“Cyanide is a burnt-almond smell,” Popil said.
“It smells like that toothache remedy,” Laurent said, unconsciously rubbing his jaw.
The mortician turned on his assistant. “Cretin! Where do you see his teeth?”
“Yes. Oil of cloves,” Inspector Popil said. “Commandant, could we have the pharmacist and his books?”
Under the tutelage of the chef, Hannibal baked the splendid fish in its scales with herbs in a crust of Brittany sea salt and now he took it from the oven. The crust broke at the sharp tap with the back of a chef’s knife and peeled away, the scales coming with it, and the kitchen filled with the wonderful aroma. “Regard, Hannibal,” the chef said. “The best morsels of the fish are the cheeks. This is true of many creatures. When carving at the table, you give one cheek to Madame, and the other to the guest of honor. Of course, if you are plating in the kitchen you eat them both yourself.”
Serge came in carrying staple groceries from the market. He started unpacking the bags and putting food away.
Behind Serge, Lady Murasaki came quietly into the kitchen.
“I saw Laurent at the Petit Zinc,” Serge said. “They haven’t found the butcher’s damned ugly head yet. He said the body was scented with—get this—oil of cloves, the toot
hache stuff. He said—”
Hannibal saw Lady Murasaki and cut Serge off. “You really should eat something, my lady. This will be very, very good.”
“And I brought some peach ice cream, fresh peaches,” Serge said.
Lady Murasaki looked into Hannibal’s eyes for a long moment.
He smiled at her, perfectly calm. “Peach!” he said.
23
MIDNIGHT, LADY MURASAKI lay in her bed. The window was open to a soft breeze that carried the scent of a mimosa blooming in a corner of the courtyard below. She pushed the covers down to feel the moving air on her arms and feet. Her eyes were open, looking up at the dark ceiling, and she could hear the tiny clicks when she blinked her eyes.
Below in the courtyard the old mastiff stirred in her sleep, her nostrils opened and she took in a lot of air. A few folds appeared in the pelt on her forehead, and she relaxed again to pleasant dreams of a chase and blood in her mouth.
Above Lady Murasaki in the dark, the attic floor creaked. Weight on the boards, not the squeak of a mouse. Lady Murasaki took a deep breath and swung her feet onto the cold stone floor of the bedroom. She put on her light kimono, touched her hair, gathered flowers from a vase in the hall and, carrying a candle lamp, mounted the stairs to the attic.
The mask carved on the attic door smiled at her. She straightened, she put her hand on the carved face and pushed. She felt the draft press her robe against her back, a tiny push, and far, far down the dark attic she saw the flicker of a tiny light. Lady Murasaki went toward the light, her candle lamp glowing on the Noh masks watching her, and the hanging row of marionettes gestured in the breath of her passing. Past wicker baskets and stickered trunks of her years with Robert, toward the family altar and the armor where candles burned.
A dark object stood on the altar before the armor. She saw it in silhouette against the candles. She set her candle lamp on a crate near the altar and looked steadily at the head of Paul the Butcher standing in a shallow suiban flower vessel. Paul’s face is clean and pale, his lips are intact, but his cheeks are missing and a little blood has leaked from his mouth into the flower vessel, where blood stands like the water beneath a flower arrangement. A tag is attached to Paul’s hair. On the tag in a copperplate hand: Momund, Boucherie de Qualité.
Paul’s head faced the armor, the eyes upturned to the samurai mask. Lady Murasaki turned her face up too and spoke in Japanese.
“Good evening, Honored Ancestor. Please excuse this inadequate bouquet. With all respect, this is not the type of help I had in mind.”
Automatically she picked up a wilted flower and ribbon from the floor and put it in her sleeve, her eyes moving all the while. The long sword was in its place, and the war axe. The short sword was missing from its stand.
She took a step backward, went to the dormer window and opened it. She took a deep breath. Her pulse sounded in her ears. The breeze fluttered her robe and the candles.
A soft rattle from behind the Noh costumes. One of the masks had eyes in it, watching her.
She said in Japanese, “Good evening, Hannibal.”
Out of the darkness came the reply in Japanese, “Good evening, my lady.”
“May we continue in English, Hannibal? There are matters I prefer to keep private from my ancestor.”
“As you wish, my lady. In any case, we have exhausted my Japanese.”
He came into the lamplight then, carrying the short sword and a cleaning cloth. She went toward him. The long sword was in its rack before the armor. She could reach it if she had to.
“I would have used the butcher’s knife,” Hannibal said. “I used Masamune-dono’s sword because it seemed so appropriate. I hope you don’t mind. Not a nick in the blade, I promise you. The butcher was like butter.”