He went back downstairs. Obviously in the grip of a nightmare, the woman was muttering incoherent words. Her expression alarmed him and he stroked her cheek gently. A sudden and overwhelming emotion surged through him. Had they been destined to meet? He had seen too much of life and had too many strange encounters to believe that the course of events was decided by chance alone. His gaze still fixed on the stranger, he resolved never again to expose himself to the pain and bitterness of love. And yet, and yet … He felt his defences crumbling, all those barriers put up during the years of solitude and despair. It felt good to have a woman under his roof.
Her eyelids fluttered.
‘You’re safe.’
Who could have said those words? Would this rolling and swaying never stop? Everything seemed dark, and she was floating in the midst of a foaming sea, which filled her nose and mouth, choking her.
She concentrated, trying to understand this voice that seemed to be speaking, but that she could barely hear. She attempted to move, but the pain of the blood returning to her limbs made her cry out. Oh God, where was she?
‘Don’t be afraid.’
The voice resonated like someone calling in an empty house. She had to fight, she had to stay alive.
Could the tall figure with the head of curly hair surrounded by a halo of light be the ship’s doctor? She felt hot. A sudden dizziness made the walls spin, then her confusion cleared, revealing the phosphorescent pupils of a cat and the torso of a man leaning over her.
‘Are you all right?’
His voice seemed clearer now.
‘Are we in Southampton?’ she murmured.
‘No, in France.’
She tried to sit up, but a hand pushed her back. She wanted to resist, but she was so tired. The voice again: ‘You must rest.’
She pretended she was falling asleep again but managed to look about her. She could make out a fireplace, and a pewter pot filled with flowering thistles placed on a large table. To one side, rows of painted plates lined the shelves of a large dresser. The man held a globe lamp and she was able to see a large ham hanging from one of the beams. Strange forms were projected on the uneven wattle and lath walls, as lifelike as that of the large grey cat curled up in front of the fire.
Disconnected images flitted through her mind. Boarding the Eagle at Southampton after meeting her husband’s lawyer. The captain, a squat, podgy man who stood too close to her and assured her that he knew this stretch of water like the back of his hand and that, storm or no storm, they would reach France that very day. The fear she had felt as she clung to the vessel, while it was tossed and whirled by enormous waves that all seemed intent on one thing: destroying the little boat and destroying her with it. Before that, the journey from San Francisco to New York and then the calm voyage all the way to the south of England.
At the head of the bed, Corentin was scraping his pipe out into an earthenware cup, his mind full of strange and sombre thoughts. A man like him needed something to give his life meaning. Something like a woman’s love, perhaps? All that had been taken from him. He felt a thirst in his soul, as though he had lived, like a second Robinson Crusoe, on nothing but smoked herrings with never a drop of fresh water.
* * *
He was just drifting off to sleep when, heralded by a great gust of cold air, Madame Guénéqué burst in. She was a robust country woman of about fifty, the widow of a man who had devoted most of his short life to the art of brewing his own beer and cider. She had been left to bring up their numerous offspring and had earned her living as a servant in the great houses of the area. Now, she managed to get by working as a cook and cleaner.
‘Hello, Captain, sorry I’m late. I didn’t dare stick my nose outside earlier, on account of all that wind. It’s brightening up now, though – look at the sky. Rain and sunshine all at once – it’s the devil beating his missus and marrying off his daughter. It’s a crying shame. A good few boats have been wrecked – it’s always the same when they come. One storm, and it lasts three days! Oh, you’ve got a visitor?’
‘I found her unconscious early this morning. I suppose she must have been a passenger on the schooner. I did my best to get her warm.’
Quick as a flash, Madame Guénéqué closed the door and scuttled over to the bed to size up the newcomer. When she caught sight of the scraps of clothing lying on the floor, her wrinkled old face lit up with a roguish smile.
‘So that’s why you decided to peel her like an onion?’
‘It was either that or leave her to die. And if I’d done that I’d have been able to inspect her intimately and at my leisure.’
‘Oh, don’t get cross. I was only saying…’
‘I was just answering your question,’ replied Corentin in a conciliatory tone. ‘Now, help yourself to some coffee.’
But it was too much to ask of Madame Guénéqué that she would leave it there.
‘Ha. And what’s happened to your chairs? They’re in a pretty state! And is this person going to stay here for long?’
‘I was waiting for you to come so that I could go out and ask the nuns at the infirmary to send someone to collect her.’
‘I’d do it sharpish if I were you. When my poor old man fell head first into the cider vat, his friends did the best they could to get him to cough it all up, but in the end his heart gave out.’
‘I’m going now. Keep the fire burning while I’m gone and, if she wakes up and wants to eat, there are eggs and sausages in the cupboard.’
‘Don’t you worry, she won’t die of hunger. I’ll make her some nice hot soup.’ She rolled up her sleeves and set to work. ‘He may be an old hermit,’ she muttered, ‘but he’s still got a soft spot for the ladies.’
Outside, Corentin Jourdan filled his lungs with the damp air, relieved to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the house. The wind had wreaked havoc among the rose bushes and mallow plants: the trees were bent and splayed into tortured shapes, and crows fluttered to and fro among the broken branches. The bakehouse was flooded and the geese were honking in the little yard, which was white with their droppings.
He released Flip and put his harness on. The horse, an Anglo-Norman with a long nose, shook his mane in pleasure at the prospect of escaping from his confinement. With his master in the saddle, left leg hanging free of the stirrup, he walked along the shore, punctuating the monotonous calls of the seagulls with his whinnying.
They crossed the stream just as the church bell was tolling. A silent crowd gathered in front of the church doors, which were surmounted by a relief of St Martin. Urville’s gravediggers would have their work cut out this evening.
He had to knock on the large double doors several times before a little hatch was pulled half open. A young nun stared at him while he explained his case. The sister retorted that the mother superior would do what she could as soon as possible but that all the beds were full because of the storm. He was insistent.
‘This woman has a high fever. Who knows how long she may have been in the water? It’s a miracle that she’s still of this world.’
An older nun brushed the novice aside and examined Corentin, adjusting her spectacles.
‘Sister Ursula is right, Captain Jourdan, we are run off our feet here. Still, I shall send Landry, the gardener’s son, to collect the woman, and we’ll put her up in the annexe.’
He thanked the mother superior warmly. He had earned her gratitude one winter day in 1892 when he had helped repair one of the walls of the infirmary which had fallen down, and had accepted nothing by way of a reward except for a bowl of coffee and some bread and butter.
She kept her word. Five minutes later, Landry’s shock of red hair could be seen bobbing along towards Landemer behind the nuns’ old nag. From a distance, Corentin Jourdan watched the cart rattling over the potholed path.
From the shelter of the stable, he observed the boy and Madame Guénéqué carrying the woman, wrapped up like a mummy, as best they could towards the cart. When Landry had disappeared r
ound the bend, Corentin took the saddle off his horse and let it graze.
‘You missed them,’ remarked Madame Guénéqué when he came in. A pot hung over the fire, simmering and giving off an appetising smell of vegetables and ham. ‘She didn’t open her eyes or her mouth, poor thing.’
Having finished cleaning the ground floor, Madame Guénéqué was putting on her shawl. The loft was forbidden territory, except when her employer was away.
‘I’m going to see old Pignol.’
‘Don’t forget to tell him about the roof. The weather’s settling down now, but still…’
‘Don’t worry, I will. See you on Wednesday, Captain. And remember to dig out that washtub for me – there’s a ton of washing to be done.’
She shot a poisonous glance at Gilliatt, spread-eagled in the middle of the bed.
When she had gone, Corentin Jourdan let out a sigh. A few short hours had been enough for a stranger to turn his routine upside down. He lay down next to the cat, overcome with fatigue.
In the middle of the night he got up, poked the remains of the fire and added the remnants of one of the crates. He served himself a bowl of warm soup and sat down in the chimney corner. At his feet, Gilliatt lapped at a saucer of milk. The regular sound of the cat’s little pink tongue flicking back and forth sent Corentin off into a daydream. He recalled a vision he had once had: a naked water sprite was holding him in her arms, and a blue aura hung around her jet-black hair.
What was happening to him? It was the first time in twenty years that he had become so obsessed by something. Ashamed of behaving like a dreamy adolescent, Corentin got up and was about to make for the attic when he saw something under the bed. He bent down and picked up the woman’s bag. Madame Guénéqué’s broom wasn’t always very thorough.
He lit a candle and went up to the attic. Uncertain what to do, he looked thoughtfully at his find. Should he open it? If he did, he risked becoming attached to the woman, rather than freeing himself from her. He had resolved never to leave his home here where his frugal way of life, combined with the money left by his uncle, meant that he was independent, almost rich. He was entirely at peace with the world, because his heart was not pierced by any thorns of emotion, and because he hardly ever saw other people and only had a horse and a cat to look after.
‘Is she married?’
Unable to resist, he picked up the bag. The leather had protected an address book, a bulging purse and a wad of papers tied up in a triple layer of oilcloth. Where to start? He began with a crinkled beige envelope, pulling out a blue notebook whose pages were covered in small writing. He settled himself on the trestle bed, began reading and didn’t stop until he had read the whole thing.
* * *
When morning came, he put the notebook back where he had found it and went to stand by the window. In the courtyard below, a timid ray of sunlight projected the black shadow of the chimney onto the wall. Between two buildings, there was a glimpse of the sea, calm as a millpond. He looked at it for a moment, his pipe in his mouth, lost in thought. The clear horizon seemed to bode well for the day and he set off to take the woman’s bag to the nuns.
He was told that, after a difficult night, the woman seemed, according to the doctor, to be out of danger. Her name was Sophie Clairsange. A sailor from the Eagle had brought her suitcase, full of beautiful clothes. The poor woman was still fragile, but had managed to swallow a few mouthfuls of food. Would the captain like to see her?
Corentin instructed the novice not to reveal his identity if Sophie Clairsange should happen to ask about him. Surprised, the novice promised to do as he asked.
He left. At Urville, he bought La Lanterne Manchoise hot off the press. A front-page article on the wreck of the schooner recorded that there had been no casualties. Elsewhere, the newspaper bemoaned the uprooting of trees in Cherbourg, which was causing chaos on the main road into the town.
He set off back to the sanctuary of his own home.
Wednesday 10 January
‘What about that washtub?’ grumbled Madame Guénéqué, when she saw that Corentin hadn’t obeyed her instruction.
Without replying, he went up to the attic. Where had he left it? Ah yes, under the bed. He pulled out a wooden box and took off the lid. Inside he found 420 francs, which he hoped would be enough for his needs. After all, the journey there and back in third class cost less than forty francs. The trip to Cherbourg wouldn’t cost much and Landry would be delighted with even such a small sum, which he would go and spend straight away in one of the bistros at the port. Then it would just be a case of renting a cheap room – would twenty francs a month be enough? – and cutting back on his meals. Luckily, he had never had a big appetite.
Paris! A noisy island, a crowded continent as mysterious as the ocean, where he could get lost for ever.
He put the money in his pocket, filled a haversack with clothes and then went back downstairs, dragging the washtub with him.
‘Madame Guénéqué, I’m going away for a few weeks – urgent business in Paris. As soon as I know my address there, I’ll send it to you in case you need to contact me.’
‘You’d be wasting your time – I can’t read or write.’
‘Then you can ask the nuns to help you.’
‘I’m surprised at you, Monsieur Corentin. For years and years you’ve never been further away from here than a rabbit from its warren. People will be talking about this all the way from here to Val de Saire!’
‘I’m counting on you to keep all those busy tongues from wagging, and to make sure the farrier mends that shoe of Flip’s that’s wearing down. The main thing is, don’t forget to give him some water before you feed him his oats, and brush him every day.’
Madame Guénéqué eyed him mischievously.
‘You don’t need to give me all these instructions, Captain, you’ve told me a hundred times before. Ah, Paris, Paris, everyone’s got Paris fever! That lovely lady you scrubbed up so carefully, she’s going to Paris too. The doctor told her over and over that she shouldn’t go, not in the state she’s in, but she’s as stubborn as a mule! They wouldn’t be linked, would they, your two journeys?’
‘Wherever do you get your ideas from? I don’t know anything about her – who she is, where she lives. It’s business, as I said, to do with my uncle’s investments.’
‘Whatever you say. I’ll look after the animals, but it’ll mean me trailing over here every morning…’
‘I’ll give you forty francs. If I’m not back by the end of January, I’ll send a postal order.’
‘Oh, no need for that, Captain, no need for that. Forty francs is a tidy sum!’ she blustered, her eyes round at the thought. She spirited the notes away as soon as he put them in her hand.
With a stroke for Gilliatt and a friendly pat for Flip, he was off. He was clutching the blue earring he had found under the table. Despite the black clouds and the occasional gust of wind, the storm had left the Cotentin peninsula and gone to wreak its havoc further south.
Why had he ever opened that confounded bag? Now, he knew things he wished he didn’t and, if he refused to act on what he had read, it would poison his very existence. He would not rest until he had found the woman whose secrets he had stolen. Come what may, he would seek her in that immense city, full of dangers far more deadly than the storm.
CHAPTER 2
Friday 9 February 1894
It was nearly five o’clock and Paris was succumbing to dusk. Sprawling Paris of the grand houses, the brightly lit avenues, the shady districts, the bustling streets, the sinister streets, the empty streets. Corentin Jourdan knew exactly what he had to do. Either the two women would emerge from the house together, or one would come out alone. Depending on whether it was the brunette or the blonde, he would put the first or the second of his plans into action.
From his garret room, he could see all of the houses along Rue Albouy,1 but the one he was interested in was the building on the corner of Rue des Vinaigriers. If the brunette Sophie C
lairsange emerged, he would easily have enough time to get to the stall where his horse was waiting. The carriage station was on Boulevard Magenta and it would take the young woman five minutes to get there. He was familiar with the streets now and would be able to catch up with her.
Chance, destiny and luck had all worked in his favour so far, and fortune seemed to be smiling on his endeavour. Living alone and seldom speaking to anyone had been the best way of gathering information discreetly.
He’d realised he would have to tail carriages or omnibuses at short notice, and so would need his own mode of transport. His budget would not stretch to hiring a carriage and horses; the twenty-five or perhaps forty francs a day necessary would have swallowed up his savings in no time. But fortunately he had discovered a removal man who operated nearby. In exchange for a small sum, the man had allowed Jourdan to hire an old mare who still had some life left in her, and a cart which would be at his disposal any time of the day or night.
Immediately on arrival at Gare Saint-Lazare, he had made for the address he’d found in the notebook belonging to the young woman whose life he’d saved. When he got to Rue des Vinaigriers, the little shop painted in garish blue seemed to beckon to him. There was a sign outside:
THE BLUE CHINAMAN
Madame Guérin
Fine Confectionery since 1873
His heart pounding, he had put down his haversack. Now all he needed was to find a hotel or a furnished room, anything as long as it was nearby, and wait. He had looked at the rows of glass jars lined up on the shelves: caramels, sugar-coated almonds, pralines, Turkish delight, aniseed balls, barley sugar, humbugs, gumdrops, marshmallow and liquorice. The symphony of colours had washed over him like a memory of childhood, of freedom and innocence. His vision blurred and he saw again the slender young girl running towards him across a beach, as clearly as if she had actually been there.
The rays of the setting sun glinting on the shop window had brought him back to his senses. Clélia is dead. You’re looking for Sophie Clairsange.
She was there, behind the sweet-shop counter, with a middle-aged woman standing next to her. Should he go in? Push open the door of the gingerbread house? No. He had come so far, and was so close to his goal – so close to her! He must be patient, and not fall into the trap of accosting her too soon.
Strangled in Paris: A Victor Legris Mystery (Victor Legris Mysteries) Page 2
