“A small remembrance from Mother Hildegarde,” he explained. “I understand it is a favorite remedy of les maîtresses sage-femme. She has written directions for its use, as well.” He withdrew a folded, sealed note from his inner pocket and handed it over.
I sniffed the package. Raspberry leaves and saxifrage; something else I didn’t recognize. I hoped Mother Hildegarde had included a list of the ingredients as well.
“Please thank Mother Hildegarde for me,” I said. “And how is everyone at the Hôpital?” I greatly missed my work there, as well as the nuns and the odd assortment of medical practitioners. We gossiped for some time about the Hôpital and its personnel, with Jamie contributing the occasional comment, but usually just listening with a polite smile, or – when the subject turned to the clinical – burying his nose in his glass of wine.
“What a pity,” I said regretfully, as Monsieur Forez finished his description of the repair of a crushed shoulder blade. “I’ve never seen that done. I do miss the surgical work.”
“Yes, I will miss it as well,” Monsieur Forez nodded, taking a small sip from his wineglass. It was still more than half-full; apparently he hadn’t been joking about his abstention from spirits.
“You’re leaving Paris?” Jamie said in some surprise.
Monsieur Forez shrugged, the folds of his long coat rustling like feathers.
“Only for a time,” he said. “Still, I will be gone for at least two months. In fact, Madame,” he bowed his head toward me again, “that is the main reason for my visit today.”
“It is?”
“Yes. I am going to England, you understand, and it occurred to me that if you wished it, Madame, it would be a matter of the greatest simplicity for me to carry any message that you desired. Should there be anyone with whom you wished to communicate, that is,” he added, with his usual precision.
I glanced at Jamie, whose face had suddenly altered, from an open expression of polite interest to that pleasantly smiling mask that hid all thoughts. A stranger wouldn’t have noticed the difference, but I did.
“No,” I said hesitantly. “I have no friends or relatives in England; I’m afraid I have no connections there at all, since I was – widowed.” I felt the usual small stab at this reference to Frank, but suppressed it.
If this seemed odd to Monsieur Forez, he didn’t show it. He merely nodded, and set down his half-drunk glass of wine.
“I see. It is fortunate indeed that you have friends here, then.” His voice seemed to hold a warning of some kind, but he didn’t look at me as he bent to straighten his stocking before rising. “I shall call upon you on my return, then, and hope to find you again in good health.”
“What is the business that takes you to England, Monsieur?” Jamie said bluntly.
Monsieur Forez turned to him with a faint smile. He cocked his head, eyes bright, and I was struck once more by his resemblance to a large bird. Not a carrion crow at the moment, though, but a raptor, a bird of prey.
“And what business should a man of my profession travel on, Monsieur Fraser?” he asked. “I have been hired to perform my usual duties, at Smithfield.”
“An important occasion, I take it,” said Jamie. “To justify the summoning of a man of your skill, I mean.” His eyes were watchful, though his expression showed nothing beyond polite inquiry.
Monsieur Forez’s eyes grew brighter. He rose slowly to his feet, looking down at Jamie where he sat near the window.
“That is true, Monsieur Fraser,” he said softly. “For it is a matter of skill, make no mistake. To choke a man to death at the end of a rope – pah! Anyone can do that. To break a neck cleanly, with one quick fall, that requires some calculation in terms of weight and drop, and a certain amount of practice in the placing of the rope, as well. But to walk the line between these methods, to properly execute the sentence of a traitor’s death; that requires great skill indeed.”
My mouth felt suddenly dry, and I reached for my own glass. “A traitor’s death?” I said, feeling as though I really didn’t want to hear the answer.
“Hanging, drawing, and quartering,” Jamie said briefly. “That’s what you mean, of course, Monsieur Forez?”
The hangman nodded. Jamie rose to his feet, as though against his will, facing the gaunt, black-clad visitor. They were much of a height, and could look each other in the face without difficulty. Monsieur Forez took a step toward Jamie, expression suddenly abstracted, as though he were about to make a demonstration of some medical point.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, that is the traitor’s death. First, the man must be hanged, as you say, but with a nice judgment, so that the neck is not broken, nor the windpipe crushed – suffocation is not the desired result, you understand.”
“Oh, I understand.” Jamie’s voice was soft, with an almost mocking edge, and I glanced at him in bewilderment.
“Do you, Monsieur?” Monsieur Forez smiled faintly, but went on without waiting for an answer. “It is a matter of timing then; you judge by the eyes. The face will darken with blood almost immediately – more quickly if the subject is of fair complexion – and as choking proceeds, the tongue is forced from the mouth. That is what delights the crowds, of course, as well as the popping eyes. But you watch for the signs of redness at the corners of the eyes, as the small blood vessels burst. When that happens, you must give at once the signal for the subject to be cut down – a dependable assistant is indispensable, you understand,” he half-turned, to include me in this macabre conversation, and I nodded, despite myself.
“Then,” he continued, turning back to Jamie, “you must administer at once a stimulant, to revive the subject while the shirt is being removed – you must insist that a shirt opening down the front is provided; often it is difficult to get them off over the head.” One long, slender finger reached out, pointing at the middle button of Jamie’s shirt, but not quite touching the fresh-starched linen.
“I would suppose so,” Jamie said.
Monsieur Forez retracted the finger, nodding in approval at this evidence of comprehension.
“Just so. The assistant will have kindled the fire beforehand; this is beneath the dignity of the executioner. And then the time of the knife is at hand.”
There was a dead silence in the room. Jamie’s face was still set in inscrutability, but a slight moisture gleamed on the side of his neck.
“It is here that the utmost of skill is required,” Monsieur Forez explained, raising a finger in admonition. “You must work quickly, lest the subject expire before you have finished. Mixing a dose with the stimulant which constricts the blood vessels will give you a few moments’ grace, but not much.”
Spotting a silver letter-opener on the table, he crossed to it and picked it up. He held it with his hand wrapped about the hilt, forefinger braced on top of the blade, pointed down at the shining walnut of the tabletop.
“Just there,” he said, almost dreamily. “At the base of the breastbone. And quickly, to the crest of the groin. You can see the bone easily in most cases. Again” – and the letter opener flashed to one side and then the other, quick and delicate as the zigzag flight of a hummingbird – “following the arch of the ribs. You must not cut deeply, for you do not wish to puncture the sac which encloses the entrails. Still, you must get through skin, fat, and muscle, and do it with one stroke. This,” he said with satisfaction, gazing down at his own reflection in the tabletop, “is artistry.”
He laid the knife gently on the table, and turned back to Jamie. He shrugged pleasantly.
“After that, it is a matter of speed and some dexterity, but if you have been exact in your methods, it will present little difficulty. The entrails are sealed within a membrane, you see, resembling a bag. If you have not severed this by accident, it is a simple matter, needing only a little strength, to force your hands beneath the muscular layer and pull free the entire mass. A quick cut at stomach and anus” – he glanced disparagingly at the letter opener – “and then the entrails may be thrown upon the fire.”