“Then you are excused from your morning class, though not from your duties surrounding the ballet and tragedy. Those must be carried out absolutely, no matter what else happens.” He looked at Charles over the rim of his glass. “Always excepting, of course, your own demise.”
“Which would be very thorough penance,” Charles returned dryly.
“It would. In the meantime, you have my permission to come and go from the college, alone and at will. If anyone challenges that, refer him to me. You will report to me and you will tell no one else what you are doing. And when this is over, you will make a thirty-day retreat during which you will examine yourself very seriously with regard to the vow of obedience and your future as a Jesuit.”
Charles bowed his head. “Yes, mon père.”
Le Picart suppressed a yawn. “We both want our beds. But first, I must hear all you know and suspect. Did Antoine really receive a note from Philippe?”
Charles drank down half his wine in an effort to pull himself together. “I think he is telling the truth about the note. It explains his being out in the street. But when I asked him if he recognized Philippe’s writing, he said the writing was ‘wobbly.’ I think someone wrote the note after Philippe was already dead, to lure Antoine into the street for the ‘accident.’ ”
“But you could be wrong about whoever ran from you wearing the yellow shirt. It could have been Philippe. He could have come back and left the note.”
“But why ask an eight-year-old for help? Wouldn’t Philippe more likely turn to someone at least his own age—his cousin Jacques, perhaps?”
“Unless he was asking for something only Antoine would know or could do. Though I admit, it is hard to think what that might be.”
“And there is also the question of why Philippe left the classroom in the first place, mon père. He watched the windows that day, to the exclusion of nearly everything else. I think he was waiting for a signal to go and meet someone. And when it came, I think he went directly to his death.” Charles leaned forward in his chair. “Antoine told me more about what he saw between Père Guise and Mme Douté. Philippe didn’t witness the kiss, but Antoine told him about it, and Philippe was angry. Antoine is too young to understand what he saw, but Philippe would have understood it all too well, especially since the woman was apparently trying to entice him, too. Hearing that Père Guise welcomed her advances might have been the last straw for Philippe—I think he would have been outraged on his father’s behalf. What if he taxed Père Guise with it, and Père Guise killed him in fear of exposure?”
“No, no, after you and Antoine left, Père Guise told me what lay behind Antoine’s accusation. He apologized for striking him, but what the child said embarrassed him so deeply, he lost control of himself. It seems that, a year or more ago, before she was married, Lisette Douté developed an unfortunate passion for him. He was her confessor while she was at court and, well, as I am sure you know, these things do happen with young girls. He admitted that that was why he’d introduced her to M. Douté in the first place. He thought marriage had solved the problem, but then she threw herself at him that day in the garden. He had no idea Antoine was there.”
“As Antoine tells it, Père Guise did his share of the throwing.”
“How long have you been in the Society, maître?”
“Seven years, mon père.”
“Long enough, then, to know that God does not conveniently remove the sexual organs at first or even final vows. An oversight on His part, one is often tempted to think, but there it is.”
“Remove them?” Charles involuntarily recrossed his legs. “I wouldn’t go that far, mon père. After all, even St. Augustine prayed that the gift of chastity might be delayed.”
The rector’s gaze was uncomfortably speculative. “But he did pray for the gift. Père Guise would not be the first priest to have mixed feelings over the attentions of a pretty girl. That is between him and his own confessor. No, Maître du Luc, the situation with the girl is a small thing. As for Philippe’s anger at Père Guise, people are constantly angry at him.” He sighed. “I often am, myself. And even if we entertain your theory, it immediately becomes impossible. Père Guise says he was with his aunt the Duchesse when Philippe disappeared, and the brother who was keeping the door that day confirms that Père Guise left by the postern immediately after dinner and was gone all afternoon.”
“But the old stairs make the doorkeeper’s statement meaningless. Père Guise could have returned to the college and left again unseen. Strangling doesn’t take long, mon père.”
The rector’s eyebrows lifted. “I will not ask how you know that—I am beginning to suspect that you learned much as a soldier that I have no wish to know. Yes, Père Guise could have used those stairs, but so could any one of us. You will not be of use to me—or to the truth—if you let your dislike of the man blind you.”
Charles bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Forgive me, mon père.”
“I wish we had blocked that staircase when we took back the rooms above the bakery,” Le Picart said, “but there was no money. No one is supposed to have the key to the doors but myself and the head proctor.”
Charles looked up, his gaze sharpening. “The head proctor?”
“Frère Chevalier is seventy-three, the soul of honor, and too arthritic to climb stairs.”
“But could Père Guise—or someone else—have taken his key and copied it?”
Le Picart frowned. “Frère Chevalier doesn’t see as well as he used to. I will ask him, but—could anyone really come and go through the bakery without being spotted? Or heard?”
“I did.” Charles drained his glass. “The door hinges have been greased. You have only to watch your moment, when the LeClercs are in the back of the shop, and then be quick. I think it could be done even at night, if you had a key to the bakery door. And I would wager that Père Guise has one. The baker is deaf, his wife says. Though she certainly is not! Mon père, even without the Mme Douté complication, we come back again and again to Père Guise. He searches for the note, the hidden stairs lead to his rooms, he is close to the Douté family, he—”
“He could have been looking for a handkerchief, as he says. When Mme LeClerc came to see me, she said nothing about his searching the boy’s clothes.”
“Marie-Ange says her mother was talking to the street porter and didn’t see.”
The rector rubbed his forehead as though it hurt. “The street porter. Do you think you could find the man and talk to him?”
Charles put down his glass. “I found him. This morning.”
“This morning? Ah, yes. I trust your toothache has miraculously recovered,” the rector said dryly. “What does the porter say?”
“Nothing. I found him strangled in the beggars’ Louvre. With the same marks on his neck that we saw on Philippe.”
Le Picart jerked his head back as though Charles had struck him. “Jesu, have mercy.” He crossed himself.
“The porter’s friend told me that Pierre—that was the dead man’s name—thought he was being followed. He ran from me yesterday, but—”
“Yesterday?”
“I originally found him on the quay yesterday when Père Jouvancy sent me to buy sugar, mon père.”
“Go on.”
“Pierre’s friend arranged a meeting for this morning. I think that someone saw our encounter yesterday and silenced the porter before we could talk.”
“And you feel his death cannot have been a private matter, or part of a simple robbery, because he was marked in the same way Philippe was.”