Parot The Nicolas Le Floch Affair

A Nicolas Le Floch Investigation, Book 4
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80533-628-0
Verlag: Pushkin Vertigo
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 424 Seiten

Reihe: Nicolas Le Floch Investigates

January 1774Commissioner Le Floch's lover, socialite Julie de Lastérieux, is found murdered in her bed, a victim of poisoning.Nicolas retains the confidence of those closest to him, and is even sent by Louis XV to London on a secret mission. But a plot is afoot to implicate Le Floch in Julie 's death, and he faces the toughest challenge of his career as he fights to clear his name and bring the real murderer to justice.

Jean-François Parot is a diplomat and historian. He is the author of the Nicolas Le Floch mysteries, which take place in eighteenth century France. The novels, beginning with The Châtelet Apprentice, have been adapted as a successful TV series shown on France 2.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Parot, Jean-François

Weitere Mitwirkende

Curtis, Howard

Leseproben

II

SUSPICION

‘Lord,’ replies the knight, ‘I see that I must talk of my shame and my pain … in order to prove my loyalty.’

BOOK OF THE GRAIL

Friday 7 January 1774

Through the misty clouds that enveloped everything, Nicolas vaguely distinguished the faces of three greybeards shaking their heads and looking at a fourth who was muttering indistinctly, his head covered with a towel. A little old lady, her features obscured by thick black lace, was cutting a Twelfth Night cake with what looked like a billhook. When they were served, the four guests got down to eating their portions of the feast, which seemed to be difficult to chew. This activity was punctuated with brief, inarticulate words. Suddenly, the man whose head was concealed let out a brief cry, plunged his hand beneath the towel, and took out a black charm. Nicolas was wondering about the meaning of this scene when the old man with the hidden face struggled to his feet, seized a crown in his gloved hand, and raised it to his cranium. At the same time, the towel fell, revealing, to Nicolas’s horror, a death’s head, now crowned, laughing and staring at him with its empty eye sockets. The old woman removed her lace and he saw, with an increased feeling of dread, that her emaciated body bore, as if detached from it, the exquisite powdered head of Madame du Barry. He cried out and closed his eyes to dismiss the image …

‘Hold him still, Bourdeau, he’s moving about so much he’s going to fall.’

‘He’s having a nightmare.’

Semacgus took Nicolas’s pulse and placed his hand on his forehead. ‘Seems like it. The fever’s fallen and the pulse is back to normal. Awa’s herbs are invaluable when dealing with these violent attacks. I congratulate myself every day that I stocked up well before I left Saint-Louis.’

‘All the same, he’s been sleeping for twelve hours,’ Bourdeau said, glancing at a large brass watch. ‘It’s nearly one in the afternoon. Do you think he’s strong enough to bear the news?’

‘Without any doubt. Given the situation, we can’t just let him lie here. You said yourself we ought to wake him.’

‘What else can we do, Semacgus? Monsieur de Sartine has asked to see him as soon as possible at police headquarters. All the same, I wonder if we ought to leave it to Sartine to tell him the truth.’

‘That’s a worse risk than the one we want to avoid, blunt as we are. I’m of a mind to ask Monsieur de Noblecourt to talk to him with his usual calm and wisdom.’

‘At your service,’ said the former procurator. He was standing behind them, out of breath from climbing the small private staircase leading to Nicolas’s lodgings. ‘Leave me with him, but first do me a favour and move this armchair closer to the bed.’

‘He’s opening his eyes,’ said Bourdeau. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’

*

Nicolas regained consciousness, and the sight of the familiar setting brought him back to reality. Monsieur de Noblecourt’s grave countenance told him that something was wrong. He remembered the expression on Canon Le Floch’s face when he had announced to him, many years earlier, his final departure from Guérande, and saw the same worried expression, the same affectionate thoughtfulness on the familiar features bending over him.

‘Hello, Nicolas.’

‘Have I been sleeping long?’

‘Longer than you may think. It’s Friday now, and nearly two o’clock in the afternoon. You lost consciousness last night at the door of my library. My friends found you bathing in Tokay. I can think of better uses for a wine like that.’

‘It was meant as a gift for you, to beg forgiveness for deserting the party. I know how ungrateful you must have thought me.’

‘No such feeling could ever exist between us. You are at home here. The wind of Rue Montmartre liberates. I remember saying to you, when you first came to this house, that it was an annexe of the abbey of Thélème, where freedom and independence were revered.’

He underlined these words with a nod of the head. He gave a slight smile, and his large red nose wrinkled in satisfaction.

‘What happened to you?’ he went on. ‘Your coat stank of cheap brandy, and was as dirty and as muddy as a stray puppy on Quai Pelletier. You must have been moving about a lot, to get yourself in a state so contrary to your habits and the dignity of your office.’

‘Alas, you are only too right,’ said Nicolas, feeling like a pupil before his master, ‘and I shan’t weary you with an account of my evening.’

Monsieur de Noblecourt was looking at him with eyes as sharp as they had been in the old days, when he was involved in a criminal investigation.

‘To cut a long story short,’ said Nicolas in a faint voice, ‘I went to Madame de Lastérieux’s house in Rue de Verneuil, where I was supposed to be having dinner. She showed me a lack of consideration, and I left. I went to the Théâtre-Français, where I watched the first act of Athalie. Having calmed down, I decided to go back to Julie’s, but the party was in full swing and I realised I had made a mistake. Feeling angry and offended, I wandered around Paris a little before returning here, like the prodigal son.’

‘For a man of your maturity and experience, you behaved like a child. Did you see anyone you knew at the theatre?’

‘Yes, my colleague Commissioner Chorrey was on duty.’

Nicolas had replied without thinking, but it suddenly occurred to him that Monsieur de Noblecourt was asking him to account for his movements, as if questioning a suspect. ‘May I enquire, Monsieur, why you asked me that question?’

The procurator stroked his mottled jowls with a hand as white as a priest’s. ‘I see you’re getting your senses back, Nicolas. I’m afraid I have some bad news to tell you. I will understand if it distresses you, but I ask you to stay calm. You may have the most pressing need to keep your composure in the hours to come.’

‘What is the meaning of these words, Monsieur?’

‘Their meaning, my boy, is that this morning, at the stroke of ten, an envoy from Monsieur de Sartine came to fetch you. The Lieutenant General of Police wants to see you immediately. Bourdeau was here – he’d come to find out how you were – and he managed to worm it out of him. Be brave! This morning, at first light, Madame de Lastérieux’s servants found her dead. According to an initial examination by a local doctor, it seems she may have been poisoned.’

Long afterwards, Nicolas would remember that his first reaction, fleeting as it was – well before the grief went through him like a knife, a grief made all the more intense by the images of their passion that flashed through his mind – had been one of relief, almost of liberation. For a moment he was speechless, and so pale and haggard that Noblecourt grew worried at his silence.

‘Poisoned!’ Nicolas said. ‘Was it some rotting food? Mushrooms?’

‘Alas, no. From what we know, there is every sign that she was poisoned by malicious intent.’

‘Isn’t it possible that she killed herself?’

‘If you have any evidence suggesting she was in such despair that she may have wanted to take her own life, you must reveal it as soon as possible to those whose task it will be to hear your testimony.’

Nicolas shook his head and said in a barely audible voice, ‘The last time – oh, my God! – the last time I heard her voice – I didn’t even see her, just heard her voice – she was laughing uproariously and there was nothing to indicate that she wanted to die.’

‘You will have to say all that. Everything will require an explanation. Take this calmly, and confront one at a time the unpleasant ordeals which, I fear, await you … Now go and talk to Monsieur de Sartine, and give him my regards.’

Monsieur de Noblecourt adjusted the velvet skullcap covering his balding cranium, an occupation which seemed intended to conceal a growing embarrassment. Nicolas felt sick at heart: it was as if, behind his friend’s outward affirmations, an unformulated question were being asked. No, he had nothing to reproach himself with. He realised at that moment that he had entered unknown and dangerous territory, full of obstacles and concealed traps. The slightest word, the most innocuous remark, a look, an expression of simple concern from a friend could cause him terrible pain, and he would not know if it was merely the result of his own imagination.

The former procurator, angry with himself, tried to make amends. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. You have to see things as they are. Put yourself in the position of an outside spectator, a commissioner at the Châtelet embarking upon an investigation. You will be expected to give a precise account of an evening which you yourself say was full of incident. Make a commitment to explain everything in detail. Monsieur de Sartine knows you too well to have any doubts...