‘Surely she didn’t have typhus … it’s just not possible.’
But Brémond had adopted his absent-minded look again. To the captain’s dismay, he moved calmly towards the door. Ladoyère got up and walked around his desk, ready to run after the doctor if necessary.
‘All right, all right. Exhume the body. I’m only a lowly captain. I obey orders from General Triaire and from the army medical service. If you’d be so kind as to put in writing all that you have just said …’
Brémond and Margont signed their lie and went off to the graveyard, requisitioning on their way three soldiers and some spades.
Tresno’s graveyard was on top of a hill at the edge of the village. A spinney concealed its gloomy presence from the villagers. The tombs were well kept and decked with flowers.
‘I don’t much like disturbing the peace of the dead,’ murmured Brémond.
‘Neither do I, but we have to exhume this body if we want to lay this business to rest.’
One of the soldiers requisitioned in the street was Polish. He threw aside his spade the moment he realised what was expected of him. Margont didn’t make an issue of it but ordered the man to stay. While the Frenchmen were throwing large spadefuls of earth over their shoulders, a woodcutter with a bushy beard, accompanied by two adolescents, suddenly emerged from the spinney. The three of them had axes in their hands. Instinctively, the Polish soldier pulled his musket, which was lying on the ground, nearer to him with his foot. The intruder began to speak. His aggressive tone made his sons blink.
‘What does he have to say for himself?’ asked Margont.
By now the infantryman had grabbed his musket. ‘He’s saying that the French are pagans who have killed their priests, that the Revolution has destroyed the churches, that Napoleon is the Antichrist and that each of his armies is one of the heads of the dragon of the Apocalypse.’
‘What else does he have to say?’
‘Begging your pardon, Captain, he thinks that you’re digging up this poor woman to have your way with her.’
‘Charming.’
Eventually, the cutting edge of the spades struck the lid of the coffin. Margont wiped the sweat off his face and nodded towards a nearby building.
‘We’re going to transport the coffin over to that barn. Only the medical officer and I will examine the body. You will wait for us close by. And keep that lunatic away. I don’t want him trying to find out whether a Frenchman is as hard to split in two as the trunk of a fir tree.’
The place was empty. Margont was glad of the smell of straw, not for any nostalgic reason but because it would partially cover up the odours emanating from the body.
Brémond seemed equally hesitant but declared: ‘Better to get on with it straight away. The waiting is sometimes worse than the deed itself.’
The boards of the coffin, made of pine, had been carefully fitted together, and for some strange reason the lid had been sealed by knocking in a large number of nails.
‘Were they afraid she might get out or something?’ said Brémond in surprise.
‘It’s the lips of the villagers that they most wanted to seal.’
Using the point of his sword as a lever, Margont prised open the lid. The two men immediately looked away. Prince Eugène had been in such a hurry to have the victim buried that she had not even been washed. She was still wearing the dress she’d had on at the time of the murder. The garment was torn and spattered with congealed bloodstains. Brémond pulled himself together by concentrating on the scientific aspects of his task.
‘The body has bled heavily, so a number of the wounds were inflicted before death …’
Margont was staring straight at his friend and looking down as little as possible.
‘What? She was mutilated while still alive?’
‘A wound inflicted post mortem produces little loss of blood because the heart is no longer beating.’
‘But people would have heard her screaming. The inn was heaving with customers that particular evening.’
Brémond bent forward until his face lightly touched the victim’s. It was like a lover’s final kiss to his beloved. Margont was sweating; he could see spots in front of his eyes and, fighting for breath, he felt as if he would choke.
‘A disorder of the nervous system …’ mumbled Brémond.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Not her, you. You’re as white as a sheet. Sit down on the ground or you’ll collapse.’
Margont obeyed meekly.
‘And yet I’ve seen plenty of mangled bodies …’
‘Yes, but in wartime. Here we are on the threshold of another realm: madness. War is also a form of madness but we understand its objectives and its mechanics.’
Brémond rummaged in one of his pockets, took out some tweezers and thrust them into the corpse’s mouth. He immediately showed his findings to Margont.
‘Feathers and a tiny piece of material. The murderer pressed a pillow against her face to smother the screams.’
‘There was no pillow in the bedroom.’
‘It’s in the coffin. Under her head.’
Margont had collected himself. He rose to his feet but held on to the edge of the coffin for support.
‘I’m not the right person for this investigation. I can’t even bear the sight of the victim, so how could I face the person who committed this abominable crime?’
‘I’m going to let you into a secret. When I’m confronted with a wounded soldier, I feel incompetent. I say to myself there are too many things I don’t know and that medicine doesn’t know very much either. I feel as if I have only the smatterings of a science that is itself incomplete. However that may be, remember that if this woman had been my wife, you are the one I would have asked to find her killer.’
Margont forced himself to look at Maria Dorlovna. The thorax, abdomen, arms and legs were covered in bruises. Brémond pointed to the forearms.
‘The wounds are especially numerous in this area. She was trying to protect herself by putting her arms in front of her.’
The doctor took the victim’s hands and carefully examined each fingernail.
‘While defending herself she must have scratched her attacker. Sadly, she kept her fingernails very short. If they had been longer we might have found beneath them some of the murderer’s hair or a piece of skin, evidence that he had suffered a gash to his face, torso or arms. I’ve examined very many wounded bodies in the course of my career but I have to admit that this is the first time I’ve seen such an atrocity. I’ve counted more than thirty wounds but none was immediately fatal. The murderer avoided the heart, the carotid arteries and the larynx. He left the vital organs intact in order to keep his victim alive as long as possible while he was cutting her up. She died in fact from loss of blood after several minutes of agony. He did not wish merely to kill her; he also wanted to torture her.’
‘From what you’ve said, it may well be that the culprit had medical knowledge.’
‘Yes, but he may not have been a doctor. Any butcher or farmer knows how to kill an animal swiftly, and without causing unnecessary suffering, by severing its carotid artery. Besides, plenty of soldiers have experience of hand-to-hand combat and know where some of the vital organs are. An average French hussar knows as much about this as many physicians. Our friend Piquebois will confirm that for you, believe me.’
‘What weapon was used?’
‘A knife fitted with a blade of approximately …’ Brémond thrust his tweezers into several of the wounds ‘… four and a half inches. Considering the violence of the attack and this bruising around the points of impact I think he plunged the blade in up to the hilt. So it was a small knife with a straight blade. The murderer is right-handed. Have you seen her face?’