“Who’s there?” he demanded and immediately felt his face grow hot. A gasp in the dark could have reasons that were none of his business. A stifled sob followed the gasp.
“Who’s there?” he said more boldly. “Is something wrong?” Offering help was certainly his business.
Frère Fabre emerged from the arcade, his red hair shining in the light from the windows. His face was a mask of misery.
For a moment neither of them moved. Then Charles grabbed the boy, twisting his cassock into hard knots. “You followed me. Why?” Fabre turned his head away and Charles shook him. “Why?”
“When you went out, maître, I was afraid you knew, but you went into that house on the bridge. I came here, anyway, but I didn’t warn her, I swear it! I meant to, but I couldn’t!” The boy covered his face and sobbed in earnest.
“Didn’t warn who?”
“Agnes.” Fabre tried to wipe his face on his cassock skirt and Charles released his hold. “When I got here, I kept remembering Maître Doissin. And that it might have been Antoine. And I—” He shook his head wordlessly.
“Frère Fabre, who is Agnes?”
“My sister. My half-sister, her surname is La Salle. She’s Mme Douté’s maid.”
Charles stared at him, bereft of speech.
“You saw her at Philippe’s funeral, maître. I was talking to her.”
“Yes,” Charles managed to say, “I remember. I didn’t know she was Mme Douté’s maid.”
Fabre nodded at the nearest gate. “She’s been here most of the summer with her mistress. The house belongs to Mme Montfort, Mme Douté’s sister.”
“Mme Douté didn’t go to Chantilly with Philippe’s body?”
“She said the journey was too much for her. She made M. Douté leave her here.”
“So you knew it was your sister who had left the gaufres. That’s why you were so upset and tried to confuse what Frère Martin said.”
“Forgive me, maître!” Fabre’s face was full of anguish. “I told myself it had to be an accident, a mistake, she couldn’t have meant to do it!”
“You saw her leave the package?”
“Not leave it, no. I’d just polished the handles and the knocker on the big doors. For Wednesday’s performance. I took most of the cleaning things inside and when I came back for the rest, Agnes was turning away from the postern. Her back was to me and she had on a mourning veil, but I knew her by her red petticoat. She had her overskirt lifted away from the street.” He laughed unsteadily. “She wouldn’t put off that red petticoat if she was mourning a husband, let alone her mistress’s stepson. I didn’t call out to her because I didn’t have time to talk—once you get Agnes started, you’re stuck.” He looked pleadingly at Charles. “Why would she want to hurt Antoine? Maître, she couldn’t have known the gaufres were poisoned!”
“She bought the poison herself,” Charles said. “I talked to the apothecary who sold it to her.”
“He’s lying! Or wrong. He must be, please, maître—”
“You saw Maître Doissin die, Frère Fabre. A hard death. You saw your sister leave the postern just after the poisoned gaufres were left. Agnes must at least explain herself. Will you go for the police? Ask someone where the nearest commissaire lives and bring him, or one of his men.”
It was the best he could think of. He couldn’t leave Fabre here to warn Agnes. And if Fabre didn’t come back—well, that would be information, too.
The boy gave the gate a last anguished look and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I’ll go.”
To Charles’s relief, Fabre returned quickly, bringing a man in the night watch uniform of plumed hat and blue jerkin laced with silver. The man was built like a bull, with hard eyes and a mouth like a trap.
“This is Monsieur Servier,” Fabre panted. “He is—”
Servier cut across the social niceties. “What’s going on?”
“I am Maître Charles du Luc, from the College of Louis le Grand, monsieur. A tutor died there this afternoon. From poison. Which you may already know, since our rector notified your lieutenant-général. The tutor ate poisoned gaufres intended for a little boy, Antoine Douté. The woman who left the gaufres is Agnes La Salle, maid to Mme Lisette Douté. Mme Douté is the boy’s stepmother and she is staying here with Mme Montfort, who is her sister. I want you to question the maid and the stepmother. The maid was recognized just after she left the cakes, and I know where she bought the poison.”
Servier’s eyebrows rose as he eyed the gate. “You know Montfort’s related some way to the Guises,” he growled.
“The king’s law runs here, not the Guises’, monsieur. And God’s law runs everywhere.”
“Just so you know whose broth you’re stirring. The commissaire’s not going to like this. He’s already had a murder tonight—an apprentice did for his master and they’re all in his house, witnesses, widow, accused, you should see it.” Serious offenders and witnesses were usually questioned first by the neighborhood commissaire, no matter what the hour.
Servier hitched up his belt, which supported a light sword and a small pistol, and took the pieces of a heavy wooden baton from under his cloak. He assembled them into a long, thick weapon, pulled the Montforts’s bell rope, and followed up the pull with a volley of baton blows on the gate. Running feet approached and a grille slid open.
“Tell your master that M. Servier of the watch wants to see Mme Douté and the woman Agnes La Salle.”
“My master is not at home.”
“Then tell your mistress. But first open the gate.”
The man started to bluster and Servier lifted his baton in front of the grille and slapped it loudly against his open palm. The grille slammed shut, bolts were slid back, and the gate began to open. Servier wrenched it wide and strode into the cobbled yard, Charles and Fabre behind him. The servant’s eyes grew round when he saw their cassocks.
“Please,” he said, “wait here.” He backed toward the tall, beautifully carved house door across the court.
“We’ll wait inside, if you please,” Servier said. “Or if you don’t.”
With a helpless gesture, the man hurried ahead of them to the door of the beautiful brick house, whose upper floors made three sides of the court. The lower floors housed stables and outbuildings. A lantern beside the open stable doors raised gleams from the paintwork of a coach standing inside. They followed the servant into an anteroom at the foot of a curving staircase.
“I beg you, wait here!” The man held his hands toward them as though warding off a pack of dogs and ran upstairs.
“Come on,” Servier said over his shoulder to Charles and Fabre. “But if you make a noise and the women get away, I’ll arrest you both instead.”
They went soft-footed up the gleaming stairs, toward the sound of women’s voices exclaiming and arguing. The voices grew louder as the servant emerged from a door carved with fruit and garlands.
“Who’s in there?” Servier demanded, over the man’s protests.
“I am.” The woman who had come out of the salon put enough ice into the two words to freeze the Seine from Troyes to Rouen.
The servant stepped hastily aside and walked to the head of the stairs, blocking their path. Charles made a pretense of rubbing his chin to make sure his mouth was closed. She looked like one of the goddesses cavorting on the painted ceiling above her head. Her pale hair, gathered up behind and dripping ringlets around the perfect oval of her face, was silvery in the candlelight. Little golden pears hung trembling from her ears and her low bodice spilled creamy flesh and ivory lace. One dimpled hand held up shimmering gray satin skirts. Her eyes were the blue of pond ice. Her cold gaze settled on Charles.