The Man with the Lead Stomach: Nicolas Le Floch Investigation #2 (A Nicolas Le Floch Investigation) - Softcover

Parot is a diplomat and historian. He is the author of the Nicolas Le Floch mysteries, which take place in eighteenth century France. The novels, beginning with The Châtelet Apprentice, have been adapted as a successful TV series shown on France 2.

PROLOGUE

Prudens futuri temporis exitum Caliginosa nocte premit Deus...
‘Knowing the future, God conceals the outcome in darkest night . . .’
HORACE

On the night of Friday 2 February 1761, a horse-drawn vehicle was laboriously making its way along the highway that leads from La Courtille to La Villette. The day had been gloomy, and at nightfall, sullen skies had unleashed a fierce storm. If anyone had been keeping a watch on this road they would have noticed the cart pulled by a scrawny horse. On the seat, two men stared into the darkness, the black flaps of their capes partly visible in the gleam of a shabby lantern. The horse kept slipping on the
wet ground and stopping every twenty or so yards. Two barrels thudded against each other, jolted about by the ruts in the road.
The last houses in the faubourgs disappeared, and with them the few remaining lights. The rain ceased and the moon could be glimpsed between two clouds, casting a bluish light over a countryside enveloped in a shapeless, drifting mist. Hillsides covered with brambles now rose up on either side of the track. For some time the horse had been tossing its head and tugging nervously at the reins. A persistent smell hung in the cold night air, its lingering sweetness soon giving way to an appalling stench. The two shadowy figures had pulled their cloaks down over their faces. The horse stopped, let out a strangled whinnying and flared its nostrils, seeking to identify the foul smell. Even when lashed with a whip, it refused to get going again.
‘I think this nag is giving up on us!’ exclaimed Rapace, one of the men. ‘I’m sure it can smell meat. Get down, Bricart, take it by the bit and get us out of here!’
‘I saw the same thing at Bassignano in 1745 when I was serving in the Dauphin’s Regiment with old Chevert. The beasts pulling the cannons refused to go past the corpses. It was September, it was hot and the flies . . .’
‘Stop, I know all about your military campaigns. Grab the beast by the neck and hurry up. It just won’t move!’ shouted Rapace, hitting it twice on its skinny rump.
Bricart grumbled and jumped down from the cart. When he reached the ground, he sank into the mud and had to use both hands to pull out the wooden stump fitted to his right leg. He went up to the crazed animal, which made one last attempt to signal its refusal. Bricart seized the bit but the desperate beast jerked its head away, striking him on the shoulder. He fell flat on the ground, uttering a stream of obscenities.
‘It won’t budge. We’re going to have to unload here. We can’t be far.’
‘I can’t help you in this mud; this damned leg is useless.’
‘I’ll get the barrels down and we’ll roll them towards the pits,’ said Rapace. ‘It should only take two goes. Hold the horse; I’m going to look around.’
‘Don’t leave me,’ whined Bricart. ‘I don’t like it here. Is this really where they used to hang people?’
He rubbed his bad leg.
‘So much for the brave old soldier! You can talk when we’ve finished. We’ll go to Marthe’s tavern. I’ll treat you to a drink, and a trollop, too, if you feel like it. They stopped hanging people here before your grandfather’s time. Now there’s only dead cattle from the city and beyond. It’s the knacker’s yard – it used to be at Javel but now it’s here at Montfaucon. Can’t you smell the stench? In the summer, when there’s a storm brewing, you even get a whiff of it in Paris, all the way to the Tuileries!’
‘You’re right, it stinks and I can feel presences,’ murmured Bricart.
‘Oh, shut up. Your presences are nothing more than rats, crows and mongrels: horribly fat ones, all fighting over the carcasses. Even the scum off the streets come here to scrape around for something to eat. Just thinking about it makes my mouth feel dry. Where did you hide the flagon? Ah, here it is!’
Rapace took a few swigs before handing it to Bricart, who emptied it greedily. They could hear high-pitched squeals.
‘Listen: rats! But enough talk, take the lantern and stay with me, to give me some light. I’ve got the axe and the whip: you never know who we may come across, not to mention the smashing-up we’ve to do ...’
The two men moved cautiously towards some buildings which they could now make out in the beam of the lamp.
‘As sure as my name is Rapace, here’s the knacker’s yard and the tallow vats. The lime pits are further on. Walls of rotting flesh, piles and piles of it, believe me.’
Nearby, crouched behind a carcass, a shadowy figure had stopped what it was doing, alarmed by the whinnying of the horse, the swearing and the light of the lantern. The figure trembled, thinking at first that it was the men of the watch. By order of the King and the Lieutenant General of Police they were patrolling more and more, in order to drive away the poor starving wretches who fought with carrion eaters for left-overs from the feast.
This huddled ghost was merely an old woman in rags. She had known better times and, in her prime, had even attended Regency dinners. Then her youth faded and the beautiful Émilie had stooped to the most abject form of prostitution, along the quais and at the toll-gates, but even that had not lasted. Now, diseased and disfigured, she survived by selling a foul soup from a portable stewing pot. This concoction, which was largely made out of scraps stolen from Montfaucon, risked poisoning her customers and infecting the city and its faubourgs.
She saw the two men unload the barrels and roll them along before emptying their contents onto the ground. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could not hear what was being said and dared not grasp what they were doing. Instead, old Émilie strained her eyes to make out the two dark shapes – red, she thought – now lying close to the building containing the tallow vats. Unfortunately the light from the lantern was dim and renewed gusts of wind made its flame flicker.
What she saw she did not understand and could not bring herself to imagine, paralysed as she was by a fear beyond words. And yet the old woman was gripped by a curiosity which made the horrible scene even more incomprehensible to her.
One of the two men was laying out on the ground what looked like items of clothing. With a tinder-box he struck a light that flared up briefly. Then a sharp crackling sound could be heard. The old woman huddled closer to the rotting flesh, no longer even aware of its acrid emanations. She was fighting for breath, oppressed by an unknown terror. Her blood froze, and all that she saw as she lost consciousness and slid to the ground was a light that was growing bigger.
Where the gallows once stood all was silence again. The cart moved off into the distance, and with it the muffled echo of conversation. Darkness closed in and the wind blew like a gale. What had been left behind on the ground gradually began to come to life: it seemed to be writhing and devouring itself from within. Faint squeals could be heard and a frantic scuffling began. Even before dawn, the huge crows were awake and coming closer, soon followed by a pack of dogs ...