The Beast Within (21 page)

Séverine did not move. She stood there, looking pale and grief-stricken. Once again she confirmed what her husband had just said: ‘Yes, Monsieur Bessière will tell you himself.’

For a moment all doubts were dispelled; the Roubauds had got back into their own compartment at Rouen and a friend had stood on the carriage-step and said hello to them at Barentin. The suspicious looks that Roubaud thought he had seen in the crowd had vanished. But everyone was becoming more and more confused; the mystery had deepened.

‘Are you absolutely sure that no one could have got into the coupé after you had left Monsieur Grandmorin?’ the safety officer asked.

Roubaud had clearly not foreseen this question, and for the first time he appeared flummoxed; presumably he had no ready-made answer. He looked at his wife and hesitated.

‘It is most unlikely,’ he said. ‘The doors were being closed and the guard was blowing his whistle. We only just had time to get back into our carriage. Besides, the coupé was reserved; I assume no one was allowed into it ...’

He noticed his wife looking at him hard, her big blue eyes open wide. He decided it would be better to sound less positive.

‘But don’t really know,’ he continued. ‘Yes, perhaps someone could have got in ... There was such a crush on the platform ...’

As he spoke his voice became more assured; a new and better version of the story was taking shape in his mind.

‘Yes, there was such a crowd on the platform,’ he continued. ‘All going to Le Havre for the celebrations, I suppose. There were second-class passengers and even third-class passengers trying to get into our compartment ... And of course the station is not very well lit; you can’t see a thing. The train was about to leave, and everyone was pushing and shouting; it was a mad scramble ... Yes, I dare say it was possible for someone to force his way into the coupé at the last minute, someone who couldn’t find a seat and thought no one would notice in all the confusion.’

He paused a moment.

‘Yes, that’s what must have happened, mustn’t it, my dear?’

Séverine looked exhausted; she held her handkerchief to her face to hide the bruising round her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s what happened, I’m sure it did.’

The mystery seemed to be solved. The safety officer and the stationmaster looked at each other in agreement without saying a word. The crowd had begun to grow restless; everyone sensed that the questioning was now over, and they were all itching to go off and talk about it. Theories abounded, and everyone had their own version of events. For a while the usual business of the station had been suspended as everyone had left their work and come over to find out about the murder. It came as quite a surprise when the 9.38 train pulled in alongside the platform. Everyone scurried back to their jobs; the carriage doors opened, and streams of passengers poured from the train. The more curious dallied behind, standing in a group round the safety officer, who, determined to do his job thoroughly, had gone to take a final look at the bloodstained coupé. Pecqueux, standing between Madame Lebleu and Philomène, caught sight of his driver, Jacques Lantier, who had just got off the train and stood looking at the little group of people at the far end of the platform. He waved to him frantically, but Jacques remained where he was. Eventually he decided to come over to them, walking very slowly.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked Pecqueux.

He knew perfectly well what had happened and listened with only half an ear to the news of the murder and the different explanations of how it had been done. He felt surprised and strangely disturbed to find himself suddenly plunged into a murder inquiry and standing in front of the same coupé he had seen only the night before, rushing at full speed through the night. He craned his neck and looked at the patch of dried blood on the cushion. Straight away he was back at the scene of the murder; he saw the body lying beside the track with its throat slit open. As he turned his eyes away he caught sight of Roubaud and Séverine; Pecqueux was still explaining what had happened and how the Roubauds had come to be involved, catching the same train from Paris as the victim, and being the last people to speak to him on the platform at Rouen. Jacques had met Roubaud; they sometimes stopped to have a chat when he was in charge of the express. He had occasionally seen his wife too, at a distance, but had deliberately kept clear of her, as he did of other women, knowing the fearful effect they had on him. But as he looked at Séverine, tearful and so dreadfully pale, with such a frightened look in her big, gentle, blue eyes, and her hair falling thick and dark around her face, he found her very appealing. He could not take his eyes off her. He became lost in thought; how was it, he wondered, that he and the Roubauds came to be standing there together beside this carriage, the scene of a crime, they having returned from Paris the night before, and he just that minute arriving from Barentin?

‘Yes, yes, I know!’ he suddenly exclaimed, interrupting Pecqueux. ‘I was there myself, last night, just outside the tunnel, as the train went past, and I thought I saw something.’

Everyone gasped in astonishment and they all crowded round him. No one was more astonished than Jacques himself; he was shaking, utterly taken aback and confused by what he had just said. Why had he spoken when he had solemnly sworn to himself that he would say nothing? He had so many reasons to remain silent! Yet the words had come unbidden from his lips as he was looking at Séverine. Séverine suddenly took her handkerchief from her face and stared at Jacques, her big, tearful eyes opening wider and wider.

The safety officer walked quickly over to Jacques.

‘What?’ he said. ‘What did you see?’

Jacques told him what he had seen - the brightly lit coupé hurtling through the night, the shapes of two men, one on his back, the other holding a knife. Séverine could not take her eyes from him as he spoke. Roubaud stood beside his wife, gazing intently at Jacques and listening to every word.

‘Would you recognize the murderer?’ inquired the safety officer.

‘No, I don’t think I would,’ said Jacques.

‘Was he wearing a coat or working clothes?’

‘I couldn’t tell. The train must have been doing eighty kilometres an hour!’

Séverine glanced involuntarily at Roubaud; he needed to say something.

‘Quite!’ he intervened. ‘You’d need good eyesight to see anything at that speed.’

‘Even so,’ Monsieur Cauche concluded, ‘it’s a vital piece of evidence. The examining magistrate will help you to clarify your statements. Monsieur Lantier and Monsieur Roubaud, may I take your full names, please, so that you can be called as witnesses?’

And that was that. The little group of bystanders drifted away, and the station returned to its normal business. Roubaud had to dash off to see to the 9.50 stopping train, which was already half full of passengers. He shook hands with Jacques, more firmly than usual. Madame Lebleu, Pecqueux and Philomène walked away whispering to each other, leaving Jacques alone with Séverine. He felt obliged to accompany her back along the platform to the staff stairway; he could think of nothing to say but felt drawn towards her, as if a common bond had just been established between them.

It was going to be a fine day. The sun had risen in the clear blue sky and driven away the morning mists. A breeze blew in from the sea over the incoming tide, bringing with it a whiff of fresh, salt sea air. As Jacques said goodbye to Séverine, he once again found himself captivated by her big blue eyes, looking at him, as before, so gently, so frightened, so appealing.

Someone blew a whistle. It was Roubaud, giving the right-away. The engine driver sounded a long whistle in reply. The 9.50 moved out of the station, gathered speed and vanished into the distance in a golden cloud of sunshine.

It was the second week in March. Monsieur Denizet, the examining magistrate,
¹
had recalled a number of key witnesses in the Grandmorin case to his office in the Rouen law courts.

For three weeks now, the murder had been on everyone’s lips. In Rouen, people found it unbelievable. In Paris there was talk of nothing else. The opposition newspapers
²
were quick to seize on it as ammunition in their hard-fought campaign against the government. Political discussion was dominated by the approaching general elections, and the atmosphere was very tense. There had recently been a number of stormy debates in Parliament, one in which there had been violent objections to ratifying the powers of two deputies who held official positions in the Emperor’s personal entourage,
³
and another involving a fierce attack on the financial administration of the Prefect of the Seine
⁴
and a call for the election of a municipal council. The Grandmorin affair had come at just the right moment to fuel this unrest. The most amazing stories were circulating. Every morning the newspapers were full of speculation that was very damaging to the government. They claimed that the victim of the murder, a regular visitor at the Tuileries Palace,
⁵
a former magistrate, a Grand Commander of the Legion of Honour, a man worth millions, had been addicted to the worst kinds of debauchery. On top of this, because the investigation had so far got nowhere, they also accused the police and the judiciary of complacency and joked about the mythical murderer who was still at large. The fact that there was more than a grain of truth in these allegations made them all the more difficult to refute.

Monsieur Denizet was well aware of the great responsibility he carried on his shoulders, but he was also very excited by the affair. He was a man of ambition and had eagerly awaited an opportunity like this that would allow him to demonstrate the singular qualities of intelligence and energy on which he prided himself. He was the son of a prosperous cattle farmer in Normandy. He had studied law at Caen, entering the profession relatively late in life. As a result of his peasant upbringing and his father’s untimely bankruptcy, promotion had been slow. He had been deputy prosecutor at Bernay, Dieppe and Le Havre, but had had to wait a further ten years before being appointed as public prosecutor at Pont-Audemer. He was then transferred, as deputy prosecutor, to Rouen, and had served as examining magistrate there for the last eighteen months. Now, however, he was over fifty. He had no private income, and his meagre salary hardly sufficed to cover his most immediate needs, so he had had to continue to work as a poorly paid magistrate in order to earn a living - the sort of job which none but the mediocre would happily resign themselves to, and which anyone worth their salt would suffer only as an irksome prelude to something more lucrative. Monsieur Denizet was actually very intelligent and extremely sharp-witted, an honourable man, who took pleasure in doing the job he did and rather relished the authority vested in him, as he sat in judgement with absolute power to acquit or to condemn. The one thing that tempered his passion for justice was his longing for promotion. There was nothing he desired more than to receive a decoration and to be transferred to Paris, which was why, after the first day of the hearings, when he had insisted that his sole concern was to establish the truth, he now proceeded more circumspectly, alert to the many hazards that might spell the end of his career.

A friend of his, it should be said, had advised caution the moment the inquiry began, urging him to speak with someone at the Ministry of Justice
⁶
in Paris. Denizet had gone to Paris and had had a long conversation with the Secretary-General, Monsieur Camy-Lamotte, a person of considerable influence, responsible for all legal appointments and in close touch with the Tuileries. Monsieur Camy-Lamotte was a man of distinctive appearance. Like Denizet, he had started his career as a deputy prosecutor, but thanks to family connections and the influence of his wife, he had become a Member of Parliament and had been awarded the title of Grand Officer of the Legion of Honour. The Grandmorin affair had landed on his desk because the Rouen prosecutor, unwilling to take on a sordid affair involving a former colleague who had been murdered, had taken the precaution of referring the matter to the Minister of Justice. He in turn had passed it on to his Secretary-General. By a strange coincidence, Monsieur Camy-Lamotte and President Grandmorin had been students together. Camy-Lamotte was a few years younger than Grandmorin, but had remained one of his closest friends. There was little that he didn’t know about him, including his insatiable sexual appetite. He assured Denizet that the tragic death of his friend had been a great sadness to him and impressed upon him how passionately he desired to see the guilty party brought to justice. At the same time he made it clear that the Tuileries regretted the current spate of exaggerated rumour and suggested to Denizet, without of course wishing to appear presumptuous, that what was needed above all in this investigation was tact. In short, Denizet was led to understand that he should not try to rush things through too quickly and that he should take no decision without prior consultation. He returned to Rouen convinced that the Secretary-General had set up a separate inquiry into the affair. The truth needed to be ascertained in order, if necessary, to conceal it.

The days went by. Monsieur Denizet, although doing his best to remain patient, was becoming increasingly irritated by the jokes in the press. The detective in him was itching to get the investigation under way. Like a hound with its nose to the wind, he wanted to track down the villain and have the honour of being the first to solve the mystery, even if he was subsequently told to abandon his endeavours. He waited expectantly for a letter from the ministry, for a word of advice or some indication to proceed. But none came. So he had decided to resume his investigation. He had already made a number of arrests but had not had sufficient evidence to take matters further. Now, however, as he read through the details of President Grandmorin’s will, he recalled something he had vaguely suspected at the very beginning of his inquiries - the possibility that the murder had been committed by the Roubauds. The will was a quagmire of strange bequests, but among them was one stipulating that Séverine should inherit a house at La Croix-de-Maufras. Instantly a motive for the murder, which he had hitherto sought in vain, suggested itself; the Roubauds, knowing the contents of the will, could have murdered their benefactor in order to get their hands on the property as soon as possible. The thought had played on his mind increasingly ever since Monsieur Camy-Lamotte had mentioned Madame Roubaud as someone he had met some time ago at the President’s château, when she was a girl. But the whole thing seemed implausible, and from both a practical and moral point of view the case was fraught with difficulties. The more he tried to pursue this line of investigation, the more he came up against things that simply did not fit into the classic pattern of a murder inquiry. It didn’t make sense; there was no underlying motive, no prime cause that made it all fall into place.