‘No one is beyond the reach of justice.’

‘If you really think that then I understand why you were picked for the investigation. It makes it easier for them to manipulate you.’

Margont was disconcerted. There was too much truth in this assertion.

Maroveski hesitated, then decided to continue. When he recalled the panic caused by the firing and the fear of a Russian attack, he shook his head.

‘I was sure it wasn’t the Russians. I was afraid for Maria. I tried to get to the staircase but people were pushing me towards the exit. When I did manage to get to her bedroom door, I banged on it and called out to her but she didn’t reply. Captain, the door hadn’t been forced and it was locked from the inside. She’d opened the door to the man who did it. So it must have been him …’ His fists were now clenched. ‘So I forced the door open with my shoulder. It was stupid of me because he might have still been there and killed me as well. I saw Maria stretched out on the bed, and she … she had …’

Margont gave him a few moments to recover before putting his question.

‘I know that my enquiries are painful but they are vital for my investigation. Do you remember anything in particular, was there some detail that struck you?’

‘There was blood all over her. Her face was disfigured. I looked at her only for a moment. I couldn’t stand it.’

Maroveski’s expression was blank. Once more he was in a state of complete mental disarray.

‘Oh, yes,’ he added eventually. ‘Everything was very neat and tidy. She’d made her bedroom nice to welcome him.’

CHAPTER 4

HAVING instructed the grenadiers to treat the prisoner well – instructions that he had to sketch out – Margont went to Tresno.

The village was completely unaware of the drama that had taken place. The villagers seemed obsessed with the presence of the French army and excitement was at fever pitch. A regiment was marching down the main street in orderly fashion, the soldiers trudging in step through mud that had been tramped a thousand times over. Fascinated children were crowding around, watching them, shouting: ‘Drummers! Drummers!’ and imitating an interminable drum roll with their fists. The colonel smiled and, waving his sabre imperiously like Jupiter brandishing his thunderbolt, pointed to the drummers, who immediately began to play. The children shouted joyfully and their faces lit up as if they were witnessing the most amazing of spectacles.

At the windows of the wooden houses, onlookers were jostling for position with such determination that it looked as if they might bring all the houses tumbling down. Polish women – equally concerned, whether they were wearing patched and faded clothes, or elegant dresses and spring bonnets – were calling out to the soldiers in halting French: ‘Tell Corporal Djaczek, from the 3rd Polish Regiment, that Natasha sends him kisses.’ ‘Tell Private Blachas, from the 12th Polish Artillery, that all his family send their love and are thinking of him.’ ‘Do you know whether Ivan Naskelitch, from the 14th Polish Chasseurs, is all right?’

Everywhere soldiers were buying things, to the delight of the villagers, who all seemed to have turned into pedlars. There was a delicious aroma of sausages, which made empty stomachs rumble; elsewhere were warm clothes, knitted jackets, fur-lined – if threadbare – cloaks and fur hats. Infantrymen, collapsing under the weight of parcels, were skewering loaves of bread on their bayonets. Sergeants in charge of keeping order were checking passes and other papers. Four times out of five they frowned and began to shout, but they invariably received the same reply: ‘I lost me way, Sergeant. D’you know where my regiment is?’

The only stone buildings were the inns and the church. Because Tresno was located along a busy highway, there were many places to stay and Maroveski’s was the biggest. The window on the top floor was still open. Margont prayed that the scene of the crime had not been ransacked by those who had taken the body away. As he went inside the establishment, the wind shook the wrought-iron carafe-shaped sign hanging above the entrance, making its metal fastenings creak.

Five grenadiers were seated around a table, playing cards. Their captain, astride a chair, was watching his men as he stuffed his pipe. As soon as he saw the Frenchman, he got up and approached him. There was a brief shuffling of chairs and then all the grenadiers lined up and stood to attention. The Italian officer saluted stiffly. He was puzzled by Margont’s two epaulettes, indicating his junior rank. Since they, the prestigious grenadiers of the Italian Royal Guard, were being forced to wait for someone, that someone had to be an important person. But Margont did not look like someone important. The Italian checked his safe-conduct, then asked a question in Italian. Margont did not understand much of it. Did they want permission to leave the scene after his investigation? He settled on this explanation, reckoning that, like Guard soldiers everywhere, they were spoiling for a fight.

‘You are to remain here until further notice,’ he stated slowly, pointing his finger at the Italians before indicating the ground.

His gesture was greeted by looks of disappointment. No more glorious military campaigns. Their only battles would be at cards.

‘And no one is to go upstairs,’ he added at the foot of the staircase, waving his hands about to halt an imaginary crowd of onlookers.

He climbed a few stairs and turned round to say with barely disguised anger in his voice: ‘And I would be pleased if someone would fetch Sergeant Lefine, from the 84th.’

‘Sergeant Lefine, here,’ repeated one of the grenadiers, to make sure he had understood properly.

The hotel had been emptied of its occupants and the silence pervading the whole building was in sharp contrast to the hubbub in the streets. The door to the victim’s bedroom was wide open. A latch on the inside had given way when the innkeeper forced the door with his shoulder. Although small, the accommodation had been carefully thought out. The steeply sloping roof made it possible to stand up straight only in the left-hand part of the room. On the right-hand side it was only possible to sit or to lie down, so that was where the bed had been set up. Alongside it, a trunk served as a bedside table. A small bookcase, an unexpected item, was tucked away in a corner. So Maria had had the advantage of being taught to read by her parents. The pages of the few books on the shelves were well thumbed. Judging by the pink or pastel-coloured covers and the engravings depicting couples walking together, they were probably romantic works, novels and collections of poetry. On a table stood a candlestick, two glasses and a pitcher of wine. A jug, a tub of water and some provisions – pots of jam, vegetables and a string of garlic – were crammed on to some shelves.

The rumpled sheets were soaked with blood. Dark red spots on the floor made it possible to discern two sets of footprints. One led from the bed to the door and was probably the result of the victim’s body being moved by the grenadiers. The other went from the bed to the tub. The water inside it was red, as was the water in the jug. So it was impossible to decide whether the murderer had got rid of the bloodstains after his crime or whether the soldiers who had helped to lift the body up had simply washed their hands there. And now these precious witnesses were on their way to Spain.

‘How can an investigation be carried out in such circumstances?’ Margont asked himself angrily.

He spent an hour inspecting the bedroom but discovered nothing except a trace of blood on the bolt of the trunk. It was scarcely visible because it had been wiped. That seemed strange. The chest was spattered with blood as it had been next to the bed. Why then had this trace been wiped away? Was it something unconnected with the murder, the result of the victim having injured herself? Or had the murderer still been covered in blood when he opened the trunk, despite having had a quick wash?