A Most Inconvenient Corpse

By Jane Bigelow

Elegant music and dance, astronomical research, courtly intrigue--and murder, in a world inspired by 18th century Versailles.

In Avrenante, the Hall of Mirrors still sparkles. The music and dance are beyond compare. They are almost enough to distract Marguerite from her fear of the King's Inquirer, and the death that awaits a murderess.

Marguerite, Duchesse de Lille, was only trying to defend herself. She didn't mean to kill the Marechal-Duc de Nolhac. Now, the Duc's powerful family demands vengeance from the King.

The handsome privateer is another distraction--or is he more?

Her husband is kind, but his heart lies with another woman.

The ghost of her victim wants revenge, and he grows in strength day by day.

Will she escape? And if so, how?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jane Bigelow
• Release date: Oct 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005348182

Jane Bigelow

Jane Bigelow has published two fantasy novels. Her new novel, A Most Inconvenient Corpse, leads the reader into a glittering world of elegant music and dance, astronomical research, courtly intrigue--and murder, in a world inspired by 18th century Versailles. Marguerite, Duchesse de Lille, never meant to kill the Marechal-duc de Nolhac. Can she escape? If so, how? Jane's earlier novel, Talisman, involves the struggles of Layla, gem thief, to elude the whimsical gratitude of Kossinli, Goddess of Mirth. Be careful what you ask for: you might get it, in this Silk Road world. Jane has also published short stories, including several in the Darkover series, and nonfiction articles. She is a member of Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers and the Denver Area Science Fiction Association.One of her favorite things about writing fiction is to get into the mindset of someone from a completely different background. She is fascinated with foreign travel, archeology, music, and world history. They have given her lots more writing ideas than she will ever have time to use. Jane lives in central Denver with her husband, Robert, two barely-controlled cats, and an out-of-control garden.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Clothilde!

Marguerite poked her head between the brocade bed curtains and called again. Clothilde! No answer came. Dear Heaven, gone trysting again. If the girl hadn’t possessed such a deft hand with the tisanes Marguerite loved, then she would have been replaced long since. A duchesse of Neustraine was never supposed to be unattended, not even a duchesse married for her obscure family and lack of influence.

The fire glowed through a shroud of ashes, giving just enough light to show Clothilde’s empty pallet. Beyond it, Marguerite’s prie-dieu made a dark rectangle against the pale green walls. A long streak of reddish light reflected from the ornate silver candlestick that stood on the narrow shelf at its top.

The doors to her husband’s suite stood closed, as usual. Marguerite could hear no sounds from Henri’s side of the narrow chamber that lay between his rooms and hers. Once, in the first year of their marriage, she had gone and scratched at the doors. He could not have been more shocked if she’d mistaken the proper order for leaving the Chapel Royal.

She had not made that mistake again.

It was strange, Marguerite thought, to ask Mother Mary to make a man more lustful. Yet that was what she needed, was it not? For him to feel lust for her, and not Elisabeth, that tiny doll of a woman he called his friend. How else was she to provide the heir they needed? She could only hope the Blessed Virgin understood that.

Marguerite struggled out from under the layers of bedding and through the closed curtains, shivering a little. Though it was early summer, the north-facing rooms of the chateau still held the chill of winter. Drafts made her curl her toes as she knelt.

After a scandalously short petition, she dived back into her nest. Some warmth still lingered between the sheets. She snuggled in and discovered that she was not alone. Well, this was certainly a rapid answer!

Oh! Henri, why didn’t you let me know you were here?

Shh, the man said, and pulled her deeper into the warm darkness. He stroked one breast.

Usually Henri was more...straightforward than this. It was really rather pleasant. Perhaps even enjoyable. Marguerite leaned back against his narrow chest. It felt different, somehow. Had he been practicing more with the sword master? And when had he started wearing orris-root scent?

Come now, my love, he murmured, and slid her night dress off one shoulder.

Marguerite froze. Never, in the whole two years of their marriage, never had Henri called her My love. She twisted away.

Get away from me! You’re not Henri!

"Shh, my darling, no! Bien sur! He cuddled her while bringing one hand up over her mouth. You must have understood, at the concert this evening. You flirted so--oof!"

Marguerite managed to land an elbow in his stomach. She squirmed loose and thrashed her way past the bed curtains.

Are you mad? Leave before I scream for help! Flirted, of course she flirted. Not to flirt was to be condemned as a sour prude, or even a countrified fool. She couldn’t even remember who she’d flirted with, unless...

He slid out of bed himself, smiling. The Maréchal-Duc de Nolhac had a lovely half-wild smile; more than one court lady had claimed it made her shiver. Marguerite shivered now from the cold parquet floor under her bare feet.

My bright daisy-flower, you agreed that husband and wife need not always be together. He lunged for her arm. Marguerite retreated behind the prie-dieu.

I was speaking of choosing whether to play cards or dance!

He circled towards her. Good God, he was confident! He’d already stripped off his breeches. Firelight showed well-muscled legs disappearing under his fine linen shirt. Such finely woven material, she could almost see through it. No, look away. Have you no shame?

Marguerite leaped backwards, stumbling to keep her feet. How had he come so close to her? The folds of her nightdress wrapped around her legs; she tugged frantically to unwind them.

No one will believe you didn’t invite me, he said. His breath smelled of mint, and cloves, and other less pleasant things. He might be right. She had few allies at court. How could she get him out of here without scandal? No, this would be worse than scandal.

The entire court would laugh.

People had been obliged to leave court for years by that relentless amusement. Whole families had been disgraced by it; the King himself was said to fear it so much that he did not see anyone who was the current court joke.

Just on the other side of the bedroom wall lived one who’d enjoy the laughter. The widowed Comtesse de Berrigues led an indiscreet life herself; she was always glad to divert attention onto someone else. Oh, yes, it was essential to get the Maréchal-Duc out of here quietly.

Suddenly he was embracing her. Come, my love, he said. A little amusement for us both, and the family gets the heir it needs. It will look like Henri, he added in a comforting purr.

And it would. Jean-Baptiste de Nolhac had the same unfashionably fair coloring as Henri, with the de Nolhac family’s grey eyes. They were nearly the same height, both being a head shorter than Marguerite. Since she herself was blonde, it would all look quite plausible.

What am I thinking? That wasn’t the point at all! Oh, Mary have mercy, I must get him out of here before the girl comes to build up the fire, or the Comtesse sends her lover back to his rooms.

He leaned against her, nudging her bare feet with his own. Wouldn’t you like to make love at least once with someone who really wants to do it?

I will not think about that. Marguerite tried to pull away, but his arm didn’t move. Let me go, Monsieur.

He smiled. Come, now. You would have screamed by now if you were truly so shy of me. Some reluctance is proper, but it grows tedious.

Tedious? She tried to twist loose; his grip tightened enough to hurt. If I pretend to yield...She stood still, unresisting.

His grip loosened.

Now. Marguerite trod on his foot as heavily as her bare foot would allow, bent her knees and ducked out from under his grasp. He winced, but recovered quickly, and dodged around the high barrier of the prie-dieu, laughing softly.

My failed nun.

Mother of God, would he try to force her here, where she prayed? It was like being attacked in church. Anger flamed in her, driving out fear. She grasped the candlestick and swung it towards his silhouette. It hit with a force that sent pain shooting through her wrist.

He dropped without a cry.

Marguerite’s arm trembled as she replaced the candlestick. Had she hurt him badly? Would he be able to walk out unaided–and unseen?

Her knees were shaking, too. Marguerite clung to the wood of the prie-dieu as she strained to hear the sounds of anyone who might be approaching. They were certain to come soon. Please God, let her be able to get him up and out of her room before they did.

She heard nothing. No, that wasn’t accurate. She could hear only her own ragged breathing. No one else’s. She turned her attention back to the unconscious man. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

No. No, he can’t be.

He’d fallen near the bed. One hand lay pointed toward her; she raised it, groping along the wrist for a pulse. It fluttered under her hand and was still. A little blood trickled from one ear.

His spirit must still be near. She crouched down beside him. Come back, she whispered. Come back, and I will call a doctor to tend you no matter who may learn of it. Come back. She crossed herself. Did his eyelids move? Oh Holy Spirit, call his spirit back!

There was only a flare of light from the collapsing fire, and the crack of a log breaking.

The room grew dark around her. Now is not the time for fainting. She half-crawled to the kneeling bench and crouched there, head down. She had killed a man.

Oh God help me, she thought. Forgive me.

She was kneeling in blood. Marguerite lurched to her feet and just made it to her privy before she vomited. Again, twice more, until finally her empty stomach stopped twisting itself.

She tried to organize her thoughts. She would have to go back into her bedroom and do something about the–she couldn’t think of it as a corpse. If she did, she’d run screaming through the halls. The body was only a thing. A very inconvenient thing.

De Nolhac’s family would demand her head. If I die, it will all have been for nothing. I will have endured this marriage, this horrible court, for nothing. My family will be worse off than before. I will not die for killing that fool. A strange calm settled over her like a veil. It lay between her and what she saw when she opened the door of the privy. It was not real; it was some overly-dramatic painting. A part of her seemed to stand beside herself, puzzled at this woman who could look on this carnage and not run shrieking into the corridor.

The corpse lay sprawled on the parquet floor, blood puddled under its head. It had one arm flung out, palm outward. The one eye that she could see stared dully. She shuddered and pushed it closed.

It was hopeless to consider carrying a body out through the halls now. There would be servants on the backstairs with wood and water and coffee. No, she must hide the body for a little while. And clean the blood off the candlestick, and the floor.

If only she’d been allowed to bring Berthe with her! They had always been together, even at the convent. Berthe would have helped her and asked no questions. Berthe had always kept Marguerite’s secrets.

It had not been allowed. "You’ll need someone more sophisticated than Berthe with you at the court, ma fille," her mother had said. Her voice had been kind, but Marguerite knew better than to argue when Mama looked at her so.

As a result, Berthe wasn’t here. Neither was Marguerite’s mother, thank God and all His angels. Marguerite tugged at the hem of her night-shift and found its close-woven linen impossible to tear. Still barefoot, she tiptoed into the antechamber and found her embroidery snips sitting beside her embroidery frame. Once she’d made a cut, she managed to tear off a strip and wind it around the corpse’s head to stanch the blood. A corner of the candlestick had peeled back a triangle of skin. Shuddering, she bound it up.

Breeches, where were his breeches? He could scarcely have paraded to her rooms in his shirt. She found the breeches and his brocade a l’Uthmanian coat, draped over what had been her favorite reading chair. She felt a sting of anger, and then shame. She began to wrestle his limp form into them and had to stop twice to catch her breath and force down bile.

Grunting like a peasant, she rolled the corpse under her bed. If she could just get it all the way to the back, then she could haul the extra clothes chest in front of it. No one would look for those capes and hoods and shawls until winter.

A sharp pain bloomed in her left shoulder. She was breathing hard by the time she got the chest moved, but still there was no rest for the wicked. At St. Cornhuille’s, Mother Darerca had assigned floor-scrubbing as penance for many a minor sin. Marguerite knew how to get a floor clean. She coughed back a laugh.

Once started laughing, she suspected she’d not stop for a long time. There was water in an ewer, and a cake of fine milled soap. Marguerite grabbed a worn towel from the privy and began scrubbing.

Not all of the blood would come out from between the floorboards. She muttered a few words that would have gained her more penance, then scrubbed some more. After a time, she stopped to survey her work. In the dim light it was hard to be sure, but where there had been a stain now looked much like the rest of the floor.

A muffled rattle in the next room yanked her attention back to her danger. The servants had reached her husband’s cousin des Berrigues’ rooms. Soon someone would tiptoe into her own quarters.

Marguerite’s shift was filthy, streaked and splotched with blood. She stripped off the remains. Hastily, she mopped off her hands and face, then scrubbed her feet. A little scent sprinkled over her arms and neck, and she’d smell no worse than many a lady of the court.

The rags of her shift joined the corpse under the bed. She’d an extra shift in the armoire. Who had decided that a night garment needed so many little ribbons and ruffles? She still had one hand trapped in the right sleeve of it when footsteps approached.

As the door slid open, she leaped into bed and burrowed under the covers. Left-handed, she hauled the covers up high enough to hide her right arm.

Oh, madame, pardon! The young woman looked terrified. To have wakened you! Forgive my clumsiness.

Marguerite mimed a yawn. No offense taken, girl. I slept ill. She waved left-handed. Do your work. While the girl added wood to the fire and stirred it to life, Marguerite managed to loosen the wrist-ties enough to wiggle her right hand through the sleeve. She had to be properly in the thing before Clothilde and her assistant arrived to dress her for Mass.

At that thought, her calm threatened to collapse. She writhed into a tight ball. Oh, no. No. She couldn’t do it. She simply could not go to Mass right after killing a man, however little she’d meant to kill him, and regardless of her reasons. Is there a priest in the palace who can be trusted to keep the confession sacred? Probably not.

Madame? The girl was staring at her, shifting from one foot to another. I must look almost as dreadful as I feel, thought Marguerite.

Go now, Marguerite said, And send word to my under-servant Nicolette that I am unwell. She will be in the third attic of this wing, I believe. She’d better be.

Clothilde’s assistant came in presently with a tray containing a bitter-smelling tisane and some tiny rolls. Mademoiselle Clothilde prepared some sachets before she left to tend her sister, the girl said timidly. I hope I’ve done it right.

The tea was, if possible, even more bitter than it smelled. Still, medicine wasn’t supposed to taste pleasant. Marguerite drank it down. I will sleep for the rest of the morning, if I can, Marguerite told her. Meanwhile, burn some perfume to ease my headache. It would cover any smells that remained.

Chapter 2

All through the long summer’s daylight, Marguerite lay in her bed and tried to think of something besides the corpse beneath it. Would night never come? She needed darkness to get the Maréchal-Duc’s body out of her rooms. And to where? Could she simply push it out of the window? Ah, what a tragic fall the Maréchal-Duc had. What horror! He landed on his head.

She doubted anyone would believe that, or fail to speculate on who had pushed him out which window. No, he must go somewhere well away from her rooms. She didn’t think she could bury him. Marguerite had dug planting holes for young grapevines at the convent; even a small hole took a lot more work, and time, than one would think possible. Maybe if she could get him to one of the ornamental ponds?

If only she had some help! Yet she would have to trust someone very much indeed before she could ask them to help dispose of a corpse. Marguerite could not imagine trusting anyone here to that extent. Neither could she imagine carrying the body very far. There was a small bosquet in the grounds near her rooms. Shadows lay there even at mid-day. Maybe she could borrow a wheelbarrow? Did the gardeners put them away at night?

I am depraved, she thought. I am beneath contempt. I killed a man, slew him without mercy, and I lie here with no thought but to escape punishment. Her head throbbed.

Rebelliously, a part of her demanded, What was I supposed to do, then? Let de Nolhac have his will?

But did I have to strike him that hard?

Clothilde appeared mid-day, with profuse apologies and thin explanations of a sister’s illness. She seemed to have a large number of sisters, all in poor health. This time, it suited Marguerite to pretend to believe the excuse.

The young woman fetched another pillow from an armoire and tucked it tenderly behind Marguerite’s back. Yes, just so, lean forward only a little, yes. Madame, can I bring anything else? Anything at all?

No, thank you. Marguerite leaned back wearily and watched from under her eyelashes. Yes, there was that self-satisfied little smirk. Now she will ask. There was a long pause. Will she not?

Madame, it’s so bold of me to ask, forgive it, but if I might just spend tonight tending my sister? My other sister, Marie, can be with her during the day, but, Clothilde shrugged.

Very well, Marguerite sighed as if this wasn’t just what she’d hoped would happen. "Stay here long enough to bring me that tisane you gave me to help me sleep last week. Then you may go, but somehow you must get those plumes re-curled and re-attached to my garden hat á la reveuse."

Ah Madame, you’re too kind!

Not kind, thought Marguerite.

Someone scratched at the door; Clothilde curtsyed and went to answer it.

Three court ladies filed into the room, filling it. Pale violet, rose and white striped, and blue a l’Uthmanian skirts overlapped as they settled in for an afternoon of gossip. The room’s pale green walls displayed them like flowers. Overly-fragrant flowers. Why had Madame de Perpignan imagined that a combination of lilies and musk was the right scent for visiting a sick friend?

Well, Marguerite thought, at least some court gossip would make a change from trying to decide what to do about the body.

They all clearly wondered if she might be with child. She knew full well she wasn’t, but let them go on discussing other court ladies’ conditions. Poor Madame d’Arles couldn’t even get her favorite shoes onto her swollen feet! She’d had to get new ones made, and her feet looked just like loaves of bread.

Oh, and did you hear? The little redhead, the one everyone says has a royal connection now, or did have-- Madame de Perpignan raised one eyebrow, had a miscarriage right in the middle of the new play! My dears, the blood! I can almost smell it now. She shuddered, sending little ripples across her plump shoulders.

Marguerite tried to sniff silently. Did the room have an off smell? The perfume she’d had the maid burn underlay the varied scents of the ladies. Somebody wore orris root, not a usual scent for a lady. Underneath it all, there was something. Or was there? It might be the next floor’s privy. Not everyone was fortunate enough to have one of the new water-closets. Not even all ducal couples.

And did you hear that the young Monsieur Boudry has fled to Vetranne? His opponent did die, after all.

Marguerite shivered. How could there be a chill draft today, when the room was ominously warm with the heat of so many people? That corpse would only keep for a little while. She wondered how long it would be. And if it did start to stink before she could get it moved, what would become of her?

The orris root would cover it for a while.

Orris. She knew who had worn orris, flaunting the expensive scent on his person and his gloves.

Enough of illness and death! Marguerite snapped. Three heads swivelled to face her; three pairs of eyes widened at her anger.

Why so touchy, cousin? cooed Madame de Berrigues.

Marguerite forced her anger down, swallowing it like a hard lump in a sauce. Forgive me. My head aches so. She raised one hand to her forehead.

"But ma chére," exclaimed Madame de Berrigues, What have you done to your poor hands? And I can see that your shoulder pains you.

Her hands. How could she have overlooked the state of her hands? And what was she to say about them? How could she explain those scrapes and bruises? They looked like an overworked kitchen maid’s.

Oh, yes...shocking, aren’t they? Is my voice a little shrill? How do I explain this, what do I say? Her heart beat faster. She looked down, making a moue of distaste. Were they clean? Yes, even under the nails. Which was more than Madame de Berrigues could claim.

A bird flew past the window, singing. In the gardens outside, someone gave a braying laugh.

The gardens. Everyone knew she loved the gardens.

"I tripped yesterday among the rose beds, the ones near the Cabinet des Parfums. I nearly went face-first into the Rose de Quatre Saisons." She forced a polite laugh.

Amalie de Coaatseze chuckled. They should have named that one the Rose of a Thousand Thorns. How fortunate that you recovered your balance.

There was a great fluttering of fans."Indeed, ma chère, said Madame de Perpignan. No wonder you feel ill today! What a pity your court shoes still trouble you."

Another dig at her country origins. They never tired of it.

Marguerite finally pretended to fall asleep. Telling each other to be quiet so that they wouldn’t disturb her, the ladies rustled away. No, after you, said Mesdames Perpignan and Berrigues at the same time.

Amalie paused by the bed. Let your mouth drop open a little, eh? It lends verisimilitude, she whispered. Marguerite nearly laughed aloud, and did open her eyes long enough to glare.

As they left, Marguerite heard another voice in the antechamber. Henri’s voice, surprisingly low-pitched for such a small man, rumbled a question. Ah, Monsieur, she’s asleep! Only just now. That was Madame de Perpignan, whose fluting voice could probably be heard in the Hall of Mirrors.

The bedroom door opened so quietly that Marguerite had no time to feign sleep. Henri looked in. Ah, you’re not completely asleep! How are you feeling? Shall I send for the doctor?

She grimaced. No, I thank you! She did not share Doctor Malgré’s enthusiasm for clysters.

I know you don’t much like him, but if you’re ill, my dear, he can help you. His voice was so gentle and reasonable! Really, he deserved a better-tempered reception.

She forced a smile. No, it’s nothing so bad as all that. Now that it’s quiet, my headache is already easing.

Instead of taking the hint, Henri stayed for several more minutes. He told her that His Majesty intended to ride out to inspect the new menagerie block on the following morning; if he was pleased with the building it would doubtless be a good time to approach him with a petition. Do you wish to come, if you’re well enough?

Hm, yes. I hope they’re going to give the poor beasts more room in this one. Marguerite let herself slide down in the bed a little. I must just get a nice long sleep, and be well in the morning.

Finally, Henri took the even more unsubtle hint. He went only as far as his study, though.

Silence fell. Marguerite risked a peep through the door, opened just a hair; the antechamber was empty of all except a maid polishing the table. There was nothing to do now but to wait.

Wait, and think.

Chapter 3

Night did come, in time. Her husband did finally wander off to his astronomical meeting, escorted by one of the valets to carry his telescope, tripod, dark-lantern, and writing materials. A torch-boy led the procession. Soon after, Clothilde brought Marguerite her tisane and slipped away by the back stair.

Marguerite had thought it all out, in the long hours alone. She could scarcely haul a dead body through the halls wearing layers of lace and satin skirts that brushed the floor in front and trailed along behind her. Ah, life in Avrenante! She couldn’t even commit murder without considering how to dress.

It was sometimes a great nuisance, being a Duchess. As plain Mademoiselle Marguerite de Concarneau, third daughter of a house with no power outside the Finisterre, she’d known exactly where to find cast-off garments. They were useful for a dozen domestic tasks. One never acknowledged to anyone outside the family and a few trusted servants that one needed such items, but one knew where to find them.

As Duchesse de Lille, she had no idea where a rag-basket might be. If she had a little more time, she could try to borrow a maid’s dress–claim she needed one for a masquerade or some such. But she had to get that corpse out of the way before it started to smell.

Never mind that it was a man she’d known. Now it had become a thing, a nuisance.

Marguerite bit her lip. She did have one plain dress in her closets. Folded small, tucked away at the back of a lower shelf where no one was likely to come across it, she had one of the novice’s habits she’d worn at St. Cornhuille.

It was shameful to use it so. It met her needs, though, and nothing else did. She scrambled into its plain gray fabric. Even the color was helpful.

Hauling the corpse out from under the bed was even harder than getting it in there had been. Marguerite crawled around under the bed and managed to push the rigid form so that the feet stuck out from under the bed’s draperies. Then she pulled the body out into the room. Had she retrieved all the remnants of her other shift? And what had become of his shoes? She risked lighting a candle, and regretted it at once.

Blood had seeped through the rags wound around his head. In the slanting candlelight, it looked lopsided.

Her calm weakened at the thought of carrying the bloody mess openly. Could she wrap it in a sheet? No, that was too large, and too heavy. A pillowcase? She shook one loose and fastened it around it around the corpse’s head with, with–a ribbon. Yes. Later, she’d figure out how to explain the missing shift and pillowcase. Perhaps she wouldn’t explain at all. Who would notice except the servants?

She lifted the package. Oh, dear God. Why was a dead person so heavy? Maybe she could haul it by a sling, yes, the sleeves from the shift, if she could just force his arms out a little...A heavy stench, like meat kept too long, rose from the body. Marguerite leaned against the wall for a moment until her stomach stopped rebelling.

Dear Lord–except she couldn’t very well pray about this, could she?

She heard something in the hall outside. Footsteps, at this hour? Yes, shuffling along the series of rooms that led to the servants’ staircase. Someone was going stocking-footed past the outer doors. Marguerite tiptoed to listen. Had they gone? Oh, they must have gone. She edged one door open far enough to peer out into the blackness of the hall. Nothing.

On with it, then. She