The Saint-Florentin Murders by Jean-FranCois Parot

Author:Jean-FranCois Parot [Jean-François Parot]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781906040581
Publisher: Gallic Books
Published: 2010-10-17T04:00:00+00:00

He was now walking towards Trianon, dreading to return to a place where, a few months earlier, the late King, leaning on his arm, had climbed into his carriage for his last journey back to the palace. The park was suffused with the melancholy of autumn, and the pervasive smell of boxwood rose from the ordered clumps of trees. Coming to the vast steps of the chateau, Nicolas stopped to get his bearings. On his left was a short avenue which ended in a staircase leading to the door of the chapel. There, a man was busy gathering fallen leaves. Nicolas asked him where his chief was, and the man pointed to the greenhouse opposite the chapel. Nicolas walked along the facade of the chateau to the greenhouse, where Louis XV had striven to grow exotic species. Struck as soon as he entered by the damp, suffocating heat of this mass of enclosed vegetation, he saw two men in brown coats leaning over a workbench. Approaching, he recognised the older of the men as Claude Richard, the head gardener, whom he had often seen in the past. The other man must be his son. One thing, though, intrigued him: their attire. He was accustomed to seeing Richard in the red, white and blue livery of the King. As the young Queen now had the Petit Trianon at her disposal, they should have been wearing her livery, which was red and silver. He realised all at once that these two veteran servants were wearing mourning for their master after their fashion. The gardener looked up, annoyed at being disturbed. His son, intent on planting some kind of cutting, ignored the newcomer. Claude Richard looked hard at Nicolas. He had faded grey eyes and a weather-beaten face.

‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I think I recognise you. I have seen you several times with the King, I mean, our late master …’

Nicolas was moved by this simple loyalty.

‘He used to call you “young Ranreuil”,’ Richard continued with a smile.

‘You have a good memory. Forgive me for distracting you from your task. Are you in the middle of some remarkable acclimatisation?’

‘I was collecting root sprouts from this plant.’

He pointed to a shrub. Nicolas gave him a questioning look.

‘Root sprouts are suckers that are detached from the mother plant and then replanted.’

‘And this shrub?’

‘It’s a kind of acacia, a locust tree, which produces bunches of highly scented white flowers and fruit in the form of pods. But to what do I owe the honour of your visit, Marquis?’

Nicolas waved his hand as if chasing away an importunate fly. ‘It is not the marquis who needs your help, but the police commissioner. His Majesty has told the Lieutenant General of Police how worried he is regarding a strange incident about which the Queen informed him. Those visitors in the gardens whom you also saw and whose presence you reported. Can you tell me what happened, in as much detail as possible?’

Richard seized a long stick to support himself and led his guest towards a wooden bench, onto which he collapsed heavily.

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