Cezanne's Quarry Read online

  Today, neither rich nor poor had been summoned to the Palais. The public entrance was closed for the holidays, so Martin headed for the back door, where a gendarme let him in onto the ground floor. A staircase led him up to the grandiose main floor, and to more reminders of how the pretensions of the powerful overrode the egalitarian ideals of the Third Republic.

  The majestic central atrium was a great open space surrounded by a two-story marble peristyle. The courtrooms rimmed the peristyle on the main floor. The second floor held the cloakrooms and meeting rooms for the judges and defense attorneys, as well as the magistrates’ offices. Martin’s footsteps made a hollow sound on the marble floor as he crossed over to the grand staircase. If trials had been in session, he would have been threading his way through a crowd of self-important black-robed jurists, flying up and down the stairs and crisscrossing the atrium like a flock of cawing, rapacious crows. Martin hated the way they ostentatiously noticed and greeted only each other, while their prey—their poorer compatriots—sat anxiously on the benches outside the courtrooms, waiting to be defended, prosecuted, and judged.

  Martin barely had time to shake off these dreary thoughts before duty confronted him in the hunched, thin person of his law clerk. Old Joseph was waiting at the top of the stairs to warn him that he had visitors. “A Mr. Charles Westerbury, sir,” Joseph whispered in his ear. “M. Franc brought him in earlier this morning.” When Martin straightened up, he saw Franc standing over a man seated on a bench, holding his head in his hands. Martin’s first suspect.

  The inspector left his charge and hurried over to meet Martin at the head of the stairs. “I picked him up, sir, about eight this morning, having coffee just as calm as you please, with the dead woman’s maid. He’s seen the body. Showed some shock, but I can’t tell if it was fake or not. I tried questioning, but couldn’t get anything out of him. I am sure you can handle his type better than me, sir, being an educated man yourself.”

  While Franc spoke, Martin gazed down the hall at the hapless suspect, who returned his stare. He was trying to remember if he had ever seen Westerbury with Solange Vernet.

  “Would you like me to observe the interrogation, in case there are contradictions?”

  “No,” Martin responded quickly. “That won’t be necessary.” He did not need the inspector’s help to do his job. Even if he did, he was not about to show it. “Have you sent the men to the quarry? Do you have the medical report?”

  “The men went out this morning, and the report is on your desk. Riquel thinks that she has been dead no more than a day.”

  Martin nodded. That seemed right. The maggots had not yet taken over the swollen corpse of Solange Vernet. “And the material evidence?” Martin asked without taking his eyes off the man who might be her murderer.

  “I’ll bring those up later. I didn’t want to carry them along while I was bringing—” The inspector jerked his head in the direction of Westerbury.

  “Yes, right. Good idea.” Franc was full of good ideas. Martin was going to have to work hard to stay a step ahead of him. Martin took a deep breath. It was his turn. “Very well,” he said, “we will talk later.”

  Even the bullheaded Franc should have recognized this as a dismissal, but he still had to offer one last piece of advice. He lowered his voice. “Don’t forget, sir, to ask him about the money. They were living like kings.” Then, with a little military tip of his cap, he headed toward the stairs.

  Their conversation had given Old Joseph time to reach Westerbury. Martin saw the clerk’s head of sparse, wispy white hair bob up and down as he explained something to the suspect. When Martin reached the door of his chambers, the Englishman stood up to meet him. They stared at each other for just an instant. Could this be the man who strangled and stabbed the beautiful Solange Vernet? Martin thought, before he dropped his gaze in order to conceal the excitement and disgust that had suddenly overtaken him.

  He invited Westerbury into his chambers and asked him to sit in one of the two wooden chairs that faced his large mahogany desk. Martin passed a wall lined with law books on the way to the chair behind his desk, while Old Joseph took a seat at a small table in an alcove. The clerk sat with his back to the suspect and was ready almost at once to take notes. Martin, on the other hand, took his time settling in; getting out his pen, then ink, then paper, and thumbing through the documents on his desk. Of course, it was all an act. Even if he wanted to absorb what Dr. Riquel had written, he could not. The words on the medical report were swimming before his eyes. His performance was calculated to show Westerbury who was in charge, as well to give himself time to figure out where to begin.

  He glanced up to find Westerbury staring blankly past him through the large window that opened onto the Palais square. From where the Englishman sat, there was really nothing he could see. His legs were crossed, hands sitting atop one knee. If this pose was an attempt to appear nonchalant, a slight trembling of the fingers gave the suspect away.

  Westerbury’s attire, a gray frock coat and matching top hat that he had placed beside himself on the second wooden chair, indicated that the professor must have been something of a dandy, perhaps even a lady’s man. But now he looked ordinary, even bedraggled. He was taller than average, with fair skin of the English type, balding gray-blond hair, and watery blue eyes. A wrinkled striped silk cravat, which he or someone else had yanked loose during the morning’s proceedings, added to the general impression of dishevelment. There was no dash, no sparkle. Martin would have to revive Solange Vernet’s lover if he were going to get anything out of him. So he set out, despite the nervous fluttering in his own chest, to do as his law professors advised and put the suspect at ease.

  “Mr. Westerbury,” he began, in a tone of gentlemanly solicitude, “do you understand the French legal system?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” The Englishman mumbled his reply, barely opening his mouth.

  “Well, let me explain. I am what in our language we call a judge of instruction. In your country,” Martin said slowly in English, “I would be called ‘an examining magistrate.’ M. Gilbert,” he pointed to Old Joseph’s hunched back, “is my greffier. He will take down our interview, although I will also be taking notes. You will get to read his summaries later.” Westerbury’s gaze remained focused on some blank space behind Martin’s left ear. There was nothing else to do but forge ahead. Martin cleared his throat. “Usually when making an inquiry into a violent death, you would first be dealing with someone like Inspector Franc, whom you met this morning. Then you might talk to a prosecutor. Since we are in the summer doldrums,” he said with a shrug, hoping to convey a sense of shared sophistication about such matters, “we are skipping the middle man. In any case, you would eventually have to speak to me or one of my peers, for it is up to us to take down testimonies, examine all the evidence, and decide if the case should go to court—which this one surely will. We organize all the evidence into an official dossier and decide who will be charged with the crime. If the court determines that the murder was premeditated, the punishment will be the guillotine. If, on the other hand, we determine it was merely a crime of passion—”

  “Good God!” Westerbury exploded in English. Martin could not decide whether this was for show or whether the man could have been so naïve as to not realize, until that moment, that he was a prime suspect. At least now he had the Englishman’s attention.

  “But of course, I’m sorry,” Martin said, “you’ve had a terrible shock this morning. Are you all right?”

  “The woman I love has been murdered and mutilated. Of course I’ve had a shock.” The Englishman spoke in precise, clipped French, a red vein of indignation rising from his neck to his forehead. “Do go on. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Of course.” Martin uncorked his ink bottle, paused to gather his thoughts, then looked up at Westerbury. “Let’s start with you. May I see your papers?”

  The Englishman reached into his pants pocket for a thin leather wallet hol
ding a tattered document. He stood up and gave it to Martin. The card certified that Charles William Westerbury had been born in 1845 in Liverpool. Occupation: Geologist. Emigration date: March 1875. The only other French residence listed was Paris. Martin removed the Englishman’s identification card and handed the wallet back to Westerbury. “I’ll need to hold on to this,” Martin explained, “until the investigation is over.”

  “I don’t see why. I’m not going anywhere until you find—”

  Martin ignored this objection and, with a wave of his hand, motioned for Englishman to sit down. This was Martin’s first miscalculation. Westerbury obeyed, but his folded arms and grim pursed lips indicated that he had taken Martin’s unthinking dismissal as an insult. So much for putting the suspect as ease. Martin needed to keep reminding himself that most of the witnesses in this extraordinary case would not be the humble and obedient sort that usually ended up in his chambers. He’d have to proceed with care.

  “Mr. Westerbury,” he began again, “did you study your science at Oxford or Cambridge?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “At another English university?”

  “No. I am mostly self-taught.”

  Martin tried his best not to react, although this bit of information seemed to confirm Franc’s accusation that the Englishman was a charlatan.

  “But,” Westerbury hastened to add, “I have heard the great Lyell himself lecture. I’ve studied Darwin. I can assure you that I know my craft.”

  “Yet your advertisements say ‘professor.’”

  “I thought we were investigating Solange’s murder.” The tone was righteous.

  “Just so. But you have made quite a stir here. And I assume you also lectured in Paris.”

  “I may not have come from the leisured classes, monsieur le juge, but I do believe that I can play a role in the great controversies of the day.” Westerbury leaned forward as he made this pronouncement, emphasizing Martin’s title with unwarranted sarcasm. He sat back as he continued. “And Solange was going to help.”

  “Let’s return to that later,” Martin said dryly, making every effort to hide his irritation. If arrogance was an integral part of the Englishman’s character, Martin was going to have to work hard to hide a nascent dislike for the suspect. “For now, can you explain exactly what your role in these controversies might be?”

  “To reconcile the claims of science and faith.”

  Merely that, Martin thought, but did not say it. He waited a moment for Westerbury to explain. Evidently, however, the Englishman felt that his declaration of lofty ambition required no elaboration.

  “Mr. Westerbury, if I may ask, why France? Why not teach in your own country?” Martin tried to say this without any hint of sarcasm or accusation. He did not want to put his suspect on guard.

  But he was, inevitably. Great scientists do not ordinarily have to leave home to ply their trade in foreign cities. Changing his demeanor, Westerbury looked directly at Martin, as if he were trying to show his willingness to be completely cooperative and truthful. “I am, as you note, not from the best schools. I am self-made, not a gentleman. I never could rely upon family wealth to support my studies. In England, a man who knows about the great works of English geology is not a novelty. Here, in France, he is. It was a way to make a living and to do what I love.

  “And quite frankly,” he continued, “what I do may be more necessary here than in my country. Your women seem almost afraid of science. Of nature. It’s the way they’re brought up, all sewing and catechism. They instill in their children a fear of sin and death, even of life itself. This is a barrier to progress, to scientific thinking. This is why I offer courses for women as well as men. I want the fair sex to understand that nature is beneficent.”

  The image of the corrupting Worldly Woman frozen in stone passed before Martin’s eyes. So did the much more vivid picture of Solange Vernet, flies buzzing around her flesh in the quarry. Beneficent indeed. Could Westerbury really believe that, after seeing his lover’s corpse?

  “And Aix? What brought you here?” Martin kept his voice even and low.

  “Two things, really. The great geologist Sir Charles Lyell worked in the environs of Aix briefly when he was very young. I wanted to continue and deepen that work. And then, we—Solange and I—wanted to go somewhere where we could start up again.”

  Martin wrote down and underlined the words “start up again.” His hand was so hot and damp that it almost stuck to the paper. He wanted to open the window, but thought better of it. Surely the heat would discomfort Westerbury more than him. Martin put down his pen and leaned back in his chair, striving for a pose of intellectual curiosity, which he hoped would lull his suspect into revealing more about himself.

  “This Lyell—excuse me, I am trying to understand—is he a follower of Darwin?”

  “No, no. Quite the contrary. It would be more accurate to say that Darwin was a follower of Lyell. It was the reading of his Principles that inspired Darwin to write The Origin of Species. Although I must say that in his later years, Darwin never gave Lyell the credit he deserved.” This fact seemed to arouse Westerbury’s indignation.

  “And what was it that Darwin learned from Lyell?”

  “Look, is this really necessary—or relevant?” Westerbury clasped his hands together and looked impatiently at Martin.

  “To be perfectly honest with you, at this point in the investigation, it is difficult to know what will be relevant. Perhaps your lectures upset someone.” Martin did not really believe this, but the issue was not his veracity. It was Westerbury’s. And whether or not the Englishman had any real claim to being a scientist.

  “Very well,” Westerbury took a deep breath before launching in. “Lyell taught Darwin—and all of us—about time. That it is unlimited. That you cannot measure the earth’s age in the thousands of years, but rather in the millions, perhaps even billions, of years. And that over this vast period of time, changes in life forms could, and did, occur.

  “Lyell demonstrated through his own explorations, and his incomparable eloquence, that if you allow yourself to really see the clues the earth so generously provides—the strata of great rocks, the imprints of fossils, the way mountains lean to one side or the other—if you use your own hands and eyes, you can almost feel the earth constantly reshaping itself.” Westerbury was gesticulating, shaping a rugged landscape with his hands as he warmed to his subject. Poor Joseph was bent over in his alcove, scratching away, trying to keep up.

  “What religionists don’t like about Lyell’s Principles,” Westerbury continued, “is that he proved, once and for all, that the earth’s surface is not transformed by catastrophes, like Noah’s flood or a vengeful God raining fiery comets upon us. Change is slow, very slow, inevitable, and regenerative.

  “I came here to complete his great work. To prove benign transmutation by showing how this preposterously beautiful landscape thrust itself up from an ancient sea.” Westerbury slowly raised an open hand, imitating this infinitely long journey. He concluded in a whisper, no doubt repeating the dramatics of one of his lectures, “The sea that was once all there was to Aix-en-Provence.” The Englishman had brightened up considerably. Whatever the validity of his “science,” he certainly relished talking about it.

  “But Darwin—” Martin interjected.

  “Oh Darwin!” Westerbury burst out, as if the very name irritated him. “Everybody knows and admires Darwin. Or is afraid of him. As if he were the first person to talk about extinct life forms. Even his famous ‘struggle for existence’ came out of Lyell’s Principles. Only Sir Charles understood it differently, less anarchically. Even when, at the end of his life, he came to agree with Darwin that Man was not a separate creation, even then he held out the possibility that there was a plan, a set of natural laws put in motion at the beginning. In the end, he was more like your Lamarck. Sir Charles did not believe that transmutation came about by chance. He held that only the very best of what was in creatures was sa
ved and built upon. And Man is the very best of creatures. For now. For Sir Charles, the main point was that the earth would keep regenerating itself indefinitely in the same way it always had.”

  Martin found these ideas astounding. An English Lamarckian. He had thought that after Darwin, only the French would defend the eccentric ideas of their countryman, and only because he was one of their own. But then he knew little about these subjects, which had certainly not been taught in the Jesuit school he attended. He was, however, getting to know a great deal about Charles Westerbury, who felt a strong kinship with overlooked genius.

  “So this is why you prefer Lyell to Darwin—you think he offers a way of reconciling religion and science?”

  “Yes, he didn’t ask us to choose between God and Man. His views were larger than that. He was larger than that. He was, indeed, a greater man than Darwin. More generous, more able to change, to admit to others’ insights. He didn’t hole up in some country parish for most of his life. He traveled everywhere. Wrote for the common man. Talked to everyone.”

  “To you?” Now they were getting to it.

  “Yes,” Westerbury nodded. “Even to me. Once.”

  “And when was that? Were you one of his students?” Perhaps the Englishman had credentials after all.

  “No. It was at a public lecture. I was a boy. A poor boy.” Westerbury smiled to himself, as if recalling the innocence and possibility of that moment. “He patted me on the head.”