After Mass I had an early lunch with Marguerite, then set out again for the Meurice. Violet sat in the lobby, a newspaper spread out on her lap. She had pulled off her gloves, and one slender hand rested on the sofa arm. Her face and bearing were almost regal, and although hardly plump, she no longer had that thin desperate look I recalled from the past. She was a remarkably beautiful woman; it was hardly surprising she had fascinated the abbé. Her eyes shifted upward, and she smiled, even as she folded up the paper and set it aside.
She stood and said, “There you are. Have you eaten? Ah, well, will you keep me company during lunch? I can tell you about the morning’s activities.”
“What activities?”
“Mr. Holmes and I made a visit to Saint-Lazare.” Her smile had vanished.
“The women’s prison? What for?”
“I shall tell you soon enough. Let us go to Pierre’s. They make an excellent croque-monsieur.”
While we waited for her sandwich, she told me about their visit. Her face was pale and grim. The prison had been a leprosarium in the twelfth century, then was taken over by Saint Vincent de Paul and his mission in the seventeenth. It had served as a woman’s prison since the beginning of the century. An order of nuns ran the prison and also acted as guardians. It housed a variety of women, many of them diseased prostitutes who were treated at its hospital, or young women who had gone astray. Some more serious offenders like Simone Dujardin also ended up there.
“It’s a rather moldering old building of gray stone, horribly dreary, and there is no color: the nuns have their black habits, all the women their plain gray woolen dresses.”
Holmes had presented his letter from the prefect of police to the mother superior. She had been most impressed and actually knew him by reputation. She called in a sister who had known Simone Dujardin. The sister described her as a model prisoner, a hard worker who did not complain and was most devout. Dujardin had been released a year early. She had never had any visitors. Clearly she had been estranged from her parents and her sister.
The waiter set Violet’s croque-monsieur before her. She smiled. “Merçi bien, Jacques.” The sandwich smelled delicious. She took a half between her hands. “We learned very little about Dujardin. We already knew, I think, that she was a great actress, who might have turned more fruitfully to the stage in her youth. However, we did find out something more significant. Mr. Holmes asked the mother superior if she knew a certain priest, Monsieur l’Abbé Docre.”
“What?—and did she?”
“Oh yes. He had acted as a sort of chaplain for two or three years. He gave inspirational talks to the prisoners, and also acted as confessor.”
I smiled, but my lips felt pinched. “A confessor.”
“It is clear enough. He must have been attracted to Dujardin. Perhaps he even found a way in the prison to actually… He gave up his work in the chapel about a year ago, at about the same time she was released. Mr. Holmes thinks they must be lovers and are working together, or rather more likely, that he is only her tool.”
“Given his behavior yesterday, he certainly doesn’t believe in limiting himself to one woman!”
“No.” She lifted her sandwich, took a bite and chewed slowly, but clearly her thoughts were elsewhere.
“What is wrong?”
“The prison—it was horrible. And I could not help but think…” She set down the sandwich, even as her face went paler still. “I might have ended up at such a place—or something even worse. Our English prisons are not run by sisters. The sisters at least have a certain compassion for the prisoners.”
“Surely not for murder—we have talked about that. It was not murder.”
Her smile was pained. “No, but the ‘Angels of the Lord’ were guilty of theft, extortion and blackmail. And of course, there was the great swindle involving the fake oil-well scheme.”
“But…” I could not think what to say. At last I reached over and grasped her hand firmly. “But you are not in prison, thank God!”
“Thank God, indeed. All the same, I wonder…” She stroked her jaw, then pushed a curl of black hair off her forehead. “Do Marguerite and I both belong in prison? Does justice not demand it?”
My lips were compressed tightly together. “What purpose would that serve?”
“What purpose does it ever serve for the repentant? Why should we two be excepted?” She stared intently at me.
“I cannot truly speak for Marguerite. I hardly know her. All the same, it seems clear that her primary motive must have been greed. She wanted to be rich. You, on the other hand… You may have been misguided, but you were driven not by greed, but by a desire for justice. You wanted to right all the wrongs done to the poor and the miserable, to servants and prostitutes. You stole from the rich to give to the poor.” I smiled faintly. “You wanted to be Robin Hood.”
She thought about this. “Yes, I suppose that is true. I never wanted the money for myself.”
“And there is another reason you should not be in prison. You can do much good in the world. Your new profession is helping women in trouble like Marguerite. No, I think most assuredly you do not belong in prison, but I must confess that I am not impartial, not in the least. Because I love you dearly I cannot bear even the thought.”
Now it was her turn to clasp my hand tightly. “Oh, Michelle, I thank God for a friend such as you! If I had known you sooner, my life might have taken a different turn.”
“Well, it has taken that different turn now. Life is full of continual twists and turns. Eat your sandwich. It will get cold.”
She laughed. “Very well.” She took another bite.
“And now I have something to ask you about.” I told her about my talk with Marguerite the night before, her penance that afternoon at Père Lachaise cemetery, and my dilemma about telling Sherlock.
She finished her sandwich, then shook her head gravely. “I do not like this, not at all. You do not think you could talk her out of going?”
“No. She still thinks l’abbé wants to help her.”
“I could come to the cemetery and join you.” She tapped briefly at the table with her fingertips. “On the other hand… I shall speak to Mr. Holmes for you. This whole wretched business is far too dangerous for us to act on our own.” A brief smile tugged at her lips. “After all, he is the master, and I am the pupil.”
I stared incredulously. “Am I hearing right?”
“You must never tell him I said such a thing!”
“Certainly not.”
“I had better get back to the hotel. He thought he would be back around three this afternoon. I shall wait for him, and if he does not return, be assured I shall certainly come on my own.”
* * *
Marguerite, Jeanne and I got out of the carriage at the cemetery entrance. The afternoon was gray and overcast, and the cold misty drizzle made it seem as if the sky itself had sunk down, no longer distinct from the earth below. I had an umbrella, but it wasn’t actually raining hard enough to justify opening it. On either side of the gate were tall rounded stones with Latin inscriptions and sculpted torches in relief. Ahead I could see the wide cobbled path with the bare black trees on either side.
I sighed softly. In summer Père Lachaise was actually inviting with all its trees and greenery providing welcome shade, and an occasional light breeze touching your face. Now this autumnal dreariness amplified its sorrowful nature as a necropolis. Marguerite glanced at me. Her face was pale, and the fear showed in her eyes and in the tension of her mouth. I gave her arm a quick squeeze. Even Jeanne’s youthful face looked grim.
We started forward, and I couldn’t help but think of Dante passing under the gate into Hell inscribed with, Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. Spread out before us was a vast grid of graves, tombstones, monuments, crosses, cenotaphs, statues, inscriptions— especially inscriptions: to the memory of, beloved father, mother, son, daughter. And dates, everywhere paired dates so that you could see who went first, how long a spouse
must have lived on alone. The worst for me were always the graves of children, especially those who had not lived even a year—or only a few days, or a single day even. I shivered slightly. There was no use working myself into a state. Someone had to keep a level head.
The landscape was monochromatic, mostly devoid of color. A light mist and the drizzle obscured everything, and the tree trunks and branches were all mostly gray-black, the brown washed out of them, and the tombs and monuments and crosses all tended to be variations of gray or a light tan. Many were like curious little houses with iron grates across the doorways and pointed little roofs, distant cousins of the sheds one might find in a garden. Others resembled miniature churches complete with arched windows and doors, gables, and crosses on top. Statues of angels or bronzes of the deceased were also common. A few evergreen trees or bushes were a dark dull green, and a lone pot of red flowers in a bronze vase assailed the eye.
We passed a side path which curved off into the distance, lined with more trees and more graves, fading into gray obscurity. Again I thought of Dante, and then the idea of specters: spirits or souls wandering about. This did seem the perfect place for them. Thus far we had seen no one but ourselves.
We took a slight jog to the left, and ahead was another stone monument, this one about twelve feet high and six feet across, with a peaked roof. It had brown double doors, each with a grate, and on either side, sculpted torches of the same brown metal. On top in large letters was ROSSINI. I smiled and eased out my breath. “Oh look.” I touched Marguerite’s hand, and she flinched slightly. “Rossini may be dead, but his joyous music certainly lives on.”
She nodded, trying to smile. She was wearing a heavy purple coat with a black sable collar and cuffs. Her hat was black with purple feathers and a brim which shielded her from the rain. Jeanne had on a plain modest black coat and hat. We came to another pair of side paths. Marguerite reached out and took my hand, gave it a fierce squeeze.
“Wait here now. We shouldn’t be long.” Her voice had an odd pitch, and her black eyes were fixed on me. She tried to swallow, but could not.
“If you need me, just call—I shall come at once.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She started down the path to the left, and Jeanne followed her. I sighed and shook my head. The drizzle was getting worse. I stepped closer to a nearby fir tree, seeking shelter so I wouldn’t have to open my umbrella. Nearby came a chorus of squawking caws. The black splotches of the crows covered a nearby fir tree.
I heard an inquisitive meow before I saw the cat. It was a grayish brown tabby, one who would certainly blend into the background. His yellow eyes stared up at me, and his long thin tail had risen in a typical sort of cat greeting.
“Well, hello.” I pulled off my glove, bent and petted his head. He butted against my hand, then rubbed his side against my leg. As he went by, I saw that he was indeed a he. “It’s nice to have some company.” I scratched at his throat, then behind his ears. That made him circle about, then rise up slightly and rub his whiskers against my dress. He made a gruff sort of sound related to a meow. I squatted down and stroked his back vigorously. We chatted for a bit, then I stood up, and he trotted off in the direction Marguerite had gone. “Au revoir, Monsieur Chat.”
A chill breeze stirred the nearby fir branches. The sun wouldn’t set for a while yet, but you could tell that night was approaching. At that moment, it was hard to believe the sun even existed—it was totally hidden, lost somewhere behind all the layers of gray. I was not really afraid, but I was suddenly glad I had not kept this visit a secret from Sherlock Holmes.
I glanced down the side path and saw the dark form of the cat racing toward me. “Monsieur?” I murmured, but he bounded past and slipped between two monuments to vanish. His once thin tail had greatly puffed out. I was frowning when I heard a cry which was akin to a moan.
I turned and strode quickly in the direction Marguerite and Jeanne had taken. Again I wished it was summer, that there were green leaves and light to break up all the monochromatic monotony surrounding me—that, and all these geometrically straight or curved lines of the slabs, tombs, roofs, which seemed unending. “Marguerite!” I shouted.
“Madame!” Jeanne’s voice was ahead to the right.
I went round a very tall mausoleum with FAMILLE BREUNET above it, and I saw Marguerite’s dark figure bent over, one knee and one hand on the ground, Jeanne beside her. I rushed toward them. Rising over them was a monumental slab of reddish-pink granite flecked with black; in the gray it almost seemed aglow. Chiseled into the stone in huge letters was LAVAL.
“Good Lord,” I murmured. No wonder she had been afraid. The count was buried here.
I seized her arm and helped get her to her feet. She staggered. Her eyes were completely wild, the white showing about the pupils. “I saw… I saw…” She gulped for air. “It was him—and his dog—his…” She turned and grasped Jeanne’s arms so tightly that she winced. “Did you see him—did you?”
Jeanne stared at her. “See what, madame?”
“The man—the man in black—and that dog.”
Jeanne bit at her lip. “I…”
“Did you?—did you?”
“I… I saw nothing, madame. Nothing.”
Marguerite released her, then clawed at her throat, her eyes turning to me. “It was his ghost—his spirit. He will not forgive me— he will not let me rest—never.”
Now I took her arms. “I don’t believe that—I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“But I saw him!” she moaned.
“Tell me exactly what you saw.”
“It was a man all dressed in black, short and stout, with a full beard and a top hat, a taller top hat like the kind they wore back then—and that black dog, his dog—the same terrible dog I saw before. It growled at me, and I was so afraid—I thought it would attack me again, tear my throat out!”
“If it was a ghost dog it couldn’t tear your throat out, could it now?”
Her breath was a sort of pant. “Couldn’t it?”
“Of course not.”
“It was him, the count. If the penance worked and the abbé’s prayers, he would have left me in peace, but now…”
“That is just nonsense! It’s quite possible you saw just an ordinary man and his dog walking through the graveyards.”
“But Jeanne saw nothing!”
I turned to her. “Is this true?”
She hesitated only an instant. “Yes, madame la docteur.”
“You see?” Marguerite groaned.
“I don’t believe in ghosts, and I never will. Come on, let’s get away from here—you have done your penance.”
“He will never leave me alone—never, never!”
I squeezed her arm hard until I saw pain register in her eyes. “That is enough of that. You have had a shock, but it is over with. Let’s go. We all need a warm fire and something to eat and drink.”
I could feel her tremble. “I am afraid. I am so afraid.”
“I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise. Come—let’s go. Let’s get away from this wretched place.”
I still had her by the arm and led her at a brisk pace. She was still shaking. All the stone and concrete blocks and slabs were oppressive; truly it felt like a necropolis—a city of the dead, made up of this myriad of tiny houses and churches, the ground itself planted with unseen coffins of wood and metal, each holding the moldering shell of a person. I stared up at the sky. This was not all there was—the soul was free; it was not trapped in the ground, but hovered or soared in the air, more bird than worm.
We came to the entranceway. The drizzle was changing to real rain, further obscuring everything. An old woman dressed all in black leaned on her cane, all hunched over. Gray-white hair showed under her voluminous black hat. “Not feeling well?” she croaked. She had an ever so faint English accent. I stared more closely at her dark eyes. Somehow they did not appear old. Violet saw that I recognized her, and one corner of her mouth rose in a b
rief half-smile.
“We need help,” I muttered.
“I’ll tell my husband,” she said softly in the croaking voice. Marguerite and Jeanne had taken little notice of our brief exchange.
We soon found a carriage, a four-wheeler. Jeanne sat on one side, Marguerite and I on the other. We were well on our way, when Marguerite suddenly tried to stand up. “I have to get away—I have to get away—he is after me!” She made to grab the door handle, but I pulled her back down.
“No one is after you.” I took her by both shoulders, then touched her cheek with my right hand. “No one. You are safe now.”
“Am I?” She could not seem to stop shaking.
“Yes.”
When we reached Marguerite’s townhouse, I made her walk up and down the block twice. I could see she was full of nervous energy, and I wanted her to use up some of it. I told her to breathe deeply, and I made reassuring comments as we walked. She did finally stop trembling. We went inside at last. I had sent Jeanne in earlier, and she was waiting for us. She took her mistress’s coat, and I marched Marguerite into the sitting room and went to the sideboard. I poured an Armagnac for her and one for myself.
She shook her head. “I hate brandy—hate it.”
“Think of it as medicine.” I guided her to one end of the sofa, then returned for my own glass and sat almost next to her. I took a big gulp, which warmed my esophagus on its way down.
Jeanne hovered close by. “Is there anything I can do, madame la docteur?”
“No. Let us rest for a few minutes.”
“Very good.” She turned, and just then we heard the front bell ring. “Who can that be?” She left to go to the door.
A minute or two later Violet swept into the room. With her was a tall thin man, his black hair swept back off his high forehead, his nose like a bird of prey’s beak and his eyes with their predatory ferocity. He wore a long black frock coat which fell almost to his knees.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 22
