The Counterfeit Heiress: A Lady Emily Mystery (Lady Emily Mysteries)

by Tasha Alexander

He clasped my arm and continued to search the floor. “Here.” He handed me the lantern and went to work with the crowbar, but found the tool unnecessary. The stone was false, nothing more than a theatrical prop attached to hinges. Colin lifted it with ease. The sight—and sounds—of what greeted us will haunt me until my dying day.

  “You have kept me waiting longer than I would have liked, Monsieur Jones,” a reedy voice called from below. “I do hope you have my macarons.”

  22

  My feet stuck to the floor of the tomb as if the icy fingers of Death himself were gripping my ankles. Colin took the lantern from my hand and, lying flat on the ground, held it down into the crypt. “What are you up to, Monsieur Jones? I do not like this, not one bit. You ought not come to me this late at night! What if I had been sleeping? As you’re here you may as well lower the ladder and bring me my macarons. I have decided not to go to the Côte d’Ivoire, and Miss Hexam is quite in agreement. She thinks it a tedious sort of place where there are unlikely to be nice pâtisseries.”

  “Mademoiselle Lamar?” Colin called down to her. “We are here to rescue you. Monsieur Jones will not hurt you anymore.”

  Sounds of whimpers and scampering came from below. “Who are you? Go away. Bring me Monsieur Jones. You should not be here disturbing me.”

  I crouched over the trapdoor, observing that a sturdy stone ledge, which stood out two inches from the hole in the floor, supported it from below. “Mademoiselle, I come on behalf of Cécile du Lac, your dear friend, who has been searching for you. She is most worried—”

  “I told her to leave me be! Go and fetch Monsieur Jones!”

  Colin and I stepped away from the opening in the floor. “Did you see her?” I asked. “It’s like Miss Havisham gone, well, more mad.” Estella’s hair, which reached almost to the floor, was a mass of untamed gray, her face more pale than that of a corpse, and she appeared to be able to move only with great difficulty. “What should we do?”

  “We need a ladder. I have the keys from the custodian—no doubt we can find something of use among the gravediggers’ supplies. They would need something to enable them to reach these crypts.”

  “We cannot leave her here. What if Mr. Jones is lurking outside? He is certain to kill her now that she has identified him to us.”

  “I agree. You take the lantern. I will stay outside and guard the door from nearby. We should tell her … something.”

  I went back to the little door. “Mademoiselle! We are going for help—”

  “I want Monsieur Jones and my macarons, you young wretch. You have no business disturbing me in my home.”

  These words cut into me like none had before. Her home? “I shall look for Mr. Jones, mademoiselle. Do not disturb yourself. I am sure he will be along with your macarons shortly.” This seemed to calm her. She was sitting in a chair, a thick blanket wrapped around her, and reached down to the floor—carpeted—on which lay a book. She lifted it to her lap and adjusted the lamp on the small table that stood next to her chair.

  “Get yourself gone. I am trying to read.”

  Colin lowered the trapdoor. “Do you think you can find your way back to Bainbridge?”

  “Yes. Need I remind you of my excellent sense of direction?” I thought a lighthearted comment best for the extremely unusual circumstances in which we now found ourselves. We stepped out of the tomb, and Colin embraced me, his arms firm and strong.

  “Take care, my dear. We do not know where Jones may be lurking. If anyone approaches you, scream like the devil himself has you. I will come at once.” He kissed me, then handed me the lantern.

  “I do not like leaving you here in the dark,” I said.

  “Do not trouble yourself. I look forward to another encounter with our villain. He did not fight fair the last time we met—I mean to level the balance when I see him again.”

  I followed the cobbled street, moving with deliberate care because the lantern illuminated only the space immediately around me. When I came to a street sign, I lifted the light. AVENUE TRANSVERSALE NO. 1. Somewhere, I had taken a wrong turn and wound up north of where I had intended. Remembering that each of the avenues Transverales in the cemetery ran perpendicular to the chapel, I headed east until I could turn to the south. This choice proved ill made as well, as I wound up—how, I could not imagine—once again on the Chemin du Dragon. It was time to consult my map.

  I studied it, but to little use. The streets were so narrow, and I was certain they were not all on the map. Although I am assured that is not the case, anyone who has struggled to find her way through Père-Lachaise in broad daylight will understand all too well how difficult, nigh impossible, it is to do on a moonless night. I folded the map, returned it to my reticule, and was about to set off again when a sound startled me, a rustling of sorts, but there was no wind to blow leaves. I felt the uncomfortable prickle of being watched, but there was no sign of anyone in the vicinity. Could Mr. Jones be hiding in one of the nearby tombs? I steeled myself, ready to confront him, and relaxed only when the swoop of bats above my head made me realize their wings had been the source of the sound.

  The tombs, with their peaked roofs and ornate decoration, had charmed me during the day, drawing me into the stories of their inhabitants, and the cemetery had seemed a romantic, wonderful place. Now, though, carved skulls and winged creatures danced in the moving light of my lantern, and the squeals of nocturnal animals—owls, rodents, and I know not what else—menaced me. I had begun to feel bats circling above me almost without ceasing, but whenever I looked up to see them, they were not there, and I suspected my mind was falling prey to the evil atmosphere that now seized Père-Lachaise.

  When I found the avenue St. Morys, I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that following this road south would take me directly to the chapel, and soon I reached it. My friends were no longer on the bench in front of the building, and I began to panic when I could not find them. I placed the lantern on the ground, not trusting my shaking hand to keep hold of it, and lowered myself to the bench, where I would—somehow—force myself to regain my composure and decide how to best proceed.

  No sooner had I drawn a single deep breath than Jeremy came bounding toward me. “Em! Are you all right? Where is Hargreaves?”

  “Where is Cécile?”

  “She’s in the chapel. This place is creepy in the dark, Em, and I could tell being outside and surrounded by tombs and death was taking a toll on her. The door to the building was unlocked, so I thought we might as well sit inside.”

  “We mustn’t leave her alone.” My concern was unnecessary. Cécile had already left the chapel and was upon us in an instant. “We have found Estella,” I said. Cécile closed her eyes and sighed. As she lifted her handkerchief to her face, I reached for her hand. “She is not dead.”

  “Non? This is excellent news—”

  “It is not quite that,” I said. “It appears she has been living, all this time, in the crypt of a tomb.” My friends stood, their faces slack with horror, as I described for them what Colin and I had found. “We must go at once and find a ladder.” From the chapel, getting to the Garde-Partier, where we had met the custodian, was simple enough—all we had to do was cut over to the avenue Principale and walk in a straight line. I did my best to keep everyone’s spirits up, suggesting that, once we had rescued Estella, we might as well take advantage of the moonless night to see if the skulls on Mr. Robertson’s grave did, in fact, dance.

  When we reached the main gates of the cemetery, Jeremy insisted that we summon the police before doing anything else. I did not want to leave Colin alone in the dark, vulnerable to Mr. Jones, but I could not argue that Jeremy’s plan was a wise one. My husband had given me the gate key entrusted to him by the custodian, and we let ourselves out, crossed the boulevard de Ménilmontant, and shouted for help. We did not see a policeman, but a waiter at a café, who had come forward to see who was causing the commotion—and, he admitted later, to scold us for disturbing his customers if we were not
in dire straits—agreed to call the police and have them meet us at the entrance to Père-Lachaise.

  That done, we returned to the cemetery. “One of us needs to wait for the police,” I said. “It cannot be me, for I alone know how to find Colin, and I will not delay getting back to him.”

  “I want to see Estella,” Cécile said. “From everything you have said, Kallista, it is clear she is in a dangerous frame of mind. I am the only one among us known to her. I must try whatever I can to help her. Furthermore, Jeremy would never allow one of us to wait here, alone and unprotected.”

  “I don’t much like the idea of the two of you setting off without me. If Jones—”

  “From what Estella said, it does not sound like he made a habit of coming to her this late at night. I do not anticipate any problems.” I did not feel entirely confident in this statement, but said it with force, and, as I have found on many other occasions, speaking in such a manner often persuades one’s audience to believe one, regardless of the facts.

  “Other than those problems one ordinarily expects to face in cemeteries in the middle of the night,” Cécile said. The flash in her eyes told me she was back to herself. We opened the guard’s house, and in a small back room found a ladder that, between the two of us, we could carry without too much difficulty. Before we left him, I showed Jeremy on the map where the tomb was in section 28, but I could not leave it with him in case Cécile and I lost our way. There was a large board with a plan of the cemetery near the entrance, and he said he would study it while he waited for the police.

  The ladder made it impossible for us to move quickly. I had tied the lantern to a rung so that we could—more or less—see where we were going, and we started up the avenue Principale, I holding the front, Cécile in the back. This return trip was far less frightening than the one I had made by myself. Cécile, bolstered by the knowledge that her friend was alive, made little jokes and twice tried to scare me. Her efforts, much to her despair, failed. When we turned onto the street that held the Godeau tomb—carefully, as navigating narrow spaces with a lengthy ladder requires a certain degree of skill—we fell silent, listening for sounds of struggle. There were none. Soon I recognized my husband’s footsteps on the cobbles. He untied the lantern and took the ladder from us.

  Cécile rubbed her hands. “These gloves are entirely ruined. I see now, Kallista, why the undertaking of work in a cemetery requires something far heavier.” She gave Colin a kiss on each cheek. “You have found my friend.”

  “Emily is the one who spotted the tomb.”

  “Any sign of Mr. Jones?” I asked.

  “None, but I think we should operate on the assumption that he could appear at any moment. Let’s not dawdle.”

  Back inside the stone structure, I opened the trapdoor in the floor and was immediately greeted by Estella’s raspy voice.

  “Monsieur Jones, is that you? I am being harassed by some young people—you must make them go away if you see them.”

  “Estella, chérie, it is Cécile. I have come to pay you a visit. Monsieur Jones assured me you would be most pleased to see me. May I come down?”

  “Cécile, did you not receive my letter? I do not wish to be disturbed. My travels keep me so very busy, I have not time—”

  “We have brought you information about the Côte d’Ivoire,” I said. “Cécile made the acquaintance of a gentleman who has only just returned from there, and he would like to speak to Miss Hexam about her concerns about the lack of bakeries.”

  “Would he, now?” came the voice from below. “You may come down, Cécile, but only for a moment. My train leaves in the morning and I must be ready to get to the station.”

  Colin lowered the ladder into the crypt and held it steady while Cécile stepped onto it. I waited until she was halfway down to follow. Estella—and, one must presume, Mr. Jones—had fitted out the crypt with once-fine Persian rugs. Tapestries with medieval hunting scenes covered the stone walls. A bookcase at one end held at least a dozen dolls and a profusion of books. There were two lamps, casting a dim yellow light over everything. Against one wall stood a large stone sarcophagus with a flat, slablike top. It had been made up like a bed. I shuddered. The entire space smelled of damp and mildew and unwashed body.

  Estella cowered in her chair, her breathing coming ragged and hard. “I do not like being disturbed like this. Why have you come, Cécile, when I asked you not to?”

  If Cécile felt any horror at the sight of her friend, she did not show it. Estella flinched when she tried to take her hand. “Now I will have none of that, chérie.” Cécile picked up an ivory-backed hairbrush that, along with the rest of a dresser set, was on a trunk at the end of the room opposite the bookcase. “You cannot travel with your hair such a mess. What will Mademoiselle Hexam say when she returns?”

  “Do you know Mademoiselle Hexam, Cécile? She did not tell me.”

  Cécile began to brush Estella’s hair, getting out the worst of the knots and then braiding it and coiling the thick rope on top of her head, fastening it in place with pins she pulled from her own hair. The act had a calming effect on Estella, but it was short-lived, as a commotion from above signaled the arrival of Jeremy and the police. She knocked the brush out of Cécile’s hand with a force I would not have expected, sending it flying across the crypt. “Who is that, now?” Her eyes were wild. With great effort she pushed herself out of the chair. Once on her feet, she started for the trunk. Her every movement was labored; her strength had wasted away from years of hardly using her limbs. She bent down over the trunk, removed the dresser set, and raised the lid, pulling out a shredded piece of dark blue velvet that looked as if it had once been a cloak. Cowering in a corner, she wrapped the tattered remains of the garment around her.

  Cécile approached her, but Estella shrieked, begging her to stop and go away, all the while sobbing hysterically and clawing with bent fingers at the air around her. I climbed the ladder until my head was out of the trapdoor.

  “She is not going to go gently. Even if she were not so upset, I do not think she is in possession of the strength necessary to climb the ladder.”

  “I will come down,” Colin said.

  “She will not like it.”

  “She has no choice.”

  I descended and he followed. The sight of him set Estella into another round of terrified shrieks. He crouched in front of her, speaking quietly, doing everything possible to try to ease her fears, but nothing worked. He did not flinch when she hit him, again and again, begging him to leave her be. At last, realizing she was not going to go willingly, and knowing that she could not remain in this sordid state, he gathered her up in his arms, with the intention of—somehow—carrying her up the ladder.

  No sooner had he taken a single step than Estella, exhibiting that same maniacal strength as when she had flung the hairbrush, kicked and flayed, desperate to free herself from his arms. He held her with more strength, but did not approach the ladder. Instead, he lowered her onto her bed. Estella, now panting like a wounded animal, gathered herself up into a small ball, bringing her knees to her chest, and rocked forward and back, forward and back, muttering something I could not understand.

  “Cécile, you stay with her. Your presence is the least upsetting. Emily, ascend with me.” He climbed the ladder first, helping me when I reached the top. There was a long scratch on his left cheek.

  “Good God, Hargreaves, what is going on down there?” Jeremy, along with two sturdy-looking policemen holding bright lanterns and wielding clubs, gathered around us.

  “Removing her is going to prove something of a challenge,” Colin said. “She is—”

  “She does not want to go. I’ve tried more times than I can count.” The voice, with a clipped English accent, came from the door of the tomb. We all turned as one and saw him—Farrington Jones, the auburn-haired man.

  23

  Colin started for Jones at once, but the auburn-haired man stepped forward, his hands raised in a position of surren
der. “I am all too aware of my crimes, sir, and have no intention of running from you now. This is no time for discussion, however, as you see how disturbed Mademoiselle Lamar is. I have what you need—”

  “Stop right there, Jones,” Colin interrupted as the man reached for his coat pocket. Mr. Jones raised his hands again.

  “There is chloroform and a clean handkerchief in my left pocket. Please remove it yourself. I understand that you cannot trust me.”

  I could hear my husband muttering under his breath something about understatements as he removed the items from Mr. Jones’s coat. “Keep this with you always, do you?”

  “Not ordinarily, no. Did you find my ladder or bring one of your own?”

  Colin stood directly in front of him and glared at him, and then turned back to the hole in the floor and nodded at the policemen, who quickly bound Mr. Jones’s wrists. “Bainbridge, come with me. I may require your assistance.” The look on my husband’s face pained me. I knew it went against every fiber of his being to restrain a lady against her will, but in the circumstances, what choice did we have? I did not watch from above as they administered the chloroform, but the bansheelike cries that came from Estella as she resisted shattered the night and reverberated horribly against the stone walls of the tomb. The silence that followed was almost as painful. Colin carried Estella up the ladder, Jeremy following close behind, helping him keep his balance with his awkward load.

  Cécile emerged last from the crypt. “We must get her to a doctor at once.” Her voice was calm and steady. “How long, Monsieur Jones, can one reasonably expect the effects of chloroform to last?”

  * * *

  Once Estella had been safely remanded to the excellent care of the staff of the Maison Municipale de Santé on the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis—the hospital upon which Cécile had insisted—we went to the station where the police had taken Mr. Jones. The physician treating Estella had told us that her physical difficulties were not great. She was not suffering from malnutrition, but the atrophy to her muscles from so many years spent without a great deal of movement would prove challenging, though not impossible, to overcome. Her mental situation, however, was very bleak.