The Whispering of Bones Read Online Free PDF Page B

his chamber with a steaming cup and a spoon and forestalled him.
    â€œHe’s none too good,
mon père
,” Brunet said. “Apoplexy, they call it now. Struck, I call it.” He sat down on Charles’s stool, stirring the tisane, and the soft fragrance of chamomile rose from the cup. “Struck by a murderer, so Maître du Luc says.”
    â€œWhat?”
Le Picart rounded on Charles, his sea-gray eyes horrified. “He was attacked?”
    â€œNo, not by the murderer’s hand,” Charles said. “We went to Notre Dame des Champs to pray in the crypt. While I was still praying, Père Dainville went into the well chamber across from the chapel. I found him there, fallen onto a pile of rags. The dead man had been mostly hidden under the rags, but his hand and arm were visible. I think Père Dainville saw that and the shock brought on this apoplexy.” Seeing Le Picart’s next question on his face, Charles said, “The body wasn’t yet cold.”
    Le Picart stared at him. “Are you telling me that the man was killed while you two were in the chapel? But surely you would have heard a quarrel or a fight. Did you see anyone?”
    Charles told him about the man silhouetted at the bottom of the stairs, and what Mère Vinoy had said about having oiled the chamber door hinges in preparation for the upcoming work in the chamber.
    â€œSo you told the abbess.”
    â€œI told her what I knew and she said she would send for the police. She also loaned a sedan chair for bringing Père Dainville home.”
    Le Picart smiled briefly. “She’s a good woman. And an impressive administrator. She makes me wish we had nuns in the Society of Jesus. Though one could wish she’d been less impressive and had left the door hinges alone.” His smile faded as he watched Brunet spooning sips of the tisane into Dainville’s mouth and gently wiping away what spilled. “Do you want to bleed him,
mon frère
? Or send for a physician?”
    â€œNeither.” Brunet scowled at Le Picart as though the rector were holding out the bleeding basin and the lancet. “You know I don’t believe in bleeding. The poor man is already so frail and you want to take his lifeblood from him?”
    The rector held up his hands in submission. “No, truly I don’t! I only wondered.”
    â€œHmph. As for a physician . . .” Brunet eyed his patient. “We’ll see.” His suspicion of University-trained physicians and their harsh remedies—and high fees—was well known at Louis le Grand and, most of the Jesuits felt, had probably saved not only the budget but lives.
    â€œUse your judgment,” Le Picart said. “I’ll sit with him awhile.”
    To take his confession, if he regained consciousness, Charles thought sadly. Or to give him last rites, if he continued to sink.
    Brunet nodded and got up from the stool. “He’s not going to drink any more now. Sit here,
mon père
. I must go to check on a boy upstairs, and then I’ll be back.”
    â€œYou, too, must go,
maître
,” the rector said to Charles. “In the midst of all this unhappy news, I’ve neglected to tell you that you have a visitor waiting in the
grand
salon
. A cousin of yours, he says.”
    â€œA cousin?” Charles said in surprise. He had many cousins, but none—so far as he knew—visiting Paris. All his family lived in the south. “Did he give his name,
mon père
?”
    â€œHe is Monsieur Charles-François de Vintimille du Luc. You must not keep him waiting longer.”
    Charles groaned inwardly. This cousin had never been a friend, and there were few people he wanted less to see.
    The rector’s nose twitched and he frowned. “I keep thinking I smell fish. Fish gone bad.”
    â€œOh.” Charles reached behind himself, trying to feel the center of his back. “I’m sorry,
mon