"Pardon me," she exclaimed, "can you tell me the name of that man up there on the balcony behind us?"
A grey moustache waggled as the old fellow looked her over and then peered round. "What, the cockrel you can't see for the golden geegaws and furbelows? Probably snooping to see if we are doing our job." Fleur let a smile light her eyes and his grin broadened. "A representative en mission from the Committee for General Security in Paris, that one. Been setting up committees of surveillance all over Calvados. Fancy him for a beau, eh, citizeness?"
Diable! A creature from the bubbling vent of the volcano?
"I suspect France is his only bedfellow, monsieur," she replied brightly. Zut, zut, zut! Why of all the people in Caen did she have to cross that one's path?
* * *
Something was not consistent. Raoul leaned forward to meet the questioning stare from his agent, gave an almost imperceptible nod and raised his left hand to heart height. Anyone noticing might have thought the curl of his second and third fingers were but idle flexing.
Follow her!
The young widow's shapely curves inspired his admiration until she disappeared into the shadow of the archway. It was a damnable while since he had seen a woman so desirable and intriguing, and the male half of Caen must be thinking so too, judging by the ancient workman who set down his barrow to speak with her and the soldiers who strode in whistling at her.
Did the Widow Bosanquet realise how tragically beautiful she was? His own appreciation, Raoul rationalised, was as much professional as instinctive, for his hand ached to draw her. Persephone mourning for the sunlight. Yes, naked upon a bed in Tartarus after her abduction, awaiting the mighty god of the underworld. Virginal, afraid but excited, unclothed save for a wisp of black veiling across her thighs. Oh yes.
Fournay inconveniently interrupted his fantasy, lolling against the doorframe, chewing his grimy nails. Smug eyes blatantly assumed that he had been watching the girl.
"The intendant is late arriving. Think he might be trying to snub you, citizen?"
Raoul drew a deep breath and followed the municipal officer back into the chamber. "Plenty of time," he growled. "Have you finished your lists?" He watched the fellow slide back resentfully into the chair, and then, slipping a hand into his coat pocket, drew out a fistful of coins, bestowed one in the fund box and withdrew the widow's ring.
"Ha, knew you would do that," sneered the local man.
"I have given more than it's worth." Raoul thrust the bauble under the official's nose. "There is no jeweller's mark, see."
Fournay would not have known a turquoise from a ruby. He grunted: "Think she was an aristo? Do you want to have her brought back for questioning?" The narrow eyes sparked.
Raoul shook his head indifferently but his fingers fondled the ring. "Have you ever seen her before?"
"Can't say I have. I suppose she is from Paris. Hard to tell, eh, she spoke so soft."
"But her dialect is not Parisian and it is not from Calvados. Further west, maybe."
"Pretty piece of tail, eh, and she's returning up your way. Nice coincidence, that. You could follow matters up."
"Just a little widow," Raoul said with a tight smile that told Fournay to damn well mind his own business.
* * *
Fleur did not go directly back to Charlotte's. She headed nostalgically for the Rue Basse, her feet drawn with the obedience of a student up the hill towards the squat grey spire of the Abbaye aux Dames. She drew breath at the top of the rise, frowning at the mass of horse dung fouling the approach to the Trinité School's gatehouse and the revolutionary posters slapped upon the limestone walls. "Egallite" was badly spelt in whitewash across the great oak door, and a fresh stain of urine was drying on the wall behind the national guardsmen on duty. Did nothing decent endure any more? she thought angrily, longing for the peace and order those walls had given her.
Oh, such dreams! Charlotte, secretary to the abbess, with a head full of snippings from the works of Voltaire or Rousseau, so naively jubilant at news of the fall of the Bastille in distant Paris. And cheerful little Fleur, five years younger, always listening and questioning. Golden days, the brief calm before the Revolution smashed through her life again like a stone through glass.
Mercifully Fleur and her aunt had already fled Caen when the rabble dragged the nuns from their classrooms for a beating and the authorities had closed down the school. Now most of her teachers were in hiding, still defiantly living according to the rules of St Benedict, and Queen Matilda's proud abbey had become a storeroom and uniform factory. "It would break your heart to see it," Charlotte had told her sadly. The queen's tomb desecrated by soldiers' graffiti. No plainsong, no constant murmur of prayers, no—
Turning away, Fleur froze inwardly. The sans-culotte from the courtyard was leaning against a wall. Holding it up? That was too much of a coincidence.
Pretending she had not even noticed him, Fleur crossed the muddy road and descended the hill along the Rue Haute. She had intended to make a farewell call on the former abbess-headmistress, Mme de Pontécoulant, in the Place Saint-Sauveur, but that was now out of the question. Too dangerous for both of them. Instead she cut down the stairs of the narrow Venelle Maillard and turned right. Was he still following her? Dropping her handkerchief, she stooped to retrieve it, glancing back. Oh, he was, curse him! Well, she must convince him she was a stranger. Fumbling in her pocket, pretending that her pass paper was an address, she stared up searchingly at the shutters of the houses and then retraced her way up the steps, as if lost, passing the man without a glance. With a deep breath, she knocked on one of the doors.
"My name is Bosanquet," she explained. "I am seeking friends of my late husband's, Monsieur and Madame Aunay." She repeated the futile request at a second house further along and then, with her shoulders bent as if utterly dispirited, made her way to the busy thoroughfare of the Rue Saint-Pierre.
Oh, he was good at dogging her, but she managed to lose him between the market stalls and a courtyard. Then she hobbled back towards the Rue Saint-Jean.
* * *
"Oh, Fleur, thank goodness, you are back," exclaimed Tante Estelle, collapsing into an armchair and fanning herself vigorously. "Did you get the passes?"
"Yes, but I was followed," muttered Fleur, stripping off her gloves and stooping to hush Azar, Charlotte's little dog. "A workman from the Hotel d'Escoville."
"You think the man fancied you, dear heart?" Charlotte appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her waistcloth.
"I doubt it." Fleur pulled off the pinching shoes. "An official from the Committee for General Security is making everyone jump. Thank goodness no one asked where I was staying."
"Oh, but we have nothing to hide," Charlotte's elderly aunt, Mme de Bretteville, declared, scooping up the dog and cuddling him to her pockmarked cheek. "Hush, Azar! And, besides, Charlotte has some very influential admirers."
Charlotte made a face. "And I am not marrying Hyppolyte or Gustave, even if they ask me, which they won't. Men may enjoy the rarity of arguing politics with a woman but they do not want intelligent conversation at breakfast. Come and talk to me while I finish making dinner." She tugged Fleur into the kitchen. "Who was he? This fellow from Paris," she demanded, closing the door. "Down! Get off there, Ninette! There is hardly enough for us." The dislodged cat landed stolidly on all fours and, affronted, retreated to wash her paws.
Fleur dipped her finger in the sauce on the hob. "Some upstart anxious to clamber to glory over the rubble by setting up surveillance committees."
Charlotte raised her eyebrows in disgust. "A Jacobin?"
"I don't know. Do Jacobins flirt?" Fleur explored the pile of journals lying beside the chopping board. Le Journal de la Republique, Brissot's Le Patriot and Husson's Courier, all a week old.
"My friend Hyppolyte passed them on to me," explained Charlotte, jabbing a finger at Le Journal. "See, they are not giving the government a chance." Picking up the cleaver, she began to take out her fury
on a waiting onion. "Imagine how hard it must be for inexperienced ministers. France torn by civil war and ringed by enemies. Organisation takes time. Armies, let alone the poor to feed and clothe. I mean, it's not going to happen overnight, getting everything right. And this constant vile criticism by Marat and Robespierre. Promise me you will go along to the Convention and write to me exactly what is being said."
"If it is safe." Fleur set down the gazette and lifted up Ninette, tickling the soft fur behind the cat's ears. She watched the cleaver descend. "I may be sticking my head in 'the little window' by going to Paris."
"Paris!" Charlotte fumed. More bits of onion scattered, startling the cat out of Fleur's arms. "Why is everyone so scared of Paris? There is no king, no court any more. Why must we let Paris dictate to the rest of France?" The chopper stilled as her friend's face softened. "Oh, Fleur, I envy you and yet... You will be careful, won't you?"
"I would rather risk the guillotine than suffer another winter of starvation." Fleur wriggled her toes, glaring at the chilblains showing beneath her darned stockings. "I am like the miller's youngest son—it is time I set out into the world to seek my fortune. Another door is opening and I have to go through it. We need to tell ourselves that things will get better."
"They will, they must! You always shared my dreams, Fleur. Do not despair. It will be all right, you'll see. It has been a war against greed and self-interest—those who live in luxury while the masses starve—but we have almost won."
Fleur's eyes glistened. "I wish I had your faith." She stood up and paced to the window. "But," she said, slapping her fist against her thigh, "I cannot cower in a forest for the rest of my life. If Paris offers me opportunities, I am resolved I shall seize them with both hands, whatever the cost." And there would be a price. There always was.
Turning, she put on her brightest smile. "You must come and visit me when I am settled in—if it is not too dangerous. Promise?"
"Oh, try and stop me. I shall afford it somehow." Charlotte held out her hands to take Fleur's. "I know I've seen little of you these last two years but I shall miss you and pray for you."
Fleur would need her prayers. Idealistic Charlotte thought her merely the niece of a lesser noble but she only knew a fraction of the truth. Fleur had not spoken of her grief. Charlotte did not know that Fleur's papa, le Duc de Montbulliou, and Marguerite, her eldest half-sister, had each had a knife drawn across their throats as though they were common beasts. That was in Paris! And it was going to take every ounce of Fleur's courage to go there. But to stay would be even worse.
Chapter 3
La Veuve Bosanquet. Just a little widow? Raoul's disciplined mind filed the matter away and he thought no more upon the girl until nine o'clock that evening when the inn servant brought supper to his bedchamber. Time to set his report for the Committee for General Security aside. Closing his portable escritoire, he sat down at the cross-barred table and began to scan the local broadsheet while he dined. There was no mention of Bosanquet's attack. Nor had the young woman behaved in a suspicious manner after she had left the common hall. Seeking out friends of her husband apparently, though it did not explain why she had been lurking around the old school. A former pupil, perhaps.
Raoul tossed the newspaper aside. He was halfway through his meal when a stranger knocked and made free to let himself in.
"Citizen Deputy?" Before Raoul could manage an answer, the man removed his bicorne hat, set it upon the cloth and sat himself down uninvited in the chair opposite. He was in his fifties, clean-shaven, hair powdered and curled, and reputable-looking if one ignored the faint spatter of gravy that had never fully washed out of his muslin cravat.
Raoul cleansed his lips with a napkin and eyed the older man with asperity. "I believe I am not acquainted with you, citizen."
"Name's Esnault, I'm a lawyer. I apologise for disturbing you, Citizen de Villaret, but I understand you are returning to Paris tomorrow."
"I am not a courier, citizen. I do not interest myself with other people's packages."
"No, of course you do not," the other man leaned forward, veined hands clasped, "but do you interest yourself in murder?"
* * *
Even though he followed Esnault's directions, Raoul wasted an hour of the next morning before he found the track in the forest of Grimbosq which led to what he supposed was the dwelling where Matthieu Bosanquet had died. It looked inhabited, except there was no smoke rising from the single chimney even though firewood was neatly stacked along the front wall. Behind the dwelling he could see a small byre with a manger still wispy with hay. Some of the manure was recent.
"Hola?" He rapped on the door with his riding crop and, hearing no answer, let himself into the dark interior. Drying herbs brushed against his hat like thick cobwebs. He cast the hat upon the cleared table and, thrusting open the shutters, permitted the frosty air to dilute yesterday's smells of cooked onions and swept-up hearth ash. The room was too tidy. He lifted the inverted cooking pot left behind on the bare hearth. It had been used recently. Not needed any more. Curious. Peasants never discarded anything.
Not a leaf or shaking of boot soil disfigured the rammed-earth floor and when he ran a finger along the shelf which still held a pitcher of dried peas, it dislodged no mouse turds nor came away dusty. If Matthieu Bosanquet had been rescued by the inhabitants of this bassot, why were they not here any more?
And someone had lived here—until yesterday afternoon, he guessed, when the young woman and her supposed aunt had taken the diligence to Paris. Gone—before Esnault or the physician had second thoughts.
People in a hurry were often careless. He eyed the inner door hopefully but the bedchamber also was devoid of character. A faint smell of incense hung in the room. Someone had given the dying man the last rites. Who?
The simple bed had been stripped of its linen and the only other item of furnishing was a chest. Raoul knelt and thumbed the contents: two covers—one twill, one green wool; an ancient sheepskin pelisse; worn sheets, old but quality—looted, perhaps; and darned work clothes—boy's trousers. And, forgotten in the trouser pocket, he found a gypsy-made comb curiously tangled with a catapult. He dropped the lid shut. If the dying Bosanquet had occupied the bed, where had the pretty widow slept during her vigil? Not beside the kitchen fire? He leaned against the doorway, observing that not only was there a well-scrubbed table, but on either side of it two crudely made chairs. Only the father in a peasant dwelling such as this sat at a table—if he was lucky. The rest of the family stood to eat.
Citizen Esnault was right. There was a mystery here, else why would the inhabitants have fled? Did they fear interrogation? Witnesses calling themselves Estelle and Guillaume had signed the will and where were they now? Raoul frowned as he latched the door behind him. He did not have time to seek them out and it was not really his responsibility to investigate further, but he would. Oh yes, he certainly would.
* * *
The Cherbourg diligence rumbled to a halt at noon outside the two-storeyed offices of the Messageries Nationale in the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires. It was Thursday, three days since the coach had left Caen, and its stiff passengers, eight adults and three children, had had a surfeit of each other. Forced proximity for hour after hour enticed intimacies from people you would not meet otherwise: people like the lascivious card-player from Lisieux, or the bad-tempered crone from Carentan, who stared at you for hours on end and wondered at your secrets. Tante Estelle, unused to public coaches, had nearly betrayed her noble origins on several occasions and was probably suffering from bruised toes where Fleur had needed to deliver discreet, swift warnings. Then there had been the passport checks by officious local upstarts almost every two leagues.
As they had reached the environs of Paris, the stink of the city had intensified like a miasma in the interior of the coach. Fleur had noticed her aunt clutching her small portmanteau as if she had Queen Marie-Antoinette's famous necklace inside it, and realised Tante Estelle was striving to hide a ve
ry genuine fear. They were risking their lives daring to come to the lair of the very dragon that had devastated France, murdered innocents, but Fleur felt excitement seeping through her veins like Papa's brandy. It was infuriating not to be able to see out, to begin to assess the enemy—seven years since she had last visited Paris—but the passenger from Cherbourg had drawn the shutters down so he might nap, and the window on the other side was monopolised by two fidgeting children who squeaked worse than fledglings.
"Your passes, citizens!"
Fleur's blue blood ran cold at the formidable tone. Two national guards were waiting for the passengers to disembark, examining everyone's papers with calculated menace—and these were Parisians; she could not gull them so easily. Well, if she could face a deputy of the Convention, Fleur could manage these two. But would she have to get used to this unpleasant ogling? Being a woman was definitely not easy.
Her confidence teetered like a novice tightroper when the Cherbourg importer was marched off for further interrogation. Welcome to Paris!
"I never expected to set foot in this pit of vipers ever again," muttered Tante Estelle, swishing her skirts from the nose of a stray dog. "Do not stride so." She bustled across behind Fleur to a choice of three fiacres for hire. "Can we afford this?"
"Yes, if I haggle," Fleur muttered grimly, deciding which of the drivers wore the most honest expression.
"Surely..."
"Unless you would prefer we hire a barrowman and walk?"
Her aunt's snort justified the intense bargaining that followed.
"I am beginning to think you have plenty of your father in you," muttered Tante Estelle, as the ill-sprung fiacre jolted forwards. Fleur slid her thinner purse back into her bag, aware that M. Bosanquet's money was running out like water through a leaking bucket, but she still gave her aunt a comforting smile.
"Nearly there. A few days and Paris will not seem so foreign to us."
Fleur-de-Lis Page 5
