Free The Saint-Florentin Murders by Jean-François Parot Page A

to the minister twice since arriving. The man had indeedbeen wearing a grey coat, but Nicolas could not recall the nature of the embroidery. Even if it had been silver, that would prove nothing: the duc had visited his kitchens, and in all the excitement of discovering the crime his coat might have caught on the draining board. But he would have to make sure. One thing was certain: the thread had not come from the major-domo’s coat, for that was a quite different colour. He carefully slipped the little piece of silver between the pages of his black notebook, then gave the signal to take the maid’s body away. Nicolas decided to go back up to the mezzanine and install himself with Bourdeau in the study that had been set aside there for him. They would carry out their interrogations there. In the antechambers, they came across Provence, who was pacing up and down in the shadow of the walls.
    ‘Monsieur Bibard,’ said Nicolas ‘what was your master wearing when he got back from Versailles this morning?’
    The man assumed an indefinable expression which might have escaped someone less accustomed than the commissioner to examining faces. ‘A black cloak over a black silk coat, Monsieur. We are observing Court mourning to the letter.’
    ‘But this morning? It seems to me …’
    ‘This morning, as soon as he returned, Monseigneur changed into a grey coat.’
    ‘Was this coat embroidered?’
    ‘Yes, with silver flowers.’
    ‘Of course! You see, Bourdeau, I wasn’t wrong. The late King had one exactly the same. The minister’s loyalty is really touching. Thank you, Provence.’
    The man bowed, apparently relieved.
    ‘One more thing,’ said Nicolas. ‘Would you please have the Swiss Guard, the caretaker and Monseigneur’s coachman come to my study, to start with. I should like to question them in the company of Inspector Bourdeau.’
    They reached the study, whose splendours Bourdeau examined half admiringly, half sardonically. The commissioner waited for one of those acerbic remarks Bourdeau was in the habit of making, but none came: the pleasure of being plunged back into action, he thought, had certainly had a most beneficial effect on his deputy’s character.
    ‘By the way, Nicolas …’ Bourdeau said, reverting to the commissioner’s first name as soon as they were alone. ‘Did you notice our chambermaid’s curious underwear? Please don’t see anything licentious in the question.’
    ‘God forbid, I know you too well!’ said Nicolas, somewhat surprised. ‘But what exactly do you mean?’
    ‘Well, look. We live in strange times, and you know better than I that the honesty of women takes on some quite curious aspects these days. If an elegant woman, getting out of her carriage to enter a theatre or go for a stroll, lets curious idlers see the whole of her legs, she is in no way considered indecent. Showing one’s calves is regarded as something so natural that, far from precautions being taken to prevent the sight, it is made all the easier. So, when she dresses, any woman of quality would fix a long ribbon to her belt to hold up her chemise from behind so that the legs are uncovered all the way up to the back of the knee.’
    ‘I follow you,’ said Nicolas with a smile, ‘but I’m not sure how far you will climb.’
    ‘Oh, I’m stopping there! I’m simply trying to say that ourchambermaid wears drawers, a sure sign of dubious or dissolute morals. Add to that the presence of those unusual slippers, and I think you’ll see where these observations are leading me.’
    ‘I suspect our investigation will reveal a great deal about the poor girl. This house is a closed world. I already know what’s going to happen. They’ll all be on their guard, resisting the temptation to gossip. Silence and mistrust will be our lot. But in the end, the hurdles will fall and everyone will have something to say, for good or ill, about everyone else. You know how servants are. The world of service is, like