Chapitre II

The autopsy raised more questions than answers.

As any good detective would, I tried to explain this case with logic. It’s likely the witness didn’t understand what she saw.

1st theory: The victim choked. He swallowed something, food or otherwise, that blocked his airways. I found nothing in his throat or lungs.

2nd: The victim was poisoned. He ingested something, intentionally or not, that killed him. His stomach was empty, and his blood was clean.

3rd: The witness murdered the victim. Though it’s hard to imagine, the victim was 185cm in height and weighed around 95kg. The witness, is much smaller.

None of my theories held up, and the witness never changed her story. All evidence suggests that she is telling the truth: the man strangled himself with his own two hands. I have worked suicide cases during my years in Paris, but nothing like this. All of them involved an exterior force: a weapon, a rope, a cliff. The human body simply will not allow itself to die.

The witness claims it’s the work of the devil. I suspect something worse. Missing finger nails were not the only disturbing oddity on the body: scarring across the back and chest that looked to be caused by lacerations. They could be self-inflicted. Or torture. Maybe our victim was tormented beyond insanity to the point where he could do the impossible.

The commissaire wanted to write this off as the unexplainable actions of a madman. But I refuse. If there is even a chance that someone is responsible for killing an innocent man, I will not rest. I cannot.

It was decided quickly what would be done. He came from out west, I found on the map only one town in that direction, Marion. Someone would head to Marion, ask about the victim, and investigate from there. As I am the most experienced, and only willing detective, it was decided I would go. Besides, I would not be missed anyway.

And, after a day and a half of travel on horseback, and an uneasy night of camping, I arrived in Marion in the afternoon.

It rests within a fairly dense forest surrounded by open plains. No other civilization in sight. Marching my horse into town, I notice few people roam the dirt streets. They look at me as though I’ve come from another planet. And they look as though they haven’t graduated from the 19th century.

The houses appear the same way. Ancient. Some look ready to topple over from the slightest breeze. Oil lamps hung on iron posts about 2.5m.

Amongst the drab folk, a woman wearing red stands in the middle of the road. “Bonjour monsieur! It is rare we get visitors, what brings you here?”

“I’m a detective, here on business, madam. Who’s in charge here?”

“That would be me, monsieur! What is the trouble?”

“We should speak privately. Is there anywhere my horse can rest?”

“Of course! I have a stable at my estate. Come, come–”

The woman leads me through the small village. She introduces herself as Vivienne Leroux. She enlightens me of the history of Marion: It was famous for its vineyards, exporting a lot of wine. How her family built and ran it for centuries, and how her great-great grandfather went mad and ruined the business, and they haven’t recovered since.

Madam Leroux’s home is massive relative to the rest of the houses. Definitely better maintained. She let me lead my horse into her private stable, who looked particularly disheveled next to his tall white stallion neighbor.

As the old stable hand took care of my steed, I turned to admire the garden. Bright reds and oranges streak and swirl among the green grass.

“Beautiful, yes?” Vivienne says. “Let me show you inside, come now!” She leads me through the intricate hallways. We pass by several portraits: oil paintings depicting finely dressed men and women, who all shared Vivienne’s red curly hair.

We arrive at an ornate wooden door. Vivienne opens it and turns back to me. “Come in, sit!” She beckoned.

The room isn’t particularly spacious, but it is cozy. Two rouge velvet chairs sat under the gleaming stained glass skylight. A familiar pop sounds from behind as I sit. Vivienne appears holding two glasses and a bottle.

“Have a sample of our wares, if you’d like.” She says, placing the glasses on the small table between the chairs, and pours a clear effervescent drink into each.

“Generous of you, Madam. Though I prefer not–”

“Oh, what’s the harm? Go on, try it!”

My left arm clenches. “It… makes old wounds ache.”

She scoffs. “Suit yourself then.” She lifts her glass with a white gloved hand, and sips its contents. I massage my forearm as she does so.

“If you don’t mind, madam, do you recognize this man?” I say and reach into my messenger bag. I pull out a picture of the victim and slide it over to Vivienne.

She picks it up, examining it. Her eyelids squint. “Monsieur… Why are you showing me this?”

“He was found dead in Lautrec. Do you recognize him?”

Her hands tremble, she sinks in her chair ever so slightly. “Oui. Philip. How did he die?”

“Suicide, madam.”

“Oh, Christ…” She shakes her head. “He was such a troubled man. Never spoke to anyone, really. Always wandering out of town. A tragedy, though, not a very surprising one.”

Madam Leroux debriefs me on Philip: He was in his 60s, he lived alone and outside of town, he didn’t work, and had no family.

Before I can ask anything else, she stands. “I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here for nothing, monsieur. You’re more than welcome to stay the night!” She hurried towards the door, halfway through she turns back and gestures to the table. “Please, do try the wine!” She exits.

Well. She’s hiding something. Before leaving, I grab the wine glass and scrutinize it. I take a drink. Not terrible.

I step outside and walk back to the stable. I lean against the stall where my horse is held to bask in the view of the garden. lighting a cigarette in my mouth, I let the smoke fill my lungs, calming my nerves before violently coughing it out.

“Never met a detective who doesn’t like a good smoke,” a low voice says. The old gray-bearded stable hand comes to my side.

“You haven’t met me yet.” I responded. He chuckles.

“Why d’you do it then?” He asks while holding out his hand. I hand him a cigarette and light it for him.

“It keeps me sane–” I respond. “What happened to your finger, monsieur?”

He looks down to his pinky, which is missing a nail. “An accident from ages ago.”

My lips tighten. “Monsieur, if you don’t mind, do you recognize this man?” I hold the picture up to him.

His gaze shoots back and forth between me and the picture. He takes a long puff of his cigarette and bellows it out slowly, then solemnly nods his head.

“What do you know?” I ask.

He taps the ash off his cigarette. “Odd fellow. Harmless though.”

“Odd how?”

“He rarely spoke. When he did, it was nonsense. Spent most of his time at the old chateau.”

“Chateau?”

“The Leroux estate. Just a pile of rubble now.”

“Where might this chateau be?”

He pauses–for a very long time. He snuffs his cigarette out on the wall.

“Do you believe in God?” He asks, as if it’s a perfectly normal question under the circumstances.

“I certainly used to.”

“It’s never too late for salvation. The chateau is nothing but a ruin. I suggest you go home, and pray for Philip. It’ll do you both good.” He walks off.

As I watch him stray further away, something nudges my arm. It’s my horse, poking his head over the gate. He whinnies softly and parts his lips. I hold my cigarette in front of the greedy beast’s mouth. He closes his lips around it, grunts, then retreats back into his stall. The nerve.

That settles it. Tonight I head for Chateau Leroux.