I did look through a lens once.”
“What did you see?”
“Little wriggling things like Pere Kircher’s worm. I was astonished! And do you know what it made me wonder? Whether we might someday make a lens that allows us to see God! I don’t mean any blasphemy, but-if a lens lets us see these things too small for the eye alone, then perhaps, on the other end of the scale, so to speak
…”
Jouvancy talked on, pouring the balm of words over his raw shock and grief, and Charles found himself thinking of a young marquis who’d kept him from bleeding to death when he’d been wounded in the Spanish Netherlands, in the battle of St. Omer. The boy had stripped off his own shirt, rolled it into a ball, and held it against Charles’s mangled shoulder, talking knowledge-ably and desperately about wine while Charles’s blood soaked into the linen and the cart picking up the wounded inched toward them.
The lay brothers in the laundry were as little pleased as Jouvancy had said they would be, but they parted with a tub of just-heated water, provided towels, and fetched them clean clothes. Half an hour later, feeling unpleasantly boiled and with water still dripping from their hair, Jouvancy and Charles joined the rector in the room behind the infirmarian’s workshop. Philippe’s body, stripped and washed, lay on a long table. Now that the body was clean, its youth was even more heartbreaking. Steeling himself, Charles picked up one of Philippe’s hands to look for signs of a fight. He found no marks at all on the hands, but the one sign he did find on the body was definitive. The deeply incised mark around Philippe’s neck told them beyond doubt that the boy had been strangled. But the mark was oddly varied-several-stranded at the sides and patterned-braided, perhaps-at the throat. With aching tenderness, Jouvancy folded the boy’s slender, unlined hands over his chest and pulled the shroud up over him.
His voice shook as he said, “Do you think he was in the latrine all this time?”
“Most likely,” Charles said. “The death stiffness has come and gone, and decay looks well advanced. Because of the heat in-in the latrine.”
“At least we know now how he was killed. But I would have had the killer use some other means,” Le Picart said.
Charles and Jouvancy looked at him in surprise. Then Charles began to nod, but Jouvancy blinked in confusion. “Why?”
“If he had been killed with an obvious weapon,” Le Picart said gently, “finding the killer would be easier. Since we forbid all weapons here, a dagger or sword or pistol might be traced to its owner that much more easily. But strangled-every one of us wears something in his clothing that could be woven with other pieces to leave a mark like this.”
“Pieces of breech lacing braided together,” Charles said, “or even long shoe ribbons might do it.”
“Or the cords we string our crosses on,” the rector offered.
“The ties that gather shirtsleeves to the wrist,” Jouvancy said, “yes, I see. But-”
“And the older among us string our spectacles around our necks,” Le Picart went on. He reached into his cassock and brought out his reading spectacles, hanging on a stout length of cord.
“Not to mention all the other kinds of cord and string there must be around the college,” Charles said.
“Around the college? But, surely-” Jouvancy’s voice trailed off.
“So the question is,” Charles went on, “what kind of thing would exactly fit this mark. You can see that the braided pieces are thin, but not too thin. And they would have to be strong. Stronger than ordinary string, certainly.”
Jouvancy frowned. “Would there be marks left on whatever was used?”
“There would be blood, the skin on his neck is broken. Though some-maybe even all-of that could be cleaned off, and would have been by now. I don’t see any material left in the wound that could tell us what was used.”
The rector was shaking his head impatiently. “If you had just strangled someone in a latrine, what would you do next?”
“Weight whatever I had used and drop it in,” Charles said promptly.
“Exactly. You seem to be the only one of us without a talent for murder, mon pere,” Le Picart said to Jouvancy, who was looking at them in alarm. Then the rector frowned. “I rarely visit that latrine, but I saw today that it is over-full of waste. I will have to check with Pere Montville, but I am nearly certain that it was supposed to have been cleaned several days ago.”
“We could have it cleaned now and look for this cord, or whatever it is,” said Jouvancy.
“But, mon pere,” Charles said, “imagine how many broken lengths of breeches lacing and other odds and ends of cord must surely be in there. And with all that they will have soaked up by now-” he grimaced and shrugged.
“I agree,” Le Picart said. “Time will be better spent searching for the killer in other ways. Maitre du Luc, the man you chased when Philippe disappeared-are you still certain that he was wearing Philippe’s shirt?”
“Unless it really was Philippe, and he came back later and was killed then. Which is possible, but unlikely, I think. The yellow shirt and the dark hair and the build were enough like Philippe’s that I never doubted it was him I was chasing. But, as you saw, when I found Philippe’s body, the shirt was gone. I fished for it in the latrine and did not find it. Also, when I went looking for him that day, someone pushed me to the ground from behind. I thought then it was Philippe. Now I think it was the killer, making sure I would give chase and leading me away from the latrine and the college. Probably so we would not institute a thorough search here before the body sank in the latrine.”
“That seems a logical conclusion,” the rector said grimly. He looked from Jouvancy to Charles. “You understand, I trust, how essential it is, as we search for this killer, to avoid scandal to the college and the Society.”
“We? Are you not calling in the police?” Charles said, trying to keep the note of challenge out of his voice and wondering just how far Le Picart would go to avoid scandal. “The college of Louis le Grand is still a liberty, then? The king’s law does not run here?”
“Of course it does.” Le Picart’s chin lifted and he drew himself up. “And of course I will ask the help of Lieutenant-General La Reynie. I had already asked him to search for Philippe. As you know. My point is that we must do everything morally possible to avoid scandal to the college and the Society of Jesus. The decisions that must be made to find the killer will be made by those in authority, Maitre du Luc. With regard to your own involvement, I advise you to remember our very recent conversation in my office.”
Into the ensuing silence, Jouvancy said, “This is going to kill his father.”
“Mon pere,” the rector said gently, “M. Doute is lodging at the Prince of Conde’s townhouse. Will you go to him? This terrible news will come better from family.”
“Of course, I will go immediately.” Jouvancy hesitated. “Do you want me to take Pere Guise with me? He is almost closer to them these days than I am, it seems.”
“No. Just you, mon pere.”
Jouvancy bowed his head in acquiescence. And relief, Charles thought. But suddenly, the rhetoric master’s eyes widened and he clutched the rector’s sleeve. “What about Antoine, mon pere? Could this mean that he, too, is in danger? Though that seems… why would anyone… after all, it was only an accident…” He looked in mute appeal at Le Picart.
“Antoine is safe in the infirmary,” the rector said. “And we will all be on our guard. This evening I will gather the faculty, and after them the lay brothers, and find out if anyone knows more about this. I have already told Philippe’s confessor and his tutor what has happened. They are coming to take the first watch beside the body. For now, we must do our best to keep this from the students. I do not want it to grow in the telling into some farfetched drama that will only confuse things. Did you recognize the little boy who was wanting to use the latrine when we arrived there, Pere Jouvancy?”
“Yes, mon pere, that was Robert Boisvert. From Rheims. He is new and very shy. I doubt he has told anyone about his vision of a shit-covered professor.” Jouvancy gave Charles the ghost of a smile. “I will have a word with him before I leave.” The smile fled as Jouvancy laid a gentle hand on Philippe’s body. He started to speak, but his mouth quivered and he pressed his lips together until he had mastered himself. “How will we ever find his killer,” he said, “with all of Paris to search?”
“Unfortunately, we cannot assume that the killer is beyond our walls,” Le Picart said.
Jouvancy stared at him. “But-I can hardly imagine-” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Are you saying, mon
