lid had been sealed by knocking in a large number of nails.
‘Were they afraid she might get out or something?’ said Bremond in surprise.
‘It’s the lips of the villagers that they most wanted to seal.’
Using the point of his sword as a lever, Margont prised open the lid. The two men immediately looked away. Prince Eugene had been in such a hurry to have the victim buried that she had not even been washed. She was still wearing the dress she’d had on at the time of the murder. The garment was torn and spattered with congealed bloodstains. Bremond pulled himself together by concentrating on the scientific aspects of his task.
‘The body has bled heavily, so a number of the wounds were inflicted before death …’
Margont was staring straight at his friend and looking down as little as possible.
‘What? She was mutilated while still alive?’
‘A wound inflicted post mortem produces little loss of blood because the heart is no longer beating.’
‘But people would have heard her screaming. The inn was heaving with customers that particular evening.’
Bremond bent forward until his face lightly touched the victim’s. It was like a lover’s final kiss to his beloved. Margont was sweating; he could see spots in front of his eyes and, fighting for breath, he felt as if he would choke.
‘A disorder of the nervous system …’ mumbled Bremond.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Not her, you. You’re as white as a sheet. Sit down on the ground or you’ll collapse.’
Margont obeyed meekly.
‘And yet I’ve seen plenty of mangled bodies …’
‘Yes, but in wartime. Here we are on the threshold of another realm: madness. War is also a form of madness but we understand its objectives and its mechanics.’
Bremond rummaged in one of his pockets, took out some tweezers and thrust them into the corpse’s mouth. He immediately showed his findings to Margont.
‘Feathers and a tiny piece of material. The murderer pressed a pillow against her face to smother the screams.’
‘There was no pillow in the bedroom.’
‘It’s in the coffin. Under her head.’
Margont had collected himself. He rose to his feet but held on to the edge of the coffin for support.
‘I’m not the right person for this investigation. I can’t even bear the sight of the victim, so how could I face the person who committed this abominable crime?’
‘I’m going to let you into a secret. When I’m confronted with a wounded soldier, I feel incompetent. I say to myself there are too many things I don’t know and that medicine doesn’t know very much either. I feel as if I have only the smatterings of a science that is itself incomplete. However that may be, remember that if this woman had been my wife, you are the one I would have asked to find her killer.’
Margont forced himself to look at Maria Dorlovna. The thorax, abdomen, arms and legs were covered in bruises. Bremond pointed to the forearms.
‘The wounds are especially numerous in this area. She was trying to protect herself by putting her arms in front of her.’
The doctor took the victim’s hands and carefully examined each fingernail.
‘While defending herself she must have scratched her attacker. Sadly, she kept her fingernails very short. If they had been longer we might have found beneath them some of the murderer’s hair or a piece of skin, evidence that he had suffered a gash to his face, torso or arms. I’ve examined very many wounded bodies in the course of my career but I have to admit that this is the first time I’ve seen such an atrocity. I’ve counted more than thirty wounds but none was immediately fatal. The murderer avoided the heart, the carotid arteries and the larynx. He left the vital organs intact in order to keep his victim alive as long as possible while he was cutting her up. She died in fact from loss of blood after several minutes of agony. He did not wish merely to kill her; he also wanted to torture her.’
‘From what you’ve said, it may well be that the culprit had medical knowledge.’
‘Yes, but he may not have been a doctor. Any butcher or farmer knows how to kill an animal swiftly, and without causing unnecessary suffering, by severing its carotid artery. Besides, plenty of soldiers have experience of hand-to-hand combat and know where some of the vital organs are. An average French hussar knows as much about this as many physicians. Our friend Piquebois will confirm that for you, believe me.’
‘What weapon was used?’
‘A knife fitted with a blade of approximately …’ Bremond thrust his tweezers into several of the wounds ‘… four and a half inches. Considering the violence of the attack and this bruising around the points of impact I think he plunged the blade in up to the hilt. So it was a small knife with a straight blade. The murderer is right-handed. Have you seen her face?’
Margont took a close look at the Polish woman’s features and had to prevent himself from retching. The eyebrows had been scorched or perhaps cut off. Maria Dorlovna seemed to be staring up at him, wide-eyed. The eye sockets had been damaged by the flame from a candle, and her unseeing eyes, streaked with black stains, seemed to be crying tears of wax. Her mouth was twisted with pain. Margont was mesmerised as Bremond methodically continued his analysis, examining the limbs, touching them, feeling their weight, measuring the size of the injuries. However, at times the medical officer’s hands trembled slightly, affecting the accuracy of his actions.
‘The burns as well as several other wounds were inflicted after death. He used a candle to singe the eyes, the breasts and the skin in some areas. I think he was significantly calmer at that point compared to when he struck the first blows because the damage is more deliberate: the marks are symmetrical, inflicted with less violence …’
‘And yet he must have realised that she was dead!’
‘Certainly, but that didn’t stop him. So, in addition to making his victim suffer, he also took pleasure in mutilating her.’
‘Perhaps he was also thinking about the shock the person discovering the body in such a state would feel. If that was the case, he certainly achieved his goal with me.’
‘Don’t do yourself down, Quentin. I know you well. “The reed bends but does not break.”’
Finally, the medical officer examined the crotch.
‘Sexual intercourse did not take place. That’s all I can tell you. We could carry out an autopsy but I’m not sure it would tell us any more. In any case, I don’t have time to do it. As you know, I have my work cut out improving our temporary hospitals, training assistants on the job …’
‘Of course.’
‘There’s just one aspect that intrigues me.’ The doctor took the right hand. The tips of the middle finger, thumb and index finger were spattered with black marks. ‘It’s ink.’
‘She must have written a letter recently,’ Margont suggested. He changed his mind at once. ‘Not one letter in isolation but a whole series. And yet she had no family.’
‘She was working at an inn, you told me. Perhaps she kept an account book …’
‘The person who employed her told me she helped out with the serving and did the housework. There was no mention of account books.’
The two men replaced the lid of the coffin.
‘Good luck, Quentin. Don’t take unnecessary risks.’
Margont nodded assent. It was Jean-Quenin’s stock remark, the advice he gave to his friends before every campaign. And in peacetime it was, ‘Eat less, and less quickly’, ‘Take more exercise’ and ‘Don’t read at night in poor candlelight.’
‘The same to you, Jean-Quenin, and thanks once again.’
Margont helped to reinter the coffin, then walked down the hill from the graveyard on his own, trying to think of other things. But every time he set foot on a bump or bulge in the ground he thought he was treading on and desecrating a tomb.
