CHAPTER 27

MARGONT was worried about Relmyer and he gave a sigh of relief when he saw him coming out of Teyhern’s house. The young Austrian, irritated, hurried over. His drawn features gave the impression that he must have woken up several times a night, jumping at the least sound, real or imaginary.

‘What are you doing here? You have to leave at once!’

The three hounds, held on a lead by a farmer, were enough to disconcert him. Margont explained his idea.

‘If there is someone, pray heaven that we find him in time,’ Relmyer replied. ‘If there is nothing here, disappear immediately!’

The farmer let the dogs off the lead and they scattered. One ran towards the house while the others rapidly searched the area outside, their snouts to the ground, their tails wagging. Relmyer bombarded the farmer with questions. Did his animals understand what they were looking for, or were they going to pull out a hare? How long would they take to explore the area? How would they know when it was time to give up? Why was one of them barking? Could it not keep quiet?

The farmer was barely listening, merely grumbling from time to time, ‘My dogs know their business: if there is anyone here, they will unearth them.’ His age-weathered face brightened with pleasure, rejuvenating him. He was not worried about what these damned Frenchmen were up to, but he loved poaching. They were paying him and he was hunting with his hounds: that was enough for him.

Jean-Quenin Brémond did not like Relmyer. He was a part of the ever-growing category of those whose relations with the young hussar had been severed by his blade. However, he wanted to help Margont as best he could, even if his friend had not explained this affair except in the broadest outline. The medical officer therefore waited patiently, but stood at some distance from Relmyer. The scalpel never understands the sabre.

One of the animals disappeared into a mass of thickets, about sixty paces from the building. His two fellow hounds ran to join in, their paws flying over the ground. Everyone rushed over in their direction. Relmyer, ahead of everyone else, slowed down, and was overtaken. He had to be the first, but at the same time he was terrified of what they might find.

The dogs scraped the earth to uncover something. Lefine handed out spades and everyone began to dig. Relmyer leant against a tree. He was cursing himself and praying that there was no body. But after a while, the odour of putrefaction filled the air, coming from the ever-expanding hole. Margont thought he was going to vomit.

The farmer shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your game is off...' Relmyer would have liked to hit him but Margont said compassionately: ‘He doesn’t know about all this, Lukas. And if you take it out on him, his dogs will tear you to pieces.’

The farmer moved away. This affair was taking an unexpected turn and he wanted to avoid being too involved. A hussar went with him to keep an eye on him. Lefine kept turning his head, his mouth seeking less foul air and his eyes a less harrowing spectacle.

‘It’s not a hiding place, it’s a tomb.’

Relmyer did not move, shrinking inside himself.

‘Look at the size of the body!’ exclaimed Margont. ‘It’s an adult, not a young boy of fifteen Relmyer went quickly over to him.

‘Who is it then?’

Margont turned to Pagin. ‘Go and fetch the portrait.’

Lefine and the other hussars were moving off when Margont called them to order.

‘Let’s continue! We have to free the body.’

He set an example, forcing himself to ignore the sticky pestilential corpse. Lefine let his spade fall from his hands. The sight of the worms infesting that decaying carcass horrified him. Eventually Margont found himself digging on his own.

‘That’s enough,’ Jean-Quenin intervened.

‘No, I want to be sure that there is only one corpse in this grave,’ said Margont obstinately.

Relmyer went to fetch sheets from the house and helped him exhume the dead man. Margont continued to dig for a while. With each spadeful, Relmyer expected to see the face of a young boy appearing, as if the earth, dark and rich, had embalmed and conserved intact the body of another victim. Relmyer then looked around him. Was he going to have to dig for the rest of his days to find all the victims?

Margont joined Jean-Quenin. ‘What can you tell us about the corpse?’

In contrast to his companions, the medical officer showed little emotion. Death was an old acquaintance.

‘It’s an adult - I can’t be sure of his age; killed with a knife, struck several times in the abdomen and chest, violently; some of his ribs were broken by the impact of the blows.’

Jean-Quenin wrapped his hand in a sheet and took hold of one of the body’s arms, which he examined.

The victim probably knew his assassin.’

‘How can you say that?’ asked Relmyer, crossly.

‘When you’re attacked, your first instinct is to protect yourself with your arms. But here, you can see there are no injuries to the arms. This man was taken by surprise by the assault and the murderer must have been standing quite close to him to be able to stab him. You only let people you trust come close to you.'

‘When was he killed?’ asked Margont.

‘It’s hard to say. The speed of decomposition varies according to numerous factors - heat, humidity, the type of soil the body is buried in ... I would say between ten and fifteen days ago/

Relmyer made a huge effort to control himself. He had just been shaken out of a world with one simple objective - to wait for Tey-hern in his salon - into a universe of chaos where questions abounded: who was that man? Who had killed him? Why?

Margont looked at the grave.

The body was buried very deep to prevent the smell escaping and alerting us. In addition, the tomb was well hidden: we noticed nothing when we first looked here. The assassin was very determined that we should not find his victim. Conclusion: this dead

man is a major clue — may God rest his soul — and I want to know everything about him. Pagin, show the portrait to the medical officer. Jean-Quenin, can you tell us if these are the same person?’ Pagin and Relmyer looked at each other, disorientated by this question, which seemed unnecessary to them. Jean-Quenin Bre-mond set himself to answering the question without seeking to understand it. He was used to Margont’s bizarre requests.

‘No, they’re two different men.’

Relmyer looked at the body, whose features had been effaced by putrefaction.

‘What are you saying? You can’t tell anything from that face except that it’s dead! They both have approximately the same colour hair. It could be him, it could be his brother or his neighbour or half the men killed in the last two weeks.’

‘Look at his cheekbones.’

But Relmyer could not bring himself to look at the cadaver. He contented himself with listening to the medical officer’s explanations.

The victim’s cheekbones are more prominent than those of the man in the portrait. And the victim’s lower jaw is narrower and his chin protrudes.’

‘Perhaps the painting is not a good likeness—’ Relmyer interrupted himself: the painting was an excellent likeness.

Jean-Quenin Brémond went on with his commentary. ‘Although the nose is crushed, you can still see that it is larger and longer. And besides, it runs straight down from his forehead, what you call a Greek profile. The man in the picture has a hooked nose much more separated from the forehead. The position of his ears is also lower.’

Margont went over to the farmer with Pagin, who was still holding the picture.

He demanded, in German: ‘You live near here - do you know the man in this portrait?’

‘Never seen him before.’

Very reluctantly, the man followed him to the grave. As soon as he caught sight of the body, he grew agitated.