D’Aubigne pounded back up the steps, out of breath. Behind him were the observatory servants, Claude and Villiers. Claude was still trying to tuck his undershirt back into his breeches. Villiers was wearing a very long night shirt—almost like a night gown—that was made of an odd white and blue striping pattern and reached his ankles.
“It turns out that we won’t need your assistance,” Everard told Claude and Villiers. “We only need a key. Raymond, doesn’t your key also fit into Xavier’s door?”
“Oh, that. I have no idea,” replied D’Aubigne. “I have never tried my key on his door.” He fumbled in his pockets and came up with two iron keys, one smaller than the other. He held up the larger one. “This one goes to my room. The smaller one is used for the connecting bathroom.”
D’Aubigne tried to open Legard’s bedroom door first. The key went in easily, but did not turn. So they all followed him back to his own room where he opened a small door, similar to the one that led into the bathroom that connected Haidée and Renaud’s rooms. It was another bathroom as well, but this one was tiled in a light gray.
Haidée stood back a little ways to observe the men go about the unlocking of doors with the utmost seriousness. She glanced around D’Aubigne’s lodgings, taking in a bed with a wrought iron frame, two squat wardrobes sitting side by side, a desk with a closed trunk wedged underneath, a padded chair stacked with papers with an ink bottle serving as a paperweight, and a pile of books just underneath a window in which the drapes were drawn shut.
“Ah! So my key does work on his door!” exclaimed D’Aubigne as everyone heard an audible click. He pulled the door open and walked inside first. “Le…” there was a horrified choking sound and then a thump.
“D’Aubigne!” shouted Everard. “Legard! Good God, what is this?”
She trailed in after the men who seemed to have forgotten her as they had their attention fixed on the commotion. The first thing she saw was D’Aubigne who was sprawled on the floor with his hands covering his eyes and moaning. She looked over Garnier’s shoulder toward the interior of Legard’s bedroom and her breath caught in her throat and her skin went cold and numb.
A candelabra sitting on a bedside table cast a golden sheen over the scene. The bed itself was one of those heavy wooden monstrosities consisting of a thick frame covered by a stifling canopy. But the green velvet bed curtains were drawn aside to reveal the interior—a smoothed over coverlet and pillows indicating that no one had slept on them. Across from the bed was an open window looking out over the dark island. The drapes slowly fluttered as a cold breeze drifted inside.
And then there was the body. Legard was kneeling on the floor next to the bed, naked. He was leaning face down on the coverlet, his arms stretched over his head as if he were about to pray or to receive a lover. But that wasn’t what made her feel light-headed and ill. There were markings on his back, strange markings that were black, unnatural and glistening. And the worst part was that those markings sparked a dim sort of recollection in the recesses of her memory.
The others were silent, except for D’Aubigne’s sobbing, as they struggled to take in the scene. It was only until Renaud made a move toward Legard that the others began to shift on their feet, murmuring in coherently. He stood over the body and put two fingers to Legard’s neck. After a moment, he removed his hand and he turned toward the others with a slight downward tilt of his mouth. The angle of the light made the glass of his spectacles opaque, hiding his expression.
“He’s dead,” Renaud said flatly. “And probably not for very long. He’s still warm.”
“My God,” exclaimed Roland. “How could he just die like that? His health is better than mine.”
“Maybe someone killed him,” supplied Garnier. The short astronomer walked around the bed and headed to the window to examine the pane and the outside ledge. “The murderer must have escaped this way.”
“Save the speculations for later,” said Everard. “Claude, go wake the magistrate. And Villiers, go get the village doctor. We don’t want to make any unsound judgements. Legard could merely be in a comma. Garnier, close the window and help me get Legard back on the bed.”
As the two servants hustled out of the room to get the authorities, Haidée edged around the room to look at something that caught her eye. Legard’s room was unusual in that one side of his room was occupied with a fireplace framed with a white mantelpiece decorated with gilded molding. There was no fire in the hearth, but ash was scattered about the surrounding floor in a strange swishing pattern—as if someone had tried to clean it up with a broom. Next to the fireplace, at the corner, was a square writing table and a plain wooden chair pushed back as if someone had just gotten up from it. On the table were several sheaves of paper stained by an overturned bottle of ink. The quill was nowhere to be found.
“Mademoiselle.” She looked up to find Renaud standing next to her. He was close enough that she could see his eyes behind his spectacles, dark and missing nothing. In a lowered voice, he said, “This is no place for a woman. Everard might not believe it, but Legard is dead. I am worried that these tragic circumstances will disturb your sensibilities.”
“I’m not the one in hysterics,” she replied, tilting her head to indicate D’Aubigne who had now curled up in a fetal position.
“Your hands are shaking.”
In response, she clenched her clammy hands into fists and shoved them behind her back. “That doesn’t matter. I think I agree with Monsieur Garnier—that someone else must be involved in this.”
“Damn it, you fools!” said Roland in sudden fervor. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve destroyed the evidence!”
“It wasn’t me,” claimed Garnier. “I tried to put him face down on the bed, but Everard is much stronger that I am.”
“I thought they were tattoos,” the head astronomer huffed.
Garnier and Everard had managed to drag Legard’s body back on the bed, but this time he was lying on his back. The coverlet was smeared with the ink that had been on Legard’s back. Someone had managed to find a linen shirt somewhere and had draped it over Legard to preserve the corpse’s modesty. Or perhaps it was to shield the dead man’s nudity from sensitive eyes. That thought almost made Haidée scoff. She’d seen enough naked men to say that a corpse wasn’t going to make that much of a difference to her.
Renaud put his hands on her shoulders which made her suddenly stiffen. “What are you doing?” she asked suspiciously.
He steered her past the prone D’Aubigne and out of the bathroom. “You’re not one to listen to common sense, are you?” he replied. “Trust me, whether Legard died of natural causes or not, I do not suggest that you linger here. The magistrate and the doctor will arrive soon and as guests, we will merely get in their way. It is better to let Monsieur Everard and his colleagues to attend to one of their own.” Once out in the hallway, he dropped his arms.
“But it’s obvious that someone is involved in his death,” she protested. “You don’t think Monsieur Legard painted those symbols on his back by himself, do you? And while we’re out here arguing about this, the murderer could be getting away!”
Something dark glittered in his gaze. “You forget, Mademoiselle. This is an island and today is a new day. The tide is in. If there is indeed a murderer, there is no way for him to leave.”