by Maia Chance
When she crawled into bed, Meringue was already sprawled on her pillow. She lay her head on the lumpy mattress and tumbled into dreamless sleep.
* * *
Gabriel could not sleep. His fascination with, desire for, the fossilized jawbone had been eclipsed. He could not stop thinking of what Miss Flax had told him: that she had never intended, not for a moment, to marry Griffe. That she had accepted Griffe’s proposal only to nettle him, Gabriel.
He sank into a chair in his bedchamber and lay his forehead on a palm. He had been desperately in love with Miss Flax, in Paris, and now he was realizing something else, something that he’d been suppressing: He was desperately in love with her still.
Yet he’d affianced himself to Miss Ivy Banks.
What had he done?
* * *
Ophelia woke at dawn groggy and unrested, yet anxious to begin the day.
She developed a plan as she dressed in a green woolen gown.
If her theory about the railroad route was correct, then the murderer had access to a great deal of money. Larsen could be eliminated as a suspect because Ophelia had heard him snoring the night the vicar had been killed.
Which left only Griffe and Banks, unless Bernadette and Ivy somehow had access to their family fortunes. Ladies usually did not; she must check on that.
Two suspects. That was manageable, wasn’t it?
Ophelia changed the parakeet’s seeds and water, noticing two grubs at the bottom of the cage. Ugh. Although the parakeet did have a little more pep this morning. Next, she took Meringue out to the front of the château. As Meringue sniffed about, selecting the perfect spot, Ophelia kept thinking.
Regarding motives, well, if Griffe or Banks were the murderer and they’d gone through such trouble and expense to lure the stagecoach to Château Vézère, then they must have known Knight or Madame Dieudonné before—and they must have held a grudge. Madame Dieudonné had claimed she’d known Griffe before, and Griffe had flown off the handle when Ophelia had asked him about it. On the other hand, Banks could have known Knight in England. The only connection between Banks and Knight that Ophelia could work out was that Banks owned silk and woolen mills, and Knight had had those bobbins of silk thread in his trunk.
Chopping sounds started up in the distance, hollow and ringing. Ophelia squinted towards the lacy, bare trees. How many woodcutters had Griffe employed? A dozen?
She made a kissy sound for Meringue, and he came trotting. It was time to meet Griffe about flowers in the orangerie. She’d deposit Meringue in the salon first. She couldn’t very well leave him outside if there were marauding beasts out here. Meringue might have a certain swagger, but he’d look like an hors d’oeuvre to a wolf.
* * *
The orangerie was quiet when Ophelia entered, except for the gurgling fountain. No dead fish—or live fish—in the lily pad pool.
“The fish died.” That was Griffe. Ophelia turned. “They were found by Luc, floating lifeless, every one. It must have grown too cold, or perhaps the water became unclean.” Griffe had not shaved, his eyes were bloodshot and pouched, and although his clothes looked clean, Ophelia caught a whiff of sour wine.
“Good morning, Count. Roses, do you think? I am content with roses—any will do.”
“Eh? Brides are customarily more particular about the arrangements of their weddings,” Griffe said.
“Oh, well, I’ve always been practical. ‘Efficient Ophelia’ is what everyone calls me back home in Cleveland.” She strolled through the plants so she wouldn’t have to look at Griffe.
He followed her. “Is this, then, why you are upset?”
“Upset? Me?”
“Because your mama and papa, your friends from Cleveland, will not be at our wedding?”
“I believe I already told you as much. I wish to marry later, in the spring—”
“Non. The solstice. It is a special time. The magic in the air will sanction our union.”
“If you say so.”
“Why do you not wear the ring I gave you? I have noted this, day after day.”
“Oh, it’s—well, it’s a bit uncomfortable, honestly. Too tight.”
“You should have told me. A goldsmith could make it larger. Bring it to me, and I will have it sent out. I wish to see it on your hand when we say our wedding vows.”
“All right. Certainly.”
“Why is it, Mademoiselle Stonewall, that I feel as though you no longer care for me? I lay awake last night, drinking glass after glass of wine, wondering, attempting to understand why you do not”—Griffe stopped Ophelia with a hand—“why you do not return my regard. Pour quoi?” He tried to rake his other hand through his mane, but it was so tangled that his fingers caught. “Everything seems to unravel. My plans, my hopes—crushed.”
Did killing Knight and Madame Dieudonné have anything to do with those plans? Ophelia shrugged Griffe’s hand off. They had stopped next to the rack of gardening tools.
“Three more animals had their throats torn out last night,” Griffe said, moving closer to Ophelia. “A cow and two sheep, near the village. The woodcutters, are they able to chop fast enough? The wilderness seems to encroach.”
Ophelia took a step back. She was just in front of the gardening tool rack now. Her poufy skirts bumped something, and the tools rattled.
“What is more,” Griffe said, “Banks has fallen deathly ill.”
“He has? What is the matter?”
“I would have guessed his heart—my own father was afflicted with a disease of the heart. I have seen the gasping for breath, the coughing, the ashen skin. He has taken to his bed and I have sent for a doctor. Mademoiselle Banks protested this, for she says this has occurred before, that it is not his heart, that he will recover within days. She cannot admit it to herself, even, that her dear papa might die soon. Ah, so much death in my home.” Griffe stepped still closer. Ophelia had no room left between herself and the gardening tools. Griffe brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.
“Count,” Ophelia said in a crisp voice, twitching away from his touch, “do the ladies of Château Vézère have, I mean to say, are they allowed to enjoy the family fortune? Does, for instance, your sister Bernadette have a fortune of her own?”
Griffe jerked back as though she’d slapped him. “Money, mademoiselle? Money?”
“Well, your sister’s money.”
“I do not believe it.” Griffe emitted a humorless bark. “But of course. These are questions your papa would have asked, no? And I would have in turn inquired what sort of fortune he meant to settle upon you when we married? Ah! Where is the sentiment romantique? I thought you desired me for love, but non. How could I forget the American spirit, so mercenary, ever bourgeois?”
He’d gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick. “Wait just a moment—”
“Not to worry, ma chérie.” The endearment sounded bitter now. “The women of this family have their own apportionments. You may spend what you wish, once we are married, just as my sister does.” Griffe checked his pocket watch. “I must go—mais, first . . .” He nudged himself against Ophelia, pushing her back against the gardening implements. His fleshy lips hovered over hers as he murmured, “I believe one kiss from by betrothed is my due.”
“Not till our wedding night.” Ophelia ducked under his arm. The pitchfork fell and clanged on the floor. She made a beeline for the door.
“I will make you love me,” he called after her.
She turned. “You cannot force love.”
“Non? Wait and see.”
Ophelia’s heart swelled with fury. But she would not panic.
She left the orangerie.
20
Bernadette did have access to her family’s money, then. How could Ophelia discover if she had bought out the Avignon–Lyon train route? Was there a way to, say, pry into her bank account? Di
d Bernadette have a bank account? As much as Ophelia hated to think it, it would probably be cleverest to simply await the train ticket offices’ responses to Penrose’s telegrams. Had he gone to town yet?
Ophelia loathed thumb-twiddling. Perhaps she ought to speak to Banks. After all, he was still on her list of suspects simply by virtue of being well-to-do.
But when she went to his bedchamber, the door was shut and there was no answer to her soft knock. He must have been sleeping, then. Well, he was ill.
What next? There was Abel, who’d been eavesdropping—and dribbling cake crumbs—in the library last night. Ophelia hiked up to his garret. The door was ajar, and she saw his dumpling-shaped form under the bedclothes, facing the wall.
“Still abed?” she said softly.
“Go away.” Abel didn’t turn.
“Are you sore with me?”
“No. Go away.”
“All right. But first”—Ophelia stepped into the chamber and shut the door—“first I would simply like to request that you do not mention anything that you may have overheard in the library last night, between Professor Penrose and me.”
“I cannot imagine to what you refer,” Abel mumbled into his pillow.
“I found cake crumbs behind the drapes.”
“What cake?”
“You aren’t fooling me. That was you last night.”
A pause. “Would you bring me a cup—no, a pot—of tea and some bread and butter and jam?”
“Most certainly not.” Ophelia was already out the door.
If Griffe was going out to meet the woodcutters, she might check his chamber for some sort of clue. Such as, oh, a receipt for a mountain of train tickets between Avignon and Lyon.
But in the family wing, Ophelia didn’t know which bedchamber was Griffe’s, and besides, every door was locked. Clémence came upon her, bed linens heaped in her arms, as Ophelia tried the last doorknob.
“Mademoiselle?” Clémence said.
“Oh.” Ophelia released the doorknob like a hot coal. “I was searching for a—another lavatory. The one near my own chamber has been occupied ever so long.” She mimed pulling the lavatory flush-cord.
Clémence shrugged and kept going. She did not speak or understand English. Would she tell Bernadette and Griffe that Ophelia had been snooping in the family wing? Without a doubt.
Breakfast, then. And after that, chew her fingernails and wait to hear from the ticket offices.
* * *
Gabriel felt old, older than his thirty-five years. Stiff limbs, quilt batting between the ears. Four cups of strong coffee had done nothing to remedy it. He’d passed a sleepless night, filled with sweating regret, snippets of Miss Flax’s words, and visions of Miss Ivy Banks’s reproachful pout.
Perhaps getting his hands on that jawbone—the jawbone that was likely the relic of a fairy-tale Beast—would make him feel fresh and spry again. He would make the briefest nip into the cook’s chamber to look for the jawbone before he rode into Sarlat to visit the telegraph office.
A window in the servants’ stairwell was ajar. Chopping sounds rang in the distance like flat, relentless tribal music.
Creaking on the stairs below made Gabriel pause. He turned. The stairway was empty to the landing. Beyond the landing, a stair tread sighed.
“Show yourself,” Gabriel called.
Silence. Then Tolbert edged into sight.
“What are you playing at?” Gabriel asked.
“I followed you, Lord Harrington. Following you always yields the most fascinating findings. Now, some would assume that you were simply seeking out a maidservant for a romp in a featherbed, but I know that set to your shoulders.”
“Do you, now.”
“The hunched-forward stance of a fanatic intent on his prize. My jawbone, is it not? Ah, I see from your expression that I am correct. Searching for it, where? Here in the servants’ quarters? Why?” Tolbert’s tongue flicked along his lower lip. “You believe a servant has it? One of the villagers?”
“You are entirely mistaken. I merely seek out someone to remove the soiled laundry from my chamber.”
“I am frankly insulted that you would expect me to believe such—what do you highborn English say?—ah, piffle.”
“We could stand about all day trading insults—and I must say it is tempting—but I’ve more pressing things to do.”
“Such as finding the jawbone—my jawbone.”
“Is it yours? I seem to recall that you denied its very existence.”
“You saw my sketch—stole a look at that, too. You are a thief, Lord Harrington. Such a nasty habit.”
Gabriel went up the rest of the stairs. Tolbert knew exactly what he, Gabriel, was doing here, so why not perform the search of the cook’s chamber while he had the opportunity? He went to the cook’s room. Open. Tolbert crowded in behind.
With Tolbert watching, Gabriel searched the chest of drawers. Nothing but garments. He peered under the bed. A colony of dust bunnies. He pawed through the drawer in the nightstand and even looked under the pillow and patted all over the quilts. Nothing.
Tolbert sneered. “How sad—is your day spoiled, Lord Harrington?” He pulled something from his jacket. A revolver. He cocked the hammer and took aim at Gabriel’s chest. “Leave the Vézère valley. Leave today, or I will kill you.”
Gabriel quickly assessed the tremor of Tolbert’s hand. If he hit Gabriel with a bullet, it would be through sheer luck. However, Tolbert was unbalanced. Unbalanced was dangerous. “Leave?” Gabriel asked. “Why?”
“I have made this region my place of study for the past two years, and you fancy you may simply burst in at the last moment and snatch away all that is mine? The miles I have walked, surveying the land in the hopes of sighting a fragment of a fossil or the clue to a cave’s entrance.” The revolver shook. “The rocks I have cracked open like a diamond slave. All of my study, sweat, and time has gone into this, and you, like the lord you are, hope to steal all of the credit? No.”
“I presume, Tolbert, that you do not refer only to the jawbone.”
“Ha! Attempting to trick me into revealing everything?”
“There is something more, isn’t there?” Gabriel said. The burning began again in his heart, the burning that had been eclipsed, for a few brief hours, by thoughts of love and Miss Flax. Gabriel knew the stories of the Yeti, the Loch Ness Monster, the furred man-beast of the American Rockies. Could it be that Tolbert wasn’t simply hunting for fossils but for a living relic? “What is out here in the hills, Tolbert? What, besides caves filled with paintings and fossils? What?”
“Ah, you perspire, Lord Harrington. Human after all, then.”
“You enjoy toying with human beings.”
“Human beings are of no interest to me.” Tolbert’s finger stroked the gun’s trigger. “They are so frightfully predictable, you see. Science, now, hard facts, those are truly alluring.”
“Science? Hard facts? You are dabbling in the stuff of fairy tales, man.”
“You believe this matter concerns fairy tales. I believe—no, I know—that I have discovered a missing link in the history of Mammalia. That, Lord Harrington, is more magical than any woman’s puerile story.”
“Why have you set up a shrine in that cave? Is that but a scientific experiment?” Gabriel detected nothing in Tolbert’s eyes. No honesty, no deceit. Only a wall.
“I saw the shrine of which you speak,” Tolbert said. “That was not my doing.”
“Then whose was it?”
“God knows. The peasants, perhaps—superstitious, inbred fools—or that teary mess, Mademoiselle Gavage. She is positively worshipful of the forest creatures, you realize.”
“What evidence have you?”
“I came upon her in the wood, singing a nursery song to a rabbit.”
That didn’t sound worshipful. T
hat sounded batty. Although, Gabriel had noted that Bernadette did not eat any meat.
Gabriel said, “I was told that you made off with a bone of the great fossil lizard megalosaurus that belongs to the natural history museum in Paris. That you kept the bone enshrined upon a pillow in your bedchamber—”
“Lies! I have enemies.” Tolbert regripped his pistol handle—his fingers must have been sweaty—and stepped closer. “Who told you that? One of your Oxford, how do you say, chums?”
“Never mind.” Gabriel pushed past Tolbert, into the corridor.
The young boy, Abel Christy, peeked out a door. “Lord Harrington?” he said, rubbing his eyes.
“Go into your chamber and lock the door,” Gabriel said.
Abel shut the door, and the latch clicked.
Gabriel turned to Tolbert. “You will go now, and take your damned gun with you. Go on, then. You would not shoot me.”
“I would.”
“No. You are a coward.”
Tolbert’s hooked little face turned purple. He clubbed Gabriel across the cheekbone with the gun’s butt.
Gabriel grabbed a fistful of Tolbert’s shirt. “Go,” he growled, and half threw, half pushed Tolbert towards the stairs.
“You will not have that bone!” Tolbert shrieked up the stairwell as he retreated. “You will not have any of my prize! Leave this valley, Lord Harrington, or you will never get out alive!”
Gabriel didn’t respond. He pressed fingers to his cheekbone. No broken skin, but it throbbed like the dickens. After a minute, he went downstairs, too.
* * *
If Tolbert did not have the jawbone, and the jawbone wasn’t in the cook’s chamber, then perhaps the cook had taken it elsewhere. Somewhere outside the château.
Gabriel went to the stables and found a freckle-faced stable boy napping in one of the stalls.
Gabriel rapped on a post.
“Oui, monsieur,” the stable boy said, struggling upright.
