Doctor Death Read Free Page B

in one hand and his prayer book in the other.
    “Adrian,” he said, “you have to go home now. Your wife needs your support, and so does your son.”
    “I cannot leave her,” said Adrian Montaine. “Not yet, Father.”
    “You must,” said Abigore with a sudden and sharp authority in his voice. “Go home and turn to your life and your loved ones. Cecile is safe with the Lord.”
    Cecile’s father remained where he was, his mouth slack and open, his breathing troubled. His gaze wandered from my father to the priest and back again. Then he suddenly spun around in an awkward wobbling turn as if he were ill or intoxicated. With no word of farewell, he stalked away from us, past the grave and on toward the gate through which his living family had disappeared a few moments earlier.
    “The poor man,” said the priest. “He was here all of yesterday afternoon, watching them dig the grave. It was as if he needed to make sure they did it properly. Young Adrian Junior told methat he had not been home to sleep, just to change his clothes.”
    Abigore looked somewhat fatigued himself. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and seemed to water on their own. He dabbed at them with his handkerchief, snuffled, and sneezed again.
    “My apologies,” he said automatically. “I am afraid I am coming down with a cold. It is this horrific weather. Let us go inside. May I offer you a cup of tea?”
    “No, thank you. We had better get home,” said my father. “We just wanted to show our respect.”
    “Naturally. Perhaps another time?” He raised his prayer book as a gesture of parting. There was perhaps a degree of relief beneath the courteously offered invitation.
    “He seems to be a good priest,” said the Commissioner as we watched the stooped figure head to his residence with a not entirely dignified haste.
    “At least he managed to get the father to go home,” said Papa. “Those poor people. I suppose they are unlikely to receive an explanation for the girl’s disappearance?”
    “Not with our help, at least,” said the Commissioner. “A natural death does not require further investigation.”
    My father shook his head. “Those poor people,” he repeated. “But there you are. Nothing more we can do. Let us go home. Will you join us, Mr. Commissioner?”
    “Delighted, dear friend. Delighted.”
    I noticed them just as we were about to leave. A scatter of tiny droplets of blood in the sunken snow. They were already losing their shape and becoming paler and fuzzier at the edges as they seeped into the collapsing crystals of the snow.
    “Look,” I said.
    My father looked down at the crimson spots.
    “Blood,” he said. “Where did that come from?”
    “It must be either from Monsieur Montaine or Father Abigore,” I said. “It is fresh.”
    “Is it of any significance?” asked the Commissioner.
    My father frowned. “Probably not,” he said. “There is so little of it. A small scratch, perhaps?”
    The gravedigger and his assistant were filling the hole that was Cecile’s grave. The hiss of the spades and the wet, hollow thuds of snow and dirt hitting the coffin lid followed us all the way out into the avenue.

    In the days following the funeral, spring crept hesitantly across Varbourg. The snow had melted completely, and hailstorms and bursts of brilliant sunlight alternated in confusing shifts. The daffodils that had poked their delicate green shoots up through the dirt looked as if they regretted it. One hardly knew whether to wear a straw hat or a winter cape. It was on just such a wet and fickle spring evening, six days after Cecile Montaine’s burial, that Louis Mercier nearly made his life’s greatest heist.

    Louis Charles Napoleon Mercier was named after two kings and an emperor. His mother always told him, “Louis, stand up straight. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You are named after two kings and an emperor!” But Louis had long ago learned that this argument had no effect on the other