“Why would anyone believe you!” Violet exclaimed.
“Because I shall have witnesses to testify on my behalf, the eminent detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes being the foremost! I will, of course, also invite each one of you to testify. You will have to take an oath before God to tell the truth. You all know that this woman was behind the scheme, that she was the true mastermind, and I do not think any of you would be willing to perjure yourself. The English sense of honor is simply too strong. And even Marguerite…”
Her smile was withering. “Could you take an oath before God and then lie? Could you tell them you knew nothing about the crime and were not involved? I doubt it. Your precious religion would forbid such a monstrous sin, would it not?” Her laugh was mocking. “So you see, you have no choice in the matter. You must let me go and hope for the best, and really, I promise I shall leave her alone. I have enjoyed her suffering, it is true, and I would have liked to have prolonged it. We could have enjoyed the delights of Satanism with the good abbé for years to come! All the same, I am willing to let it go. I can accept the inevitable. One must make compromises in life. You do understand, do you not, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am pondering it.” His voice was gruff, angry.
She laughed again. “Take your time if you wish. We have all the time in the world.”
“Perhaps you might answer a question or two for me, madame. One or two mysteries remain. How did you learn of Lupin’s involvement in the crime? Obviously Marguerite would never have mentioned him. And how ever did you find him?”
She gave an appreciative nod. “Ah, an obvious question indeed. Yes, it was always supposed to be just we three women. No man was ever mentioned to me, but it slipped out that Suzanne had a lover. Anne-Marie couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She liked to joke about him, and one time she asked Marguerite how the little rabbit was.” Simone had been speaking French, and little rabbit was le petit lapin. “The words are very close, you know—‘lapin’ and ‘Lupin.’ When I learned of the painting later, I knew a man must have been involved, probably a painter, so after I left the prison, I went to art dealers and asked if anyone knew of an artist or seller with a name like Lapin, especially one active nearly two decades ago. It was at about the third store that the patron told me of an artist named Gaston Lupin.
“I knew then that the gods were truly with me, that my vengeance was foreordained! It was easy enough to find him after that, and even easier to tease and tempt him. He was fond of the ladies—although not so insatiable as the good abbé!—and he was terribly indiscreet. He liked to brag. We had not been intimate for long when he showed me the painting of the Madonna of the Apple. He had kept the original for sentimental reasons—the original fake, that is! Soon after he told me about the other forgeries. The whole story gradually came out. He thought the scheme was so clever, but I knew that the credit really belonged to you, Marguerite.”
“And how did you find me?” Marguerite asked.
“Your name was in his address book. He had an entry for you and for Anne-Marie. He spoke rather fondly of you. And he would stare so at his paintings of you. I think he was still half in love with you. He had seen you and your husband leaving the liquor shop on the Champs-Élysées. He went into the store and asked the clerk who the man and woman were who had just departed, claiming that the man was an old friend of his. The clerk told him it was Monsieur John Hardy, the owner, and his wife Madame Marguerite Hardy. He then gave him Mr. Hardy’s business card which included his Paris and London addresses!” She laughed. “How accommodating! So there you have it, Mr. Holmes. Do you have further questions?”
“Did you switch the morphine bottles on Lupin?”
“Yes, that was easy enough.”
“Why did you finally kill him?”
“For revenge, of course. He had been willing to make me the sacrificial goat in the scheme! And he was becoming quite tiresome. I had everything I needed from him, and he had given me some gifts of expensive jewels.”
“And you also killed Anne-Marie. I suspect Docre assisted you.”
“No, that was his servant Alain, who has been most helpful. Alain was his valet during his youth, and the abbé has kept him in his employ, although not openly. What would his parishioners think if they knew he had his own private servant! In a way I did Anne-Marie a favor. Her life was completely meaningless! She was always shallow and rather stupid. Lupin and Marguerite only gave her a pittance, of course—nothing like a full share, and that she squandered. She had vaguely threatened Lupin, but two hundred francs a month was nothing to him, a small sum to buy her silence.”
“I have met Alain,” Holmes said. “And his dog.”
She laughed. “The dog was a superb touch! I was only at the count’s home that one night, but I remember his huge slavering black beast well enough. The dog we found was a close match, especially with a white streak painted on his forehead.”
“And you did all this just to frighten me?” Marguerite’s voice shook.
“Certainly.”
“I suppose Docre has also given you money,” Holmes said.
“Yes, of course he has—a great deal. I wanted to be self-sufficient, and so I am. That is why you can trust me to leave her alone. I have more than enough to live well, and I am not so stupid as Anne-Marie. I shall not throw away my money.”
“But you have nurtured your desire for revenge for twenty years,” Holmes said. “How can I believe that you will let that go, that you will simply let Madame Hardy walk away?”
“Again, you will believe it because you have no other choice.” Her smile was fierce.
Holmes shrugged. “I think not.”
Simone’s eyes shifted to Marguerite. Her pupils were huge in the dim lantern light, but a pale icy ring circled them. A terrible tension showed in her face: the war between beauty and something sick and deranged in her soul. “They would put you in prison and bring you to trial. Is that what you want? Your husband would feel obliged to attend. He would sit there and listen while I told them everything.”
I heard a muted groan from Marguerite, her anguish apparent. “Whatever happens, John must never know—please, Mr. Holmes—promise me!”
“You are a monster,” Violet whispered to Simone.
Simone laughed. “At least I did not bludgeon my husband to death! You see, I know your secrets, too. It was not hard to find out who you really are, Madame Wheelwright. But enough of this nonsense. You must all see the necessity of what I demand. None of you would be any good at lying under oath. We must all make our little sacrifices. I will forego my vengeance—although at least I have the pleasure of knowing she has suffered the agonies of the damned for a few weeks, and she will never, I think, rest truly easily knowing that I am alive! But I digress. Let us all descend and go our separate ways. We shall agree never to meet again.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Letting her go seemed terribly wrong—indefensible—but she was right. I could see no alternative. Holmes had not spoken.
“Well, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am still thinking.”
“You have done enough thinking! Decide! And you, Marguerite, don’t you understand? I am being easy on you. I am letting you escape. You let me rot in prison for years. You used me to commit murder. And yet I am willing to let you go.”
“You will kill someone else. You will kill again.”
“That should not be necessary, but I cannot rule it out.”
“I cannot… I cannot let you hurt anyone else.”
“Idiot!” Simone’s mock good humor had vanished, her face reddening. “Don’t you see that I am giving you a gift that you do not deserve? Go while you still can. I give you the freedom you denied me.”
“On doit payer,” Marguerite murmured. “On doit toujours payer.” One must pay. One must always pay.
Her back was to me, but I saw that she had clenched her fist. She moved so quickly, it caught us all by surprise. She brushed past Holmes and Violet and flew at Simone. The other w
oman’s face was incredulous; her mouth opened wide. The two shots came one after the other, but then Marguerite had her arms round the smaller woman, swung both of them round to crash into the metal railing. It gave way in an instant, the curved rusty steel pulling free from the wall where it was anchored nearby, arcing outward, and then the two women tottered over the side near the black gap.
Violet leaped forward and grabbed Marguerite’s arm. Violet tried to dig in her heels, but she swung sideways, teetering on the edge. “Let go!” Holmes cried, even as he sprang forward and seized her free arm. Violet’s hand was yanked away as the two women plunged into the darkness. Simone must have been the one screaming, a sound that dimmed as she fell. They must have hit the bells: one of the smaller ones gave off a dim shimmery bong, a long note that merged with another, the sounds reverberating like a deep shudder through the dark tower.
Michelle had lunged forward and grabbed Violet’s other arm, while in a panic, I put both my hands round Michelle’s waist and slammed myself back against the stone wall, determined to keep her from the abyss. I felt her stagger for a moment and start to lurch forward as Violet slipped over the side, but then she and Holmes pulled Violet back up onto the rotunda. Michelle’s weight shifted again, and I loosened my grip slightly. The rusting black railing hung swaying toward the center, still attached on one side, but useless now.
Violet sobbed once. “Oh no, no.” Michelle let go of her, and Holmes drew her to him, encircled her with his long arms in their black sleeves, his hands clutching at her back. She hid her face against his chest.
I shook my head, aware of my heart still racing. “You scared me to death!” I said to Michelle.
“I couldn’t let her fall, not Violet, too.”
“It was insane.”
“Thanks for grabbing me.”
“Let’s get away from here! Let’s go now.”
She squeezed my hand. “Sherlock?” she murmured.
“Henry is right. The sooner we get down from here, the better. It is dangerous.”
I took up a candle and began the long descent in the darkness. The bells were silent now, asleep once again, mute. When we reached the main floor, I was about to go through the doorway, but Holmes said, “Wait, Henry.” I turned round and my candle lit up his pale thin face and that of Violet. Her dark eyes glistened. “I need to go down and make sure…” His eyes shifted to Michelle. “Will you come with me, Michelle? A physician should examine the bodies.” He set his hand on my shoulder. “Wait for us in the church. We shan’t be long.”
I gave him the candle, then stepped into the vast interior of the church with its scattered islands of dim light. I was grateful that he had asked Michelle to accompany him; he knew how squeamish I was about corpses.
Violet followed me. I heard her sigh. “I wanted so to save her.” Her voice quavered.
“I know. It was… At least she can no longer torture her. I don’t think I have ever known anyone, man or woman, quite so evil as Simone Dujardin.”
Violet shook her head. “Nor I, either.”
We were quiet. There was nothing more to say. Violet’s long black veil was wrapped loosely about her neck, and she raised it to cover her head, then used one end to wipe at her eyes. Soon I saw a pool of light spread outward before me, and I turned just as Holmes and Michelle came through the doorway. He blew out the candle, then set down the holder. “There were no surprises. Both are dead. It was a very long fall, although the two bullets must have already killed Madame Hardy before she struck the ground.” He sighed. “We had better fetch the police. I can finally speak freely with Commissaire Juvol.”
“You cannot let him blacken Marguerite’s name!” Violet exclaimed.
Holmes wearily shook his head. “Certainly not. Juvol is an honorable man. He can keep a secret if need be. We can trust him. The details about her past will not go into his official report. And I owe him an explanation.”
“I feel so dreadful.” Again Violet wiped at her eyes with the end of the veil. “I was supposed to protect her, to help her. I failed her. I failed her utterly.”
Holmes took in a long slow breath. “You must not blame yourself—there is more than enough blame to go around.” His lips formed a brief bitter smile. “If you are going to be a consulting detective, you must be prepared to fail occasionally. One cannot always win.”
Michelle looked very stern. “We all failed her. I was the one with her tonight. I was the one that was supposed to watch over her.”
“There is no use castigating yourselves,” I said. “That wretched woman, that devil incarnate, was the one who killed her. As I told Violet, at least she can no longer torture the poor creature. She is free of her—and of her crimes—at last.”
Violet’s brow creased. “Was it suicide or sacrifice, I wonder? Probably both. She died so that none of us could be hurt by Dujardin. Suicide is supposed to be a mortal sin, but I cannot believe Marguerite did anything wrong or that God would condemn her.”
A faint bittersweet smile stirred Michelle’s lips. “Remember how much she liked the end of Faust? Perhaps… We can only hope that it is so, as with her namesake: that the Devil has been defeated, that the angels descended and carried her up to God.”
Violet laughed, even though she was crying. “Oh, I would like to believe that.”
The reality of all that had happened that night suddenly seemed to hit me at once: I was very tired and near tears myself. A mere hour before Marguerite had been living and breathing, but now she was dead, lost forever, or at least for a lifetime. Holmes had said nothing, but his face was pale, his eyes pained. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“What is wrong?” I asked. The evident stupidity of the question made me laugh.
Holmes sighed. “Mr. Hardy is arriving tomorrow. Someone has to tell him what has happened, and that someone, unfortunately, will be me.”
Chapter Thirteen
When the police arrived, Holmes had them send immediately for Juvol. Violet, Michelle and I sat in a back pew while the two men talked for a long while in the vestibule. Occasionally the voices of the other policemen echoed faintly off the vault overhead, and the vast silence of the great cathedral was somehow consoling. Violet had stopped crying. Michelle sat next to her, with her right arm around her. I held Michelle’s left hand tightly.
Footsteps approached us, and a tall dark figure appeared. Holmes leaned over and said softly, “We can go now.”
We all slowly stood and stepped into the aisle. “What did you decide?” Michelle asked.
“There will be no mention of Madame Hardy’s past. Juvol will say that Dujardin was trying to extort money from her and that Madame Hardy threw herself upon the other woman to save the rest of us.”
“True enough,” Violet murmured.
We went back to the Ursuline chapel to fetch Violet and Holmes’s coats. Juvol’s men had arrested Docre, and the police surgeon was examining him. His injury was not grave, and neither Michelle nor I wanted to care for him. Sumners had been waiting for us, and Holmes told him all that had happened. He was dismayed and parted after shaking hands with us all.
We took a carriage back to the Meurice. It was only about eleven, although it felt much later. Michelle convinced Violet to spend the night at the hotel rather than trying to return to Auteuil so late. The two women sat in the big green Second Empire sofa of the lobby. Both looked pale and exhausted.
Holmes glanced at me. “Henry, would you walk with me?”
“Certainly.”
We still had on our black bowler hats and overcoats. The rain had let up, but a cold hard drizzle still fell. We crossed the Rue de Rivoli and entered the Tuileries Garden. On one side were the trunks and branches of the tall bare plane trees, ahead was a gray sward of grass. Holmes had his hands in his overcoat pockets. Neither of us spoke for several minutes. I felt a sort of cold dull ache in my chest, more an emotional sensation than a physical one, a certain emptiness.
At last he spoke. “Henry, did
you try to dissuade Michelle and Madame Hardy from going up the stairs to the bell tower?”
“Of course I did! Michelle did not even deign to reply, while Madame Hardy… she was adamant. She wanted to face Dujardin once and for all.”
“I knew you must have tried to stop them. It was a stupid question. If only they had stayed behind! But then… she might have shot Violet instead.” His voice was pained, and he shook his head. “For the life of me, I cannot think what I could have done differently. That wretched woman had me completely over a barrel. I could not conceive of any possible way out.”
“Remember what you told Violet? You mustn’t blame yourself. Sometimes a consulting detective—even a master like yourself—must fail.”
“But must he fail so spectacularly!” His voice was angry.
“Was it failure? Another metaphor may be more apt. You were dealt a bad hand.”
He drew in his breath, even as he nodded. “I never did greatly care for card games. Unlike with chess, luck often counts for more than skill.”
“There you have it.”
“But in the end… it was no game. A woman is dead.”
“I know.” My legs had begun to ache, and I was cold. “I know.”
He must have heard a faint shiver in my voice. “We can go back now.”
Michelle and Violet were still talking on the sofa when we returned. Michelle stood and smiled at me. “There you are at last. There’s no need for me to get my things from Marguerite’s tonight.” She took my hand, then turned to Holmes and Violet.
“Goodnight,” they said.
Violet was staring at Holmes, her forehead creased. Her brown eyes had dark hollows under them, and tendrils of her black hair curled down over her forehead and about her ear. “Mr. Holmes, would you sit with me? I cannot sleep yet.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Devil and the Four Page 27
