by Maia Chance
A lady squealed, the bedclothes heaved, and Gerard thunked out of bed and onto the floor. Utterly unclothed.
Oh.
Ophelia inched the door shut, whispering, “Pardonnez-moi.”
Gerard scrabbled to his feet, hiding his front with crossed hands. Ophelia was treated to his soup-chicken hindquarters as he climbed back in bed.
A yellow bouffant head thrust out from beneath the bedclothes, and Madame Dieudonné uttered what sounded like curses.
Ophelia slammed the door and bolted for the stairs.
No, no, no. How could she ever forget that sight?
Abel had said he’d heard a lady with Gerard the night the vicar was killed. That had ruled out Gerard as a suspect. If Madame Dieudonné was Gerard’s hide-and-seek partner, that meant she had an alibi, too. Which, if nothing else, whittled down the range of murder suspects.
* * *
Ophelia found a newspaper in the abandoned breakfast room. It was four days out-of-date and in English—probably for the benefit of the château’s English-speaking guests.
Not that the parakeet would be picky.
Ophelia took it upstairs. She removed the soiled newspaper from the bottom of the birdcage and threw it in the fire. She folded a fresh square. As she did so, she noticed a headline: “Empty Train Stalls Travel to Paris.”
The brief article described how the train traveling back and forth between Avignon and Lyon was completely sold out for a ten-day stretch but, oddly, no one was riding in the train. No one knew who had purchased all those tickets. The railway offices wouldn’t say.
Ophelia smoothed the newspaper at the bottom of the birdcage. “There you go, little one,” she said to the parakeet.
The parakeet promptly tried out the new paper.
Ophelia didn’t know where in France Avignon and Lyon were. Something niggled at the back of her mind. Then it was gone.
15
“Madame Genepy was awake when we called upon her this morning,” Ivy said to Gabriel. Her voice was faintly taunting. “She told me more of La belle et la bête.”
“Oh?” Tense, Penrose leaned forward on the seat.
The carriage jostled on the road on its way to the ruined castle. Miss Flax sat quietly beside Ivy, looking tall and plain in her brown bonnet beside dainty Ivy. Banks sat next to Gabriel. Lucile, Tolbert, and Madame Dieudonné traveled in a second carriage. Larsen had gone out hunting, Forthwith had taken a carriage into town, and Griffe had stayed behind at the château to meet with the woodcutters he had summoned. Bernadette had stayed home to bake wedding cakes and write invitations. Henrietta was, presumably, still sleeping.
“Would you tell me exactly what Madame Genepy said?” Gabriel tried to squelch the envy in his voice. He should have been there, listening to that tale. But Ivy had visited Madame Genepy that morning, bringing her broth like a ministering angel, while Gabriel was still sleeping.
“Well,” Ivy said, “there was a bit about a beautiful maiden who was to be the bride of the beast.”
“Ah—as in the de Villeneuve tale? The daughter sacrifices herself to save her father.” The maiden sacrifice motif was typical of animal groom tales.
“Actually, Madame Genepy didn’t mention a father. The maiden sacrifices herself—what did she say?—for her people, or something of that nature.”
“Her people.”
“Then the maiden married the beast.” Ivy’s eyes glowed. “The beast Madame Genepy described sounded precisely like the one that was seen in the village last night.”
“What’s that?” Banks asked.
“Oh, Papa, don’t you ever pay attention? Another sheep was killed in the village last night, and one Madame Haut, awake to nurse her baby in the night, saw a beast going along the edge of the field and into the wood.”
“A wolf?” Miss Flax asked. “A boar?”
“The woman claimed that the beast walked upright like a man,” Ivy said with a shudder, “and that it had a boar’s head.”
“What these peasants need is a woolen mill,” Banks said. “That river of theirs has got enough vim to run one, I daresay. Keep them employed and keep their heads from rotting with humbug. Men with beasts’ heads! Pshaw.”
Gabriel kept his hands quite still on his knees, but inside his gloves his fingertips buzzed almost painfully.
Madame Genepy’s beast matched the description of whoever had hit Miss Flax and him over the head last night. Madame Genepy’s beast also matched the description of the beast in the cave picture. Here, then, was absolute proof that her tale was as ancient, if not more ancient, than Gabriel had hoped. He must make paper-and-pencil rubbings of those animals in the cave—and that beast—while he still had the opportunity.
What was more, this rendered the hybrid jawbone in Tolbert’s sketchbook not simply a scientific anomaly. It made it a fairy-tale relic.
Gabriel must have it. He would have it.
* * *
The ruined castle clung to a stone outcropping above the Vézère River. The carriage rumbled across a bridge and began a curvaceous ascent through a steep, thick forest. The two carriages stopped halfway up, beside an abandoned inn.
Everyone piled out of the carriages. They started the final ascent to the castle via a derelict stone staircase.
Gabriel fell into step beside Tolbert, at the rear of the group. “I say, it is rather fascinating that this local legend contains a beast that possesses boarlike traits.”
“I have no interest in legends. I am a man of science.” Tolbert’s voice was muffled by his fur collar.
“Oh, I do not doubt it. However, I did see your sketch of the hybrid jawbone—”
“This again? That bone was doubtless an anomaly. A freak of nature. One of its kind, not a proper species.”
“You saw it, then?”
“But of course I saw it. I am not in the habit of sketching pictures from my imagination.” Tolbert stopped. “What is it you truly wish to say to me, Lord Harrington?”
“I will be blunt: I happened to see some wondrous cave paintings. Most were animals that, while no longer found in the Périgord, did not seem far-fetched. A bear, bison, a rhinoceros. However, there was one painting that depicted a boar-man hybrid, a creature that might have had the same sort of jawbone that you sketched in your notebook. But of course, you have seen this painting, this cave.”
“No. No, I have not.”
Gabriel decided not to mention that he had seen Tolbert enter the cave yesterday afternoon.
“Are you spying upon me, Professor? Ah, yes.” Tolbert made a bitter cackle. “I may not be as privileged as you, Lord Harrington. My father was a shopkeeper, not an earl. But I have dwelled within the hallowed halls of academia long enough to know when another scholar is attempting to encroach upon my research.”
“Am I?”
“My God, you disgust me.” Tolbert started up the steps.
Gabriel followed, saying, “You have no interest in the cave painting I mention?”
“No. I am a scientist, and as such, I have not the slightest interest in artworks—and at any rate, this picture of yours sounds like a fraud, or the prank of adolescent boys.”
Gabriel was thoughtful as he walked the rest of the way up to the ruins in silence. Why was Tolbert lying? Was it really due to academic jealousy? For if Tolbert had indeed discovered a new species, a species that linked humans with boars, well, what a stunning find. He would become famous the world over. Tolbert must have seen the cave paintings—it would be difficult to miss—even if he had not arranged that shrine. And Gabriel rather thought that he had arranged it.
Everyone clumped together at the top of the steps. Lucile led the way through lichen-laced walls into a courtyard. Towers and battlements teetered up into the blank gray sky.
* * *
Inside the castle courtyard, the party dispersed. Banks
and Ivy linked arms and spoke cozily, pointing out architectural features of the castle and using terms—portcullis? bailey?—that Ophelia had never heard before. Tolbert scowlingly studied an archway. Penrose and Lucile went off together. Madame Dieudonné looked lost without her poodle, and she kept sending Ophelia fretful looks.
Ophelia did not wish to discuss Madame Dieudonné and Gerard and whatever they had been doing under the bedclothes earlier. There was no need at all. She’d come along to observe the others, to see if whoever had been dressed up in that boar’s head last night would give themselves away.
So far, no sign. They all seemed wrapped up in themselves. No one even looked at Ophelia. Maybe the attacker had been someone else, then. A servant. The blacksmith. Griffe.
Drawn by the sweeping, wintry vista, Ophelia wandered to the farthest battlement, just beside a crumbling tower. Wind licked up from the valley, stinging her cheeks. She placed her hands on the hip-high wall and leaned over. Far, far below, rubble cascaded from the base of the cliff into the river.
Dizziness rocked through her.
“Mademoiselle Stonewall,” someone said.
Ophelia jumped. “Madame Dieudonné.” She pressed a hand to her heart, stepping back from the wall. “You startled me.”
“I am so pleased to have the chance to speak to you”—Madame Dieudonné’s eyes swiveled left and right—“in privacy.”
“If it is about the, um, the coachman and—”
“No, no.”
“Oh.” Good.
“Although, my dear, there is no shame in my profession.”
“Your profession?”
“I am a courtesan, as was my mother and my grandmother before her.”
“Oh.” Ophelia knew all about courtesans, having played one in The Rise and Fall of Love.
“I have been reduced by circumstances to such as that vile coachman. How he has enough money to pay, I do not know.”
Bribe money, maybe? “Madame, have you spoken to Gerard about the broken-down stagecoach?”
“Non.” Madame Dieudonné caressed her own cheek. “Courtesans specialize in removing gentlemen from the cares of their everyday lives. We are not wives, nagging and shrewish.” She was so close, Ophelia smelled face powder mingling with coffee breath. “You should remember to be more like a courtesan and less like a wife when you are married. You will be happier. The count, he is a man who does not enjoy nagging, eh?”
Ophelia drew back. “You know nothing of the count and me.”
“Non? Would it surprise you to learn that I knew him before I arrived at Château Vézère? Ah, I see that it does.”
Actually, Ophelia had guessed Madame Dieudonné had previously known a man in the château, but she hadn’t suspected it was Griffe. “Where did you meet him?”
“Ask him.”
“All right, I will.”
Madame Dieudonné sidled closer. “I know, Mademoiselle Stonewall, that you are investigating the death of Monsieur Knight.”
“Well, I—”
“Do not lie. I have no patience. First, I found you snooping in my chamber, and today you intrude without ceremony into the private chamber of Gerard? No, do not attempt to deny it. I know that the vicar’s death was not the work of fate, as the police would have us believe. Oui, Monsieur Knight was murdered.”
“Yes, you told me of your suspicions already, but who—”
From the tower above, a bit of loose mortar fell. Madame Dieudonné stiffened. Ophelia squinted up to see a blink of motion, someone drawing back from the wall.
“Not here,” Madame Dieudonné whispered. “Someone is listening. Later. Pray come to my chamber, after everyone has gone to bed, and I will tell you everything.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police what you know?”
“I want nothing to do with the police.” Madame Dieudonné flinched, as if remembering something.
Maybe something involving the Monte Carlo police.
“I will tell you what I know,” Madame Dieudonné whispered, “and you may take it to the police. Et, leave me out of things.”
Ophelia felt that cloak-and-dagger shenanigans were best left to Shakespeare. But there was likely one or more persons within earshot right now. “All right,” she said softly. “I’ll meet you tonight.”
She left Madame Dieudonné and circled around the tower, hoping to discover who had been standing over them and, just maybe, eavesdropping. She found herself in a crumbly passage with a staircase that sank down into blackness, and then in what appeared to be a half-ruined chapel. When she at last found stairs leading up, there was no one at the top of the tower.
It could’ve been anyone listening. Hopefully it had only been the professor.
Ophelia went back down the stairs and looked into a closet-sized chamber jutting from the side of the castle. A stone platform filled the chamber, in which a round hole was carved. Peculiar. She looked through the hole. Eek. Nothing but empty air between her and the rubble way, way down at the base of the cliff. The river flowed by.
Her neck prickled, and she spun around. “Oh! Miss Banks.” What was the matter with these folks, always sneaking up on you? “What in tarnation are you doing there?”
“Tarnation, Miss Stonewall? My, what quaint vernacular you Americans employ. I think I read that expression once in a Mark Twain book, but I never would have guessed it would trip off the tongue of a Cleveland heiress.” Ivy smiled. Her eyes flicked past Ophelia to the hole. “Having a peek down the latrine?”
“Is that what it is?” Ophelia inched away from the hole. “Imagine having to balance yourself over eternity like that every time you needed to go.”
“My, you are coarse, aren’t you? So sad for the Count de Griffe.” Ivy inched closer. “For it is the count you wish to marry?”
“Of course.”
“I have been meaning to tell you, Miss Stonewall, I finally realized where I have seen your friend Mrs. Brighton before.”
“Oh?” Ophelia’s pulse sped up.
“Mm. It is so very odd, because I distinctly remember seeing her likeness on a theatrical placard in London a few months ago, advertising some American variety show performing on the Strand. Low, vulgar stuff. Why was Mrs. Brighton, widow of Cleveland’s high society, on that placard, Miss Stonewall?”
Ophelia knew precisely why: Even though Henrietta had quit Howard DeLuxe’s Varieties a year ago, Howard had never bothered to remove her likeness from the placards. Howard was cheap.
Ophelia backed away from Ivy, but with the latrine hole just behind her, she didn’t have much wiggle room. “You are mistaken, Miss Banks. That couldn’t have been Mrs. Brighton.”
“Oh, it was she. I never forget a face. She is an impostor, and quite clearly she hopes to get her hooks into Mr. Larsen.”
“Have you suggested this theory to anyone?”
Ivy smiled. “Not yet. I prefer to keep things up my sleeve until just the right moment. I fancy that’s something that you and I have in common, Miss Stonewall.”
Ophelia slipped past Ivy, through the latrine doorway and away down the corridor. Despite the cold wind whapping through the ruined castle, beneath her corset and chemise she was damp with sweat.
* * *
“Stags,” Gabriel said to Lucile. “These are the beasts you believed would interest me?” He studied the stags and oak leaves carved in a door lintel. True, de Villeneuve’s tale made mention of white stags with golden antlers. But Gabriel wasn’t interested in de Villeneuve’s tale.
“Well, yes, stags,” Lucile said, sounding hurt.
“They are very fine,” Gabriel said quickly, “but for some reason I had thought the beast would be . . .”
“The beast from Grandmother’s tale.” Lucile’s voice went hard. “The people of this valley do think from time to time of things not concerned with Grandmother’s tales
.”
“Of course. I merely misunderstood.”
“If these carvings are not good enough for you—” Lucile shrugged.
“They are fascinating. Are there others in this castle?”
“Boars, down below. Carved on the wall built around the old wellspring. The wellspring is dry now, but in the old days it supplied water for the castle.”
Gabriel’s heart thumped. “Boars?”
“Go around this corner here.” Lucile pointed. “There is an arched doorway halfway along. Go through the doorway and down the steps. You cannot miss the round wellspring wall. I will not go with you. Those steps frighten me.”
Biting wind swirled as Gabriel rounded the corner. He leaned his weight into it. Daylight illuminated the first stretch of steps, but then they coiled away into tar blackness. A stagnant odor rose up. The steps were alarmingly tall and steep, too, and although iron rings in the walls indicated that rope handles had once hung there, now a man would have to press tight to the walls all the way to the bottom.
Gabriel peered down. He was sure on his feet; he could easily—
A stiff shove hurtled him into darkness.
* * *
He scrabbled to gain a hold on the walls as he tumbled on his hip and then over his shoulder. Fingernails snapped. His thoughts jumbled. His entire skeleton rattled, and then he caught hold of one of the iron rings. He stopped. He clung to the ring, panting. Nothing felt broken or popped open, although heaven knew he’d be bruised. If he had continued down the steps like that, gaining momentum all the way, he would have broken his neck.
Which, doubtless, had been Tolbert’s intent.
Gabriel crept up the steps. Pain jolted and throbbed. When he reached the top, he wasn’t surprised to find nobody there.
When he entered the courtyard, everyone was assembled. They all looked cold-pinched and eager to leave. Tolbert would not look at Gabriel but buried his tortoise face in his collar. Yet his carbon-black eyes sparkled.
16
When Ophelia went to her chamber to change for luncheon, she found Abel lounging on her sofa, reading. A plate of brown cake sat at his side.
