Inside, Saint-Germain-des-Prés could have been mistaken for the slightly shabby sister of Sainte-Chapelle. Its painted columns were not so bright, its stained glass not quite so spectacular, but the hint of gloominess seemed to bathe Saint-Germain in an air of medieval authenticity. I pressed myself against the side of a column away from the door, and considered my next course of action. It came to me in a flash.
A meandering queue of devout elderly Parisian ladies, many with rosaries in their hands, led to the odd-shaped box that I recognized as a confessional, the means of that strange Roman sacrament long since banished from the Church of England. “Pardonnez-moi.” I shoved my way to the front of the queue. “Mon âme mortelle est en jeu.” I considered myself more or less fluent in French, but had never included the sacred in my studies of the language, so did the best I could in the circumstances, and hoped that the ready-to-be-forgiven queuing up could recognize my mortal soul was in dire straits. A few of the ladies raised their eyebrows, but for the most part, they hardly took notice of my intrusion. Never before had I reaped the benefit of the French inability to queue in an orderly fashion. My actions never would have been tolerated in London.
Now at the head of the queue, I had only to wait my turn to enter the box. My heart was racing. I turned around in time to see the auburn-haired man step into the church. I had to act. I pulled open the door to the confessional and stuck my head inside. “Allez vite, s’il vous plaît. Je suis désespérée!”
I will not soon forget the shocked expression on the face of the woman whom I had interrupted. Flabbergasted, she sputtered for a moment, then, as if she recognized the true state of my emergency—although mistaking it for one spiritual rather than physical—she crossed herself and vacated the space. I shut the door. A moment passed, and I heard rustling on the other side of the grille that separated me from the priest who was to hear my sins and absolve me.
“Bonjour, Père,” I began. “Mon français n’est pas bien…”
“That is no impediment, my child,” came the voice from beyond. “We can speak in your language. How long has it been since your last confession?”
“Oh, you speak English? How very lovely. I … I have never made a confession before. I’m afraid I’m Anglican.”
“Yet you have come to Saint-Germain-des-Prés in search of solace. What does that tell you?”
My stomach tied itself in knots. How could I lie to a priest? “The truth is, Father, I am in need of saving, but not in the way you think. A man was following me, and I was terrified—” A slight exaggeration, perhaps, but one that I think could be forgiven in the circumstances. “I knew I would be safe here.”
“Did he follow you into the church?”
“He did.”
“And this is why you disregarded the line?”
I squirmed on the hard, narrow bench, taking slim comfort in the fact that he could not see me. “Yes, Father.”
“I will help you, madame, but only if you first promise to make a good confession.”
“I—I—” I sighed. “All right.” I described for him the auburn-haired man, and he assured me he would personally see to his departure from the building. The priest’s door scraped as he opened it and again when he pushed it closed.
“Alors!” His voice echoed against the stone walls. “Faîtes attention! L’église est fermée. Partez!”
A low grumble filled the space, but the persistent sound of shuffling feet told me the faithful and the tourists were following the priest’s directions. Any moment now he would return. What on earth was I supposed to say then?
Estella
x
Once again, Estella was asleep when her captor made his descent down the ladder. This time, the sound of the trapdoor hardly disturbed her; instead, it was the light from his lantern that roused her. “You’re becoming something of a sloth.” He held the light out in front of him, illuminating her huddled form.
She shielded her eyes from the brightness. “What else is there for me to do?”
“Plenty now.” When he smiled, his face split in a manner reminiscent of a toad. He was broad, but tall enough to prevent the overall impression of him from veering entirely to the amphibian. “I have two books, a travel clock, and brioche, as well as another bottle of wine, plenty of water, two croissants, some ham and cheese, and, of course, the new cheque.”
“Of course. You will want me to sign posthaste.”
“If you would be so kind.”
She saw no use in delay.
While she bent over her pen, he removed the varied detritus from her cell—including dealing with the chamber pot—and then spread a worn tablecloth over the stone slab. “I thought this would brighten things a bit for you.”
“Flowers brighten things. Table linens that might be mistaken for rags … oh … it doesn’t matter.” She flung the cheque at him. He picked it up off the floor and placed the clock in the center of the tablecloth.
“I shall leave the rest to you. Do please try to forgive me, Mademoiselle Lamar. I promise this terrible situation is almost over.”
“Morning or evening?” Estella picked up the clock, which read six forty-five.
“Evening.” He looked around. “That should do until tomorrow, I think.”
“Please come as quickly as you can. It is difficult being here.” Her voice was strained and small and cut to the core of her captor’s soul. If only there had been some other way out of this mess! He bade her good night and made his way up the ladder.
Estella set the food out on the tablecloth, begrudgingly admitting to herself that the linen, shabby though it was, was preferable to bare stone. She took a swig of water and looked at the books he had left with her. The first, A Tale of Two Cities, by someone called Charles Dickens, put her off even before she had finished the first sentence: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. In her current predicament, she abhorred the implication that the worst might also be the best. She found the second book, a thick volume, much more appealing: Narrative of the Operations and Recent Discoveries within the Pyramids, Temples, Tombs, and Excavations in Egypt and Nubia, written by Giovanni Battista Belzoni. As I made my discoveries alone, I have been anxious to write my book by myself, though in so doing, the reader will consider me, and with great propriety, guilty of temerity …
This struck just the right chord with Estella. She had read about Egypt before—accounts from the Napoleonic explorations in a beautifully illustrated volume given to her by Cécile—but this man, this Giovanni Battista Belzoni, had explored Egypt’s mysteries alone, just as she now was alone. He would provide her the perfect solace. Temerity indeed! This was a man she could admire. She broke a brioche in two, placed between the halves a slice of ham and a chunk of cheese and nibbled at it as she started to read. By the time she became aware of a nagging sensation of thirst, she looked at the clock to discover that it was already past nine. Morning would descend upon her in no time if she kept reading.
Estella rejected the apples, not wanting to eat them whole—only a savage would eat fruit not cut up—but made another little sandwich out of brioche, ham, and cheese. She tugged the cork out of the wine and set the bottle next to her, so that she could reach it with ease, not having to remove her eyes from her book. The next time she checked, it was after midnight. She kept reading, and soon it was nearly three in the morning. Her lids heavy, her eyes so tired she could hardly decipher the words on the page, she wrapped up her food, turned off the lantern, and curled up on the slab, clutching the book close to her.
She woke with a start, but not because her captor had returned. The trapdoor remained closed, and darkness bathed her. She lit the lantern; it was nearly eleven o’clock. Surely he would not be much longer. Anxiety returned, unsettling her stomach and her nerves, tension taking stiff hold in her neck and her shoulders. She rubbed them aimlessly, and considered her remaining food, regretting that she had not eaten the croissants while they were fresh. She tore the end off one and was ple
ased to find it still good. She placed them both, along with a flask of water, on the slab, then hopped up next to them and opened her book.
The trapdoor still remained in place at five o’clock and Estella’s soul was becoming as frayed as her sad tablecloth. She could no longer read and had taken to pacing the length of her cell. He must not be coming for her. He would have the money by now—the banks were already closed. She clutched at her chest, fear pounding through her veins. He had left her here to die. The stone walls seemed to close in around her. Her hands flew to her throat. She could hardly breathe. Sobbing, she sank to the floor and remained there until she slipped into a stupor. She stared at the lantern’s flickering flame. When she moved again, it was nearly seven o’clock in the evening.
Now it was time to accept her fate. Death had started its inevitable march. She cleared away her food and drink, smoothed the tablecloth, and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. Taking with her the copy of Belzoni’s magnificent book, she climbed onto the slab, arranged her skirts and the cloak carefully, and held the book on her chest. Confident that arrangement of her limbs, at least, was as serene as the most beautiful medieval effigy, she closed her eyes. The lamp, still on the floor, continued to burn. She thought she might as well have light for a while longer.
When she heard the heaving of the trapdoor’s hinges, her heart nearly stopped. She had been prepared for a prolonged death, but could his plans be more gruesome than that? She remained as still as possible, holding the book tight against her, and squeezed her eyes shut. She could hear him struggling with something and then the sound of something hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Apologies for the disturbance, Mademoiselle Lamar, but we have a problem.”
11
All things considered, the priest let me off lightly. He steered me deftly through the Ten Commandments—I did not fail to notice what could only be described as a sigh of relief when I assured him I had not violated the fifth and can only say in my defense that while I would have expected that implied judgment stemming from my having cut the queue had I been in England, to find it in one of Gallic sensibilities was a surprise—and assured me the penance he assigned was next to nothing. I was not, however, released without a stern lecture on my attitude about the fourth commandment. Obviously, the holy man had never met my mother.
When I was ready to leave the church, he exited in advance of me, and searched the place Saint-Germain-des-Prés for the auburn-haired man. Assuring me the miscreant was nowhere in sight, he insisted on ushering me across the street and to Cécile’s house. He refused my friend’s offer of refreshment, reminded her that he looked forward to seeing her at Sunday mass, and wished me all the best. I thanked him profusely for his assistance.
Colin paced as I recounted my story. “It is a stroke of luck that his hair color makes him easy to spot.”
“The mustache is a sight to behold.” Jeremy handed me a glass of port and I did not refuse it. People of quality might insist that it was a sin—venial, perhaps, but a sin nonetheless—to take port before dinner, but I felt the circumstances justified my choice of beverage. “He certainly stands out in a crowd.”
“That works to our benefit.”
“Monsieur Hargreaves, you must stop pacing. I am growing dizzy watching you.”
Colin honored Cécile’s request, but did not sit. He leaned against the wall, crossing his feet at his ankles and his arms across his broad chest. Brutus tugged at the hem of his trousers, wanting to play. Colin removed the little creature and, as Caesar already occupied Cécile’s, dropped him onto my lap. “My contacts here in Paris have written up the necessary authorizations to give us access to Monsieur Pinard’s records. Scotland Yard report having identified a deposit of £10 into Mary Darby’s bank account from one belonging to Mademoiselle Lamar—”
“Our connection!”
“Yes, Emily. Our connection. I am afraid, Cécile, this suggests your friend may be embroiled in something most troubling.”
“Do you believe her to be in danger?”
“That is impossible to know at the moment,” Colin replied. “I hope Monsieur Pinard’s records will elucidate the matter. That Mademoiselle Lamar is involved cannot be denied. Cécile has studied every letter purported to have been penned by Estella that is currently in our possession. Each of them—the one to Worth, the ones the servants have received, and even a handful sent to Mr. Bennett—appear to match what Cécile recognizes as her friend’s handwriting. It is not a scientific conclusion and we must still bear in mind that all of these documents could be forgeries.”
“My own analysis of the photos sent by Mr. Bennett is equally unsatisfying. Estella’s face is obscured in every single one of them.” I consulted my notebook. “They are always taken in front of a well-known monument—the Taj Mahal, the pyramids at Giza, the Acropolis—and show Estella from a distance, which renders her features all but unrecognizable. Her hair is always dark enough, her figure of the right proportions, but none of them constitute what could be described as a reliable record.”
“Other than having found a most excellent cravat at a charming shop in the rue de Rivoli, I was not useful in the least today.” Jeremy slouched in his chair. “I warn you to expect much the same tomorrow.”
“That will not be allowed.” I tore a page from my notebook and handed it to him. “This is a list of all the people cited as living in Paris who were quoted in Mr. Bennett’s articles about Estella. They each purport to have seen her abroad. Find out their addresses, call on them, and determine exactly what they know about her.”
“I shall accompany you, Bainbridge,” Cécile said. “Between the two of us, there is not a house in the city to which we will not be able to gain admission.”
By the time dinner was announced, we had our strategies for the following day mapped in detail, and were welcoming the prospect of an evening spent in the genial company of our friends. We dined well—Cécile would stand for nothing less—and took port and cigars in the library, where I presented Jeremy with a copy of Great Expectations. I should not have been surprised Cécile owned an English edition; she deplored reading in translation. Jeremy made an admirable show of reading it, at least until he nodded off over the book. When at last we retired to bed, I was anticipating a pleasant interlude with my husband, and on this count Colin never disappointed. I felt as if I had been asleep for only a few minutes when I started at the sound of tapping on our bedroom door.
Colin, in a swift movement—the man moves with graceful ease even when half asleep—leapt from the bed and slid into his dressing gown. “Our servants at home know better than to disturb us in the middle of the night. A little earlier and this intrusion would have caused quite a scene.”
On the other side of the door stood one of Cécile’s footmen, his white wig askew on his head and his livery jacket pulled over his nightclothes. “Delivery for Lady Emily, sir. Urgent, I imagine, or it wouldn’t have been left at this hour.”
Colin nodded his thanks and took from the man a package of indeterminate shape. He closed the door, deposited it on a table, and flipped on the lights. I had remained abed, the blankets pulled up to my chin, and now reached for my own dressing gown. Standing beside my husband, I started to open the parcel. Colin looked at me as if about to issue a caution, then raised his hands as if helpless. “I suppose you may as well.”
I had identified the contents almost the moment I had approached the table. The long shape, coupled with the loosely wrapped tissue paper, gave away the game. “Flowers.” White lilies spilled out of the paper when I tore it. I wrinkled my nose. “We shall be overwhelmed by the scent.” I gathered them up, ready to fling them from the nearest window—although knowing I would regret the action not only for having discarded what might be a clue, but also for the mess that would greet the gardener in the morning—and saw an envelope beneath them. I slit it open and pulled out a small card with a simple typewritten message:
I KNOW WHERE TO FIND YOU.
“It would have been impossible to prevent. You succeeded at protecting yourself and not allowing him to confront you when you were alone. There was nothing else to be done in the circumstances.”
We summoned the sleepy servant, who told us that neither he, nor anyone else in the house, had caught sight of the person who had left the mysterious package. The first—and only—indication of his arrival had been the bell from the front door that awakened the footman. By the time he opened the door, there was no one there. The parcel had been left on the stoop.
“I did not delay, but had to dress in some fashion before going downstairs. You saw for yourself, Monsieur Hargreaves, that I had not dallied over my toilette.” He was emphatic on this point. “I am most sorry for not having been quicker. Had I arrived more rapidly, I might have seen something.”
“Do not trouble yourself with such thoughts,” Colin said. “It is almost certain that the individual carrying the flowers deposited them, rang the bell, and fled immediately. He did not want to be seen.”
The footman had collected the flowers from where I had placed them in the corridor and I reached to take them from him. “What time is it?” I asked.
“After three in the morning,” my husband replied.
“These are quite fresh. I wonder what time deliveries to the markets begin.”
“There are no markets open right now, Emily.”
“I am well aware of that, but it is conceivable that suppliers may have already started gathering their wares.” Colin took the flowers from me, returned them to the footman, whom he dismissed, and, once our door was closed again, guided me back to bed, first discarding what he referred to as my redundant dressing gown. “If we are forced to be awake at this hour, we are not going to spend our time discussing flower merchants.”
The Counterfeit Heiress: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries) Page 13
