The End of Isabelle
Madame’s Murder Mysteries: No. 3
Annette Moncheri
Contents
A Note to the Reader
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
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A Note to the Reader
Bonne année, dear Reader! And merci for picking up this little book!
I wanted to let you know—at the end of this book, you’ll find an offer to receive the prequel to this series for FREE if you subscribe to my mailing list at my website. Look for the link at the back of the book!
À bientôt!
~Annette
1
Dear delicious Reader, I would like to tell you the story of the time that Inés caused us a great deal of trouble—yes, Inés, believe it or not! She is such an innocent and sweet little creature. Really, it was her innocence that caused a part of the trouble, though I hate to say it.
As you may recall, Inés is the youngest of all my mesdames at work here in Le Chat Rose, and when I first hired her, I suspected that she was too naïve to even know what it was I was hiring her for – but then again, I supposed that if she could manage to get paying customers merely for holding hands, so much the better.
So it breaks my heart that she was drawn into such a situation. And it really just goes to tell you—
But I’m getting ahead of myself. And anyway, this story starts not with poor sweet Inés, but with poor Safia.
Poor, sweet, mad Safia, whose mind has been taken from her. But you will understand that perfectly well when I tell you how it was that I found the body.
It had been a wonderfully busy night late in the winter, just after the new year, when the days were again beginning to lengthen. My maison had been full, everyone feeling celebratory still after the holidays, but now the night was winding down. The air outside had taken on that unique stillness that is present in the pre-dawn hours.
Inside, I surveyed the scene from the first-floor landing, my hands on the wooden banister. Perhaps half a dozen clients remained, seated at the low tables and chatting with my ladies. I enjoyed the pleasant hubbub of their conversation and occasional tinkling laughter. The scents of perfume and cigar and cigarette smoke wafted up from below.
My front door opened, and Hélène Bachelet came in and removed her cape with an elegant spin that also set her short bob into motion. She lay the cape across a nearby occasional table and took the cigarette from her lips and blew out a puff of smoke. She looked up and caught my gaze and gave me a little wave, a wink, and a smile. She was just about to head my way when a stack of envelopes slipped through the mail slot on my door right next to her, catching her attention. Hélène stooped and picked them up and waved them at me.
With a smile I gestured for her to bring them and come up to see me.
A moment later, after we exchanged cheek kisses, she handed me the mail and we flipped through it together.
“Oh, Anaelle has another letter from her sister,” I said. “Look how fat this one is.” I held it up lengthwise to Hélène.
“A continuation of their latest row, I expect,” she said, her eyes gleaming with enjoyment.
Anaelle and her sister managed to keep a fight going by mail for weeks on end. To hear Anaelle’s version, her sister was more demon than human—but then again, there’s always the other side to every argument, and Anaelle is certainly bitter and cold enough to provoke others.
Upon seeing a familiar name on one of the envelopes, I suppressed a groan.
Hélène, of course, suppressed nothing. “Oh, not him again.”
“Him again, apparently,” I said.
The name on the envelope was Belvedere Von Trossen, and he had a stubborn interest in acquiring my place of business. He was a magnate of sorts - owned property all over the Left Bank, and had been making inroads into the Île for a few years now. “Another one for the fire, mon amie,” I said, handing the envelope to Hélène. “Oh, and wait, here’s another to burn.”
I handed her an envelope from the Parisian Moral Society, which was made up of ancient biddies who deeply resented the coming together of my mesdames with their husbands and sons and grandsons.
“The poor dears,” Hélène said.
“Oh?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. “You pity them?”
“They are so very old,” she said. “Very old people have trouble with the progression of society, and they really can’t help it, the poor things.”
“Oh, I suppose,” I said.
I flipped through the rest of the mail. “Another letter for Monsieur Georges from his very elderly mother.” I was struck by a thought and glanced up at Hélène. “I wonder whether she is a member of the Parisian Moral Society.”
“Probably better not to ask,” she said.
“Indeed.”
Of course, a handful of advertisements had come to me, which I also planned to burn. And another envelope, meant to be outgoing and labeled as from Madame Rainger Gagnon, had been returned with the note that the recipient—Lester Gagnon—was no longer at that address. “I need to go check on Madame Gagnon anyway, and Madame Safia,” I said, waving the envelope. “I shall see you soon. Ah, I see her now coming from the kitchen.”
Madame Rainger Gagnon is the night chaperone for Madame Safia, who is verging on elderly and, sadly, growing weak of mind. Gagnon is a woman with the build of a blacksmith and a voice like stones grinding together and dark eyebrows that tend to unite when she is upset, and I expect that she would easily flatten anyone who raised a hand to her Safia. Yet she is also a wonderfully kind soul.
“See you later,” Hélène said with a smile and a wink, and I pressed her hand and bid her adieu with a kiss on her cheek.
Madame Gagnon came up from the kitchen carrying a tray with a plate of delicate morsels – a bite or two of cheese, some bread, a chèvre and tomate tarte, a few sautéed asparagus tips.
“Getting hungry, Madame Gagnon?” I asked with a smile as I fell in alongside her.
She startled and gave me a surprisingly guilty look. The dark eyebrows edged closer together. “No, no, Madame,” she hastened to assure me. “Safia requested a few bites of something, that’s all.”
“Oh, you know it’s all right with me if you help yourself to the kitchen,” I said, giving her a reassuring touch on the elbow. I was surprised at how anxious my off-the-cuff remark had made her. “Here, this letter has been returned to you.”
I dropped it on the tray for her, and she gave it a look of dismay.
“Not bad news, I hope?” I said.
“I hope not,” she mumbled.
I didn’t want to pry, so I changed the topic. “And how is your charge tonight?”
I felt so responsible for sweet Safia. After employing someone for a decade, I couldn’t let her hang out to dry, as the Americans like to say. I would care for her all the rest of her life, or at least until she reached a point where her life was not so enjoyable, and then… well, you may remember what I said about that in my first story.
“Same as ever, Madame,” replied Madame Gagnon as we walked along the wide hallway lined with bedrooms for the mesdames. “Same as ever.” Now it seemed to me that she was studiously avoiding eye contact. And whatever for?
One of my abilities is that I can often sense what someone is feeling—or even smell it, as humans do ten
d to emit mild scents when they have strong emotions. And I could tell that Madame Gagnon was experiencing anxiety or fear, or something very much along those lines, and thinking back on it, I realized that she had been since the first moment I’d seen her tonight.
We stopped in front of Safia’s closed door, and Madame Gagnon all but shoved the plate of food into my hands. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, “I have a task I really must attend to. Perhaps if you wouldn’t mind…” She vaguely at Safia’s door, took the envelope from the tray as an afterthought, and tromped heavily down the corridor, leaving me in a state of surprise and puzzlement.
Something was clearly bothering her. I made mental note to check in with her later.
I opened Safia’s door. She was kneeling on the rug next to a settee, singing quietly under her breath, and stroking back the golden hair of a young woman who lay there with her eyes closed.
I carried the plate of food to a table, taking care to step quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping woman. “Safia, who is this?” I asked at a whisper. At first glance, I thought perhaps this was a daughter or granddaughter, as it seemed to me there was some likeness there, if Safia’s hair had once been the same golden yellow.
Safia raised a hand to her lips to shush me.
I knelt alongside her so she could speak with me quietly.
Here I must note something about my nature. I am acutely aware of heartbeats in people who are in close proximity. It’s something of a compulsion of mine, and the same way some people will always lean in to smell a parfum, I will lean in just to listen to the heartbeat.
This young woman didn’t have one.
A heartbeat, that is.
I put my hand on her cheek. She was still warm, but not by much.
I managed not to cry out, though I had to choke it back. A dead woman! In my own maison!
She looked so young, and the very picture of health… it simply wasn’t possible that she had expired here on my sofa of natural causes. I thought instantly of Madame Gagnon’s anxiety as she rushed away a moment ago. She knew about it—and hadn’t had the courage to tell me. What else did she know? Was the murderer at large?
I caught Safia’s hand as she reached out again to stroke the woman’s forehead. “Safia,” I said. “Who is this woman? What happened to her?”
“She’s my friend. Her name is Isabelle. She’s sleeping—lower your voice.”
“My dear Safia…” I tried to keep a tone as gentle as I could. “Isabelle is not sleeping—she is dead. What happened to her?”
“She is not dead,” Safia cried in horror. “She had to rest. She wasn’t feeling well—she was feeling weak and sick. Now be quiet or you’ll wake her!” The color rose in her cheeks and I saw that I risked an episode of hysterics if I pressed the point.
I took her frail shoulders in my hands and applied a bit of my enchantement. “Safia,” I said tenderly, “I’m sorry. Please be calm.”
Her bright blue eyes softened and she smiled bravely, though her lipstick was a little smeared, and it made her smile look lopsided. “Mais oui, Madame”—or, in English, “of course.”
“Safia, who is this Isabelle? Why did she come here?” I asked gently.
“Oh, well…” Confusion darted across Safia’s face as she examined Isabelle’s face. It suddenly seemed that she struggled to remember.
Just then, a knock came at the door, startling Safia and dispelling my charme. I cursed to myself and got up to hurry to the door.
I opened it to reveal the handsomely chiseled features of Monsieur Inspector Thibauld Baudet, which was a surprise.
And just then, Safia’s blood-curdling scream erupted behind me. “Isabelle! No, Isabelle, no!” She burst into sobs.
And I winced and held back a curse.
“Such good timing, Monsieur Inspector,” I said with the best smile I could muster as I held the door wide open and stepped out of the way. “For I believe we’ve just had a murder.”
2
The inspector’s face tightened and I felt that he bit back a curse as he hurried forward. He knelt at the side of the body and felt for a pulse.
Meanwhile, Monsieur Georges, who had escorted the inspector upstairs, also stepped forward, and I told him to stand by for instruction. And as Mireille Patrix passed by—one of my ladies who could rarely pull her beady little eyes away from her card games—I sent her into the room to get Safia, to take her away from the scene and calm her.
“She is, in fact, dead, but it hasn’t been long,” the inspector confirmed grimly. “She was resting so peacefully that I suspect cyanide poisoning, but the doctor will have to examine her to be certain. Have your staff close off every exit from the building at once, please, Madame, in the event that the murderer is still present.”
I turned toward Monsieur Georges, but didn’t even have to open my mouth.
“Yes, Madame,” he said with a short bow, and he was off.
“Don’t alarm the guests!” I called after him. Although I groaned as I turned back to the inspector, because I already knew there was no way to prevent this event from not only alarming all the guests, but also giving rise to rumors that would rapidly spread around the tiny Île Saint-Louis, on which Le Chat Rose had its home.
Meanwhile, the inspector had begun a quick search of the room and its wardrobes, and when I saw what he was doing, I checked under the bed and in the large chest. We found no one.
“Can you direct me to the telephone, please?” the inspector asked. “I need to ring for Monsieur Carré.”
“Of course,” I said.
Sadly, Safia was still wailing as Mireille walked her down the hall, and the commotion brought Inés Dujardin and Melodie Bouvier out of their rooms, with Melodie’s current customer calling after her, indignant and half-naked.
“Do keep Safia quiet, please, Mireille,” I said gently. I closed the door to Safia’s room and locked it—I have the master to key to all my mesdames’ rooms—and I instructed Inés, “Guard this room, darling. Don’t let anyone pass. I’ll be back avec à-propos.” I squeezed her shoulders to bolster her strength.
“But what is it?” she asked, wide-eyed and adorable. “What’s happened in there?”
“Someone named Isabelle has met her end, I’m afraid,” I said over my shoulder as I hurried off. Her eyes opened wide and she clasped her hands over her mouth, looking even more horrified than I would have expected, but she didn’t so much as squeak in protest.
“Melodie, darling, back to your customer,” I called as the inspector followed me quickly toward the grand stairway.
Already I could see that the guests downstairs among the opulent rugs and tapestries and hardwoods were looking about in confusion and dismay as the household staff bustled about locking doors. I tsked under my breath.
I looked for Hélène, as she would have made fine moral support, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“The telephone is just below in the hallway,” I said to the inspector, and gestured for him to feel free to find his way there. For my part, I stopped halfway down the staircase, where everyone in the vast drawing room had an easy view of me.
I took a deep breath and allowed a bit of my pouvoir to enter into my presence and into my tone, so that I could be sure to captivate their attention.
“Monsieurs and mesdames,” I said, “my dear friends and acquaintances, please do not be alarmed. I regret that someone has come to harm upstairs and we’ve need to secure the scene, as the inspector would put it, until he and his men have had full opportunity to examine the surroundings. So I must ask you all to remain until the inspector is finished with his work.”
Cries of dismay and fear arose from the gathered crowd, and I raised my hands and my voice to calm them. “You mustn’t worry about a thing. Please relax and enjoy your visit. Our chef, Monsieur Gachet, will offer a special selection of delicacies to apologize for the intrusion into your time, and any girl you like will be at a special discount—twenty francs only!”
I gave a
slight curtsey. Most of the guests simply exchanged glances, but just as I was stepping down the staircase, a loud, rough voice interrupted me.
“This is absurd!” said an older gentleman with a bulbous red nose and an equally broad stomach that spoke of too much drink for too many years. He wore a black suit with a loud Etruscan-red tie and pocket square.
The young woman with him, an attractive brunette in a draped Roman dress in matching red, blushed and pulled at his arms, pleading with him in soft tones. Perhaps these two had come as customers together—not entirely unusual in our enlightened times. But her entreaties had no effect on her gentleman.
“I will not be held here like some criminal,” he raged as he strode to the front doors. “I demand these doors be opened instantly!” He thumped hard on the doors with the end of his cane.
I held back my irritation. I told myself to let him damage my doors all he liked—replacement was a trivial matter.
“Very well,” came the mild tones of the inspector as he entered the drawing room. “Then you will be the first person that I interview, that I may release you all the sooner.”
The man scoffed furiously. “As if I will stand for interrogation! You have no business holding me here, Inspector, not unless you have me under arrest—you know it full well.”
“Then given that your behavior stands out as highly unusual among this collection of otherwise cooperative people, I shall need to place you under arrest,” the inspector retorted calmly as he drew closer to the other man.
Monsieur Inspector Baudet had perhaps half the girth of the Etruscan-red fellow, but he possessed a certain gravity which made people take him seriously. So the Etruscan-red man took another tack. He drew himself up pompously. “Do you know who I am?” he demanded.
The End of Isabelle Page 1
