Memory of Flames

CHAPTER 26

THAT very evening Jean-Quenin Brémond let Margont know, via Lefine, that he had to see him as soon as possible. Margont was slightly irritated by this, but he complied. He left the print shop and, taking all necessary precautions, went to the meeting place Jean-Quenin had specified, in front of the Eglise Saint-Gervais. The medical officer was in civilian clothes, which was rare. Margont was grateful for his prudence.

‘What’s going on, Jean-Quenin?’

The doctor was agitated, excited. It was the first time that Margont had seen him in such a state. Jean-Quenin - who normally kept a tight check on his emotions, even when he was amputating on the battlefield - seemed to be in the grip of a feverish disturbance that was making his blood boil.

‘Quentin, I know what killed Count Kevlokine. During the autopsy,

I pretended not to understand anything, to hide my discovery from Inspector Sausson, because I know you want to keep him away

from your investigation. I found no trace of poison in the food remains, or in the glasses or cups I found at the Gunans’ house, so the policeman suspected nothing. It’s ... it’s ...’

Margont was proud of his ability to keep his cool, but he considered that normally Jean-Quenin was even better at it. Now as he looked at his friend in such a state, he had the impression he was looking at a mountain trembling.

‘Quentin, Count Kevlokine was asphyxiated. But he wasn’t strangled: there were no marks on his neck and his larynx was not damaged. That’s not because of the gag either: he would have bitten down on the material and I would have found fibres in his mouth, his face would have shown suffering and terror... His heart was in perfect condition. It wasn’t apoplexy. There were no blisters on the arms or in the mouth, and the trachea was healthy and unaltered, so in this murder also, the burns were definitely inflicted postmortem. I hid that as well from Inspector Sausson, who knows nothing about medicine. So, in short, it was a complete mystery! I thought I was going mad. I was like a mathematician who discovers an addition where one plus one does not equal two. Do you see what I mean?’

‘I think so

‘In these situations when I’m at a loss, I have a system. I go back over everything from the very beginning; I go back to the basics. So I started the autopsy over again, although the abdomen and the thoracic cavity were already open, and I had removed the heart, the liver—’

'Thanks, Jean-Quenin! I’d rather you spared me the details, unless they’re absolutely essential for me to understand what you are about to explain.’

‘All right, briefly, you start an autopsy by observing the corpse. As you might imagine, overwork often means that doctors skip that stage. So I begin to examine the body. And that’s when I discover a prick in the neck. Not caused by an insect; there was no local inflammation, no bump. No, just a dot of blood. The prick of a needle. Apparently inexplicable asphyxia, so sudden that the victim did not have time to suffer - judging by his serene expression- no visible lesions, a needle prick: death by curare poisoning!’ ‘What? I’ve never heard of curare. And what does it have to do with the needle prick?’

‘It’s a poison found in South America. Amazonian Indians use it for hunting.’

‘Amazonian Indians?’

‘Listen to what I’m telling you! There are many variations of the poison. Each Amazonian tribe has its own recipe and they use dozens of different ingredients: plants, caterpillars, insects, snakes, poisonous toads, various other kinds of poison ... So really one should refer to curares. Not much is known about them. But you have to understand that a single drop is sufficient to kill in a few seconds. All you have to do is dip a needle in curare and inject yourself, and that will be the end of you! There are no antidotes: death is inevitable. The poison paralyses the muscles - we don’t know how - and death results from asphyxiation, because the respiratory muscles are paralysed.’

‘A poison that acts through the blood?’

Margont was passionate about history and had read several accounts byconquistadores and Portuguese soldiers describing the deaths of their men, sometimes in a few moments, following often tiny wounds from arrows or darts from blowpipes. But this was Paris, not the Amazon.

‘How do you know all this, Jean-Quenin? Are you sure? If you’re mistaken—’

‘I’m certain! I’ve always wanted to do medical research so I keep myself well informed. At the moment, because of the war, I’m devoting myself to the wounded and to helping my friends. But when there’s finally peace, I will spend my time on research! You see, Quentin, you often talk about the newspaper you want to found. Well, this is my dream: to continue to care for people by researching new cures. It just so happens that France is one of the most advanced countries in pharmacology, a new science that studies the properties of chemical substances with the aim of discovering new remedies, and of better understanding how the human body functions. Perhaps you’ve heard of Magendie? He’s a master in the field, even better than the English, who are also making great strides in this sphere! I have the privilege of knowing him - French medical research is a small world. It was he who told me about curare a few years ago. Magendie favours experimental research: starting not from some hypothetical stance, but from concrete experience. Curare has such a spectacular effect on the human body that anyone who finds out how it works will certainly have made a major discovery. Parisian doctors pay fortunes to get hold of the stuff! Fortunes!’

Jean-Quenin put his hands on Margont’s shoulders, though he was not normally demonstrative. Not only did curare cause paralysis, it also drove researchers mad ...

‘Quentin, you often ask me to help you, and I’ve never asked for anything in exchange. But today, I’m asking for something! I’m asking you, if you ever lay your hands on this curare, to give it to me.’

‘Well, I actually want to lay my hands on whoever made use of the curare. I agree though. If I succeed—’

Jean-Quenin shook his hand vigorously. Thank you, Quentin!’

‘Wait... How did the curare get to Paris?’

I’m not sure. Apparently it doesn’t last more than a few months. The problem is that Brazil is a viceroyalty of Portugal, and we’ve been at war with them for several years. With all these conflicts, exotic substances are hard to come by. English researchers are ahead of the French in this respect because they’re allied to Portugal, which allows them to get hold of curare more easily than we can.’

What a simplistic way of representing the war! Jean-Quenin, although normally so philanthropic, was displaying breathtaking egotism.

Margont wondered out loud whether members of a Parisian royalist group would have been able to get hold of curare through the Allies. If they had the right contacts and enough money, it was quite possible.

He added: ‘It must have taken them months to get it! They would have had to contact an Allied agent, get him to agree to undertake to find it, then convince the Portuguese to send one of their ships to Brazil - although that is happening all the time: in 1807, Portugal’s prince regent fled from the French armies and installed his court in Rio de Janeiro - to bring back curare, which would have to be obtained from an Amazonian tribe ...’

If Jean-Quenin was right, the Swords of the King had been preparing their action for much longer than Margont had imagined. And it was also unlikely that the murderer was operating on his own. It would take the support of an organisation to mount such an operation.

‘Hang on, the murderer must be a doctor!’ exclaimed Margont. Jean-Quenin took a moment to react, then he reddened. That had not crossed his mind. ‘Very probably. A doctor or a traveller who’s been to South America.’

‘Or else a French aristocrat who fled to Portugal, then followed the court to Rio. Have you told me everything?’

‘Yes.’

Margont thanked him and left his friend. Jean-Quenin wandered around Paris for a while, trying to calm himself down. But he could not stop thinking about his plans for greatness and his imagination ran riot. Margont had not understood at all ... He didn’t want to make a great discovery for reasons of selfaggrandisement! All his life he had had the feeling that he had not done enough for his patients. Today he had felt that it really would be possible for him to take a giant leap forward for medicine. There were so many people he had not been able to save and their ghosts accompanied him everywhere - yes, everywhere! - forming a monstrous cohort that was growing with the years. If he succeeded in discovering the secret of curare, then he would be able to appease those tormented souls. Like every doctor he dreamt of being able to say one day, ‘Yes, I have done more good than harm in my life.’