Ignoring that, Charles went to the door to the old stairs and tried the latch. It was locked, as the rector had said. “Your key is lost, I hear, madame?”
“And our back door is bricked up. If your young lady needs a sudden way out, the only way is through a little back window into your courtyard. Unless St. Anthony takes pity and finds our key to the stairway door.”
“Madame, I fear,” Charles said slowly, “that Mademoiselle Pernelle must disappear. Can you borrow your apprentice’s other set of clothes for her? Cut her hair, blacken some teeth with soot. She can be a mute so she doesn’t have to speak. If the worst comes to the worst and you have to send her through the window, tell her to go to our porter and ask for me. It’s the best I can think of.”
“It’s well enough and well thought. We will do it. And who would expect you to think, maître, with people being poisoned?” She glanced across the street. “Wait, I’ll give you a reason for coming here.” She clattered into the back and reappeared with a round loaf, dark with rye, tossing it from hand to hand. “If he asks, you can say it’s a gift and I forgot to send it to you yesterday. It’s hot, be careful!”
Charles wrapped it in a fold of his cassock. “Thank you for this, and for everything, madame. I will think of somewhere else your—ah—new apprentice can go. If you need me before tomorrow, tell the porter. And pray!” He went out into the street, a desperate urgency at his heels. He had to get Pernelle away from here and on the road to Geneva. Wishing he could find the entrance to her Huguenot highway, he put up his hand to ring the postern bell and froze. The policeman was still across the street, talking with another, even larger armed man and pointing at the bakery. Charles turned hastily back to warn Mme LeClerc, but two more men, one on foot and one on horseback, closed on him from both sides.
Chapter 27
Mon père, my master—”
“Silence, fellow!” The man on horseback raised an imperious gloved hand. “Mon père, a word!”
Tensed for assault, arrest, or both, Charles looked from the boy in servant’s livery to the middle-aged, red-faced man on the horse. Far from laying hands on him, the two were jockeying for his attention like courtiers accosting the king. Realizing that he was holding the wheel of bread in front of him like a shield, Charles shifted it to one arm and smiled at the youngster. Then he turned to the horseman, who was slapping his tawny wool covered thigh impatiently with his riding crop.
“How may I help you, monsieur?” Charles said, smiling insincerely. The sooner well-dressed self-importance got its way, the faster it departed.
The man frowned and squinted at him. “I don’t know you. But you are a Jesuit, surely you know who I am.”
Beyond the rider, Charles saw the two police agents walk away. In tones of heartfelt relief, he said, “I have not the pleasure, monsieur.”
The man drew a long, offended breath. “Your accent tells me you are not from Paris, so perhaps that excuses you. I am Monsieur Jean Donneau de Visé, editor of the Nouveau Mercure Galant. Are you attached to the college?”
“Yes, monsieur. I am Maître Charles du Luc,” Charles said, groaning inwardly. He had seen the Mercure, a weekly gazette reporting theatre and social news for the court and the wealthy. De Visé would no doubt be writing up Wednesday’s performance. If Charles offended this well-known journalist and playwright, Père Jouvancy would probably scalp him and use the results to fix the mangy blond wig. “I sincerely hope, Monsieur de Visé, that we will have the honor of your presence on Wednesday.”
“That is why I stopped when I saw you. You can carry my request and I will not have to waste time going into the college. I want a better seat than I had last year. I could hardly see and couldn’t hear a thing. And make sure I am well away from the edge of that damned awning. Rain sluices off it and I will not risk wetting my good beaver hat. Good day.”
Not bothering to raise the hat in question, he turned the horse and trotted away. Charles turned with relief to the boy.
“And how may I help you?” he said.
The boy dragged his eyes away from a pretty maidservant who was smiling at him and sending an extra sway of hips his way.
“I was sent from the Hôtel de Sully, mon—I mean—maître, I heard you say?”
“Yes. And your errand?”
“The duke reminds the college to be sure a poster for the tragedy and ballet is put at our gate. You forgot last year and he didn’t like it. Will you carry that message for him?”
“A lot of people didn’t like things last year, it seems.” Charles’s wry face made the boy grin. “Yes, I will see that you get a poster. You may tell your master that the printer says we’ll have them Tuesday morning.”
“Thank you, mon père.”The boy sketched a bow and made off after the girl.
A lay brother Charles didn’t know opened the postern. Charles thrust the bread into his arms and asked him to send it to the kitchen. Then he went to Le Picart’s office. Looking as though he was barely holding himself together under the news of this latest death, the rector was talking to Frères Brunet, Martin the doorkeeper, and Fabre. Brunet and Martin were listening tensely, but Fabre was staring at the floor.
“You have been very helpful,” Le Picart said to them. “For now, if anyone asks you, say only that Maître Doissin was taken suddenly and violently ill and died. Lieutenant-Général La Reynie is coming. When he gives permission, we will have a quiet funeral mass and burial across the river at St. Louis.”
He dismissed them and turned to Charles. “So now we have poison. And from outside the college.”
“Mon père, Mme LeClerc saw a woman in a mourning veil pass by an hour or two ago. And, as Frère Martin no doubt told you, the gaufres were brought by someone in a veil.”
“Would a woman do this thing? Who in God’s name can she be?”
“My first thought was that it might be Antoine’s stepmother, mon père. She is in mourning. But Mme Douté went back to Chantilly with Philippe’s body. Didn’t she?”
“I—yes—I believe so. I didn’t see her go, but—” Shaking his head, Le Picart felt for his chair and sat down heavily, like an old man. “Until we get to the bottom of this, Antoine will be either with Père Jouvancy or Frère Brunet. He will not go to classes and he will sleep in the infirmary.” The rector sighed. “You were right, I was too complacent, and now I have Maître Doissin’s death heavy on my conscience.”
After supper, Charles’s much-tried body overruled his frantic mind and he lay down on his bed. Compline bells woke him. He hauled himself up and went to kneel in front of the painting of Mary and the infant Jesus. But before he could bow his head to say the office, his gaze caught and held on Mary’s patient face. Show me how to find the killers, he whispered. Before more people die. He waited, every nerve stretched to listen beyond hearing and see beyond seeing. The evening light went on dimming, noise from the street hushed toward its night level, and that was all.