it at that noisome ditch where his father was found? How could he know his father would be there? Why would he be there?”
“I have no idea.”
“But you think he did it.”
“On the whole, no.”
Charles breathed slowly in and out, metaphorically clutching his temper with both hands. “Good. At least we agree about that. So what are you playing at?”
La Reynie rose from his chair, shaking his head in exasperation, and picked up the iron poker to stir the fire. “I am trying to shake loose from someone-him-anyone-what I need to know. Young Brion does not seem to me to have the stomach for killing either his father or the girl. But he is the only one we have clear evidence against, and I have to know for certain. The evidence against him in the girl’s murder is damning enough. If he killed either of them, though, I would say he’d be more likely to kill his father. Sons so often seem to be, don’t they, whether they really do or not.” His voice was suddenly bleak and his shoulders rose and fell in a soundless sigh. “But I agree with you that both time and place speak against his guilt where his father is concerned. I heard what he told you about where he was on Thursday night and early Friday-before he went to the Mynette house-and I heard the conclusion you drew from what he said.” He glanced over his shoulder at Charles. “This may shock you, maitre, but if Gilles Brion did not kill his father-or the girl-I don’t care what else he was doing, whether he was with his ‘beau ami’ or the village goat or weeping the night through by himself in prayer. Though if you quote me, I will deny having said so.”
“Paris doesn’t have a village goat,” Charles said mildly.
La Reynie turned and stared at him.
“Now that we’ve shocked each other, what are you going to do to find out who really killed Martine Mynette and Henri Brion so you can let Gilles go?”
“I wish I knew.”
“I see. Well, you won’t be glad to know that I have leave from Pere Le Picart to give you another problem to solve. Louis le Grand was attacked on Friday night.”
“What?”
“Yes, I thought perhaps you didn’t know. Which in itself is interesting. Three men broke several of our windows on the rue St. Jacques and scrawled the word murderers on our doors. Pere Le Picart assumed that the University was behind it, since they take any opportunity to stir up anti-Jesuit feeling. But he told me the next day that he talked privately with the University’s rector-”
“And made a few threats of his own, I imagine,” La Reynie said appreciatively. And added less appreciatively, “Instead of informing the police.”
“As you say. He now thinks that it was not the University’s doing. Some students returning from a tavern to a University house watched the fun and broke our door down, but it seems their presence was pure chance. I think the attackers were tavern drunks, maybe from the Place Maubert, where I first heard the song accusing us of conniving at Mademoiselle Mynette’s death. Though, when I caught one man and talked to him, he wasn’t very drunk. And he wasn’t afraid, even when I threatened him with the police. At least, he wasn’t as afraid as he should have been. He was just angry.”
“Perhaps he was only exceptionally stupid.”
“Perhaps. But news of the incident has been oddly slow to come to your ears. I imagine that the University rector has muzzled the students who saw it happen. But why wouldn’t the men involved trumpet their exploit all over the quartier? Their confreres certainly wouldn’t turn them in.”
“Perhaps they did trumpet it, just not to me. If the man you caught wasn’t just a tavern drunk, who do you think he was?”
“He was dressed like an ordinary workman and talked like one. But-” Charles threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I suppose I’m seeing enemies everywhere. Perhaps he was a plotting Jansenist. Or a Gallican.” Charles grinned wryly. “Or a Jansenist Gallican.”
“Or perhaps he was a Gallican Jansenist,” La Reynie said, straight-faced. Jansenists, anti-Jesuit followers of a Dutchman called Jansenius, often seemed more straightlaced than Protestants. Gallicans were politicians who wanted no papal meddling in French government and sometimes allied themselves with Jansenists, since Jansenists were critical of the papacy. “I think, however, that we can leave France’s political circles out of this, maitre,” La Reynie added.
“The hatred some people have for us frightens me, I admit. But, in spite of my fears, I have been given an order that directly affects you, Monsieur La Reynie.” Briefly, Charles explained what the rector had asked him to do.
La Reynie listened without comment. “Unfortunately,” he said, when Charles finished, “your rector is correct. I can use you. I have nothing like enough men to police Paris.” He eyed Charles. “And I do recall telling you once that if you tired of your Jesuit vocation, I could find a place for you.”
“You did.” Charles returned his look unwaveringly. “But as I told you then, I am Pere Le Picart’s man, not yours.”
La Reynie inclined his head with elaborate courtesy. “And I tell you now that if you break the law in the course of what you have been ordered to do, I will not protect you from the consequences. Entendu?”
“Understood.”
The air between them crackled again with challenge, as it had in the corridor.
La Reynie glanced at the black-and-gold clock standing on a table against the wall. “Two things before we go our ways. First, I will see that the night watch pays more attention to Louis le Grand. Second, I have learned that your song is probably printed more or less under your nose. One of the vendors told me-after a little persuasion-that a stack of copies appears before dawn every day on the porch of St. Julien le Pauvre. Who puts them there, he doesn’t know. Probably some street child, and never the same one twice. The child probably picks them up late at night from a Left Bank printer and leaves them on the church porch. I will have someone watch through the night, but all that will happen is that the child will see the watcher and the copies will turn up in some other place.” The lieutenant-general rose to his feet and settled his coat skirts.
Charles rose, too, ready to take his leave. Instead, before he knew he was going to say it, he asked, “Who is Reine?”
La Reynie busied himself with pulling his wrist lace to hang straight below the wide cuffs of his coat. “She is Renee’s mother, among many other things.”
