Louisiana History Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  Elene sprang up from the table. If she was right, then something must be done, now, tonight. If it was not, then the killer would surely strike at Ryan again, and next time might succeed.

  The night had turned colder after the rain, with a biting wind tunneling down the streets. She was not prepared for such a weather change, and she hugged her shawl around her. She was grateful for that much. It was the purest luck that she had remembered that Devota had thrown the wraps they had worn earlier over a rack in the laundry to dry. She could not have retrieved one from Ryan’s bedchamber. Devota was still there, and her maid would have made a great noise about her leaving the house if she had discovered that was what she meant to do. She had left a note on her pillow to ease Devota’s mind if she found her gone, but prayed she would be back before it was found.

  The streets were dark, lighted only by the lanterns on their ropes slung across the streets. The way was not long, however, and soon the inn loomed before her.

  Germaine opened the door to her knock. Elene gave the quadroon woman as pleasant a smile as she could muster. “May I come in?”

  “It’s very late, mam’zelle — for visiting.”

  “I will only be a moment.”

  It was difficult to see the face of Flora Mazent’s maid with the light coming from a candelabrum in the room behind her; still, Elene thought the bones had grown sharper since last she had seen her. As the woman inclined her head and stepped back, there was a stiff” reluctance in her movements, but also a shading of resignation.

  Flora Mazent rose from where she was sitting on a settee with a novel in marble covers in her hand. “Why, Elene,” the girl said brightly, “how nice to see you.”

  “Please forgive the intrusion, but I have come on a matter of importance, and I believe you may be able to help me.”

  “Really?” The girl indicated a chair across from the settee and resumed her seat, waiting with interest and expectation on her plain features.

  How to begin? Elene had made no plan. The only thing she could think of was to plunge into it. “You told me once that your father had arranged a marriage for you before his death. I wonder if you would give me the name of the bridegroom?”

  Color flooded the girl’s face. She opened her mouth as if she would answer, then looked around her and jumped to her feet. “I haven’t offered you refreshment, have I? Where is Germaine? She will bring us coffee or perhaps tafia or wine. What would you prefer?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “Oh, please, you must have something warming. You look chilled.”

  “Coffee with milk then.” Anything to get back to the subject that consumed her.

  “Yes, it does sound good. Germaine!”

  The maid had left the room, going into the bedchamber. Flora did not wait for the woman to answer her call, but went with quick steps from the room to find her. There came the faint sound of their voices through the half-open door, then a moment later, Flora came back into the parlor.

  The girl had regained something of her composure in her brief absence. As she resumed her seat, she said, “Now where were we — oh, yes, my fiancé. Your question is very personal, isn’t it? Perhaps if you will tell me why you want to know?”

  “I believe it may have a bearing on the deaths among those of us from Saint-Domingue.”

  “Oh, dear.” The girl waited, her hands folded in her lap like a child who has been well schooled in manners.

  “This man, I am almost certain, is directly involved. It would be of enormous help if you would give me his name.”

  Flora stared until her eyes began to water, then looked slowly down at the floor. Quietly she spoke. “It is — was — Durant Gambier.”

  Relief washed over Elene in a wave. She had known it must be so; still, there had been a lingering doubt. Durant had lied, or at least, misrepresented the truth. It was possible that, because no betrothal ceremony had been performed before witnesses, no contract signed, he had not considered himself bound. It was clear, however, that Flora thought otherwise.

  Taking a deep breath, Elene squared her shoulders. “This evening, someone tried to kill Ryan. A praline vendor sold him poisoned candy. The reason for this, I think, was because he was to meet Durant Gambier on the field of honor.”

  “But that’s terrible. Do you mean M’sieur Gambier—”

  “No. Durant has too much pride to stoop to such measures to defeat an opponent. I believe it happened because someone was concerned that Ryan might best Durant with a sword as he had before, might actually kill him.”

  The girl blinked. “It’s so … so unlikely. People don’t do such things.”

  “Some do, especially those who have learned that death is an easy solution. Only consider Serephine.”

  “You mean the woman who came here with M’sieur Gambier?”

  “His mistress, yes.”

  “But … what has she to do with anything?”

  “Durant was fond of her, perhaps more fond than he knew. They had been together for years, had raised a son to an age to send to school in France. If there was a problem with Durant’s marriage plans, it might have been because Serephine represented another possible impediment to the nuptials. And so Serephine had to die.”

  “I can’t believe—”

  “And then there was your father.”

  “Please, don’t,” Flora said, her face crumpling with distress. “I would rather not speak of that.”

  “I’m afraid we must, though I am somewhat mystified about his death. I can only assume that once more it was caused by the snag in your marriage arrangements. Possibly it was something your father discovered, or something he said to Durant, that caused the breach. I can’t think what it might have been; even to me it seems a flimsy cause for murder.

  However, there was a large sum of money involved. Durant’s affluence was not in evidence on the ship, but appeared about the time these negotiations for your hand in marriage began. It appears that instead of borrowing on his estates, not an easy thing, he may have accepted a loan from your father on the strength of the proposed engagement. At any rate, it seems almost certain that your father’s history of stomach disorders suggested an easy manner of either shutting his mouth before he could do more damage, or possibly of revenge.”

  Flora’s pale eyes were wide, staring. At the sound of the door opening as Germaine returned with their refreshment, she jumped up in such obvious relief that Elene felt the stir of pity.

  The next few minutes were filled with pouring out the steaming hot coffee, adding hot milk for Elene and milk and sugar for Flora. The smell of the brew was delicious in the cool air, and the feel of the cup so welcome in Elene’s cold hands that she sat holding it between them. There was in her mind a reluctance to drink, but the coffee and milk for both Flora and herself had come from the same containers so that it was unlikely to be dangerous. The coffee, as she took a cautious sip, was smooth and mellow, without a trace of bitterness. She avoided the small cakes that had been brought on the tray, however.

  Flora swallowed a mouthful of her coffee as if in need of its strength. She drank again. “Everything you have said seems to have come from your imagination. You can’t expect people to pay attention unless you have proof.”

  “True, and I have none. I must go to the authorities, of course, but I have no idea whether they will act on what I say. My best hope is that if the person becomes aware someone suspects, the murders will stop.”

  “How very magnanimous.”

  The girl’s tone was strained, but then her father had been killed. In answer to the implied criticism, Elene said, “What I want most is to protect others who might become victims, particularly those I love.”

  “You are very lucky. I think … I think perhaps Durant Gambier was not a suitable husband for me after all.”

  There seemed no answer to that. Elene took another sip of her coffee to cover the pause. After a moment, she said, “There is still Hermine’s death.”

  Flora
sighed, rousing herself. “Yes, what of it?”

  “I think … I’m almost sure she died because of something she said on the night we all went to the vauxhall. If you will remember, she spoke of using arsenic to keep her skin pale. While she was talking, she looked at another woman there, and it was almost as if she knew they shared a secret. I think they did. I think Hermine knew, because of the look on her face, that the other woman used arsenic, too.”

  Flora looked from the dregs of coffee she swirled in the bottom of her cup to Elene’s face, then down again. “You are speaking of—”

  “Let me tell you something that happened,” Elene interrupted her. “I had been shopping, taking the evening air along the river yesterday afternoon. As I returned toward the rooms where I was staying with Durant, I met a vendor of pralines, a pretty quadroon. She was dressed with a certain bright, cheap stylishness, with a red turban and gold earrings. Her face was painted with white lead and there was carmine on her lips and cheeks, but the skin underneath was creamy and fine, pale enough, almost, to be white. There was one thing more about her that I didn’t notice at the time for the smell of the street and the poisoned pralines she carried — and perhaps because it was so familiar to me. It was her perfume. She was wearing my perfume, the scent made by Devota and myself.”

  Flora made no answer. She only sat listening, watching Elene from under her lashes, her gaze intent. Elene drank the last of her coffee and set the cup aside. She went on. “Later, this evening in fact, I remembered that scent. I also recalled a woman who had begged me to sell her some of it, a woman I had been forced to refuse. With these memories I put the fact that, on the night of Durant’s soiree, the last bottle of this unusual perfume was stolen.”

  “How very clever of you.”

  “Not at all. It was just that I was able to recognize what others might not.” Elene’s tone was flat. She waited.

  Flora pursed her lips. “I see. I suppose you came to some conclusion?”

  “I did. I came to the conclusion, Flora, that the quadroon who sold the pralines was you.”

  A sound left the girl that was something between a laugh and the expelled air of a blow. “Oh, but I thought — that’s ridiculous!”

  “You thought I was accusing Germaine. It was what you hoped anyone would think, if the praline seller fell under suspicion.”

  “But I’m not a quadroon!”

  “No, not precisely.” Elene gazed at the other girl with clear and steady understanding. Elene was of the islands where mixed blood was a constant possibility, one which could be detected in myriad small ways, in the slight fullness of a mouth or broad base of a nose, the texture of skin and hair or sound of a voice. The sum of such small clues meant much to those familiar with them, those with reason to look for them.

  Flora straightened, and the retiring air she wore fell away from her like a veil. A smile curved her soft lips that gave them a cruel twist, making her seem much older than she usually looked. She patted the knot of her blonde hair with its crinkling waves and laughed, a soft sound of virulent satisfaction that raised the hair on the back of Elene’s neck. Her movements suddenly supple rather than awkward, languid in their grace, she put down her coffee cup and reached to take a cake, biting it with sensual pleasure.

  “I may as well tell you,” the girl said, leaning back on the settee. “I am an octoroon, almost as white as you. Germaine is my mother, of course. As for what happened to that stupid cow, Hermine, she brought it on herself. She knew my father in Saint-Domingue, and I’m certain she knew about me. That night at the vauxhall she was laughing at me, almost telling me in front of everybody that she knew my secret. Killing her was ridiculously easy; I only had to visit her and give the arsenic to her in chocolate. Naturally, I had to give her more than a normal person since she was used to it, but no one would think anything of it if the way she died was discovered. And they didn’t. She was buried as a suicide, wasn’t she?”

  “But you killed your own father! How could you?” That was the question that had haunted Elene, making what she had thought seem so impossible.

  “Papa was an honorable man, too honorable. On Saint-Domingue, I was betrothed twice — men are attracted to me and I like them, so it was easy to arrange. Each time, papa took the man who wanted to marry me aside before the wedding and told him the truth. The men withdrew, and who could blame them? I couldn’t allow that to happen again, could I? I had been taking steps to prevent it even before we had to leave the island. Papa’s stomach, you know, the cause was arsenic, a slow and sure death that would seem natural. I used my own powder, the same I took every week. Then came Durant. He was so handsome, so much the gentleman. I couldn’t take the chance that Papa would tell him. I just couldn’t.”

  “Then poor Serephine was also in the way.”

  Flora’s face hardened. “I took the chance of killing Papa in haste for nothing. When he was dead, Durant told me he didn’t care to marry after all. He had taken money from Papa I thought, though he denied it. Anyway, he had what he wanted, so why should he wed me? He mentioned his attachment to his mistress, but I think it was only something to say. I think what he really wanted was to marry you. I knew it when you moved into his rooming house the minute Bayard left you. It was necessary to kill both Serephine and you.”

  “So you sold Serephine chocolate bonbons.”

  “And you pralines. It took a while to think how to give the poison to you since you don’t care for chocolate. It didn’t work nearly as well to cover the taste, did it? That was my mistake.”

  The conversational tone of the girl’s voice, as if the topic was one of ordinary interest, made the hairs rise along Elene’s arms. Skirting the question, she said, “But even if I had died, what made you think Durant would go back to you?”

  “The perfume. You were right, I stole it at the party. Germaine said it had the power to drive men mad with desire. When I use it again with Durant, he will be mine. After he has had me, he will be captivated, anyway. I told you, men are attracted to me.”

  In me bright-colored guise of the praline seller, Flora had been seductive, even amazingly pretty. However, the way she dressed and wore her hair, the washed-out colors she affected as Mazent’s daughter, gave her so plain an appearance that her conceit over her looks was ludicrous, her assurance of her attraction for men a bizarre fallacy. Elene had felt it without clearly recognizing it that night at the vauxhall when Flora had insisted the Americans were watching her. So had Josie, which was why the actress had laughed at her. It was a great wonder Josie was alive.

  Elene got to her feet, gathering her shawl that she had allowed to slip from her arms back around her. “I don’t think there is any more to be said, except this. You failed to kill Ryan, just as you failed to kill me. The duel is in the morning and will, it seems, be held has planned. There is no way you will be able to harm Ryan further since we will all be on our guard. I suggest you not interfere, but let happen what may.”

  “Good advice, I don’t doubt,” the girl said with derision. “What a pity you will never know the outcome.”

  Elene was on the point of turning away. She swung back sharply. “What do you mean?’

  “Germaine, as you so carefully figured out, is my mother. It has not been so long since she discovered what her daughter has been doing, only since Serephine died, but she has my best interests at heart still. I told her to put arsenic in your coffee cup. She has the habit, you know, of obeying me implicitly, as a servant should obey her mistress.”

  It was natural for Elene to place her hand on her abdomen where her child rested. There was in that region a little queasiness not unknown at this time of day, but no cramping, no real nausea. Not yet.

  “Why?” she asked in puzzlement. “You must know I am no longer with Durant. You saw Ryan take me away this morning.”

  “It’s always possible Durant will kill Ryan and turn to you again. Besides, I don’t think you have told anyone what you know, such as Ryan or your Devota, or th
ey would be here with you. It will be just as well, then, that you don’t have the chance to—”

  Flora broke off at the opening of the door. Her face froze into a mask of shocked surprise as Germaine walked into the room followed by Ryan, and also Durant. She sprang to her feet, then stood wavering, uncertain.

  “Sit down, my love,” Germaine said, going to her, taking her hand, drawing her back down upon the settee as she seated herself beside her.

  Ryan moved with swift strides toward Elene and took her in his arms. They closed warm and safe around her. She stood there a long moment, leaning against his strength, savoring his comfort, before she stepped back to look into his face. “The coffee, there was—”

  “There was nothing in your coffee,” he said, the words deep-voiced, sure.

  “You don’t understand. I have to get home, home to Devota—”

  “There was nothing in the coffee,” he repeated, “at least, not in yours.”

  Elene stared into the deep blue of his eyes. Slowly she turned her head toward Flora. Flora looked at her with wide eyes, then shifted her gaze to Ryan, and beyond him to where Durant stood in stiff dismay with his face flushed. By infinitesimal degrees the girl moved her head until she was staring at her mother.

  She screamed.

  There was ancient sorrow in Germaine’s face as she took her daughter into her arms, rocking her gently. A sob caught in her voice. “I couldn’t let you do it, my love, not again, not anymore. It was wrong, so wrong. We made a mistake, your papa and I, bringing you into a world like this, but it was a mistake of love. You shouldn’t have killed him. I loved him so much. Just as I love you. Just as I love you.”

  Silence gathered in the room. Abruptly Flora stiffened, throwing her head back.

  “Devota,” Elene said urgently, “someone must go for Devota!”

  Ryan shook his head. “Too late, I think. Just as it would have been too late for you.”

  How long had they talked, she and Flora? Long enough. There had been no natural nausea of pregnancy to make the girl’s stomach instantly reject the vileness. She whispered, “We have to do something.”