He walked downstairs and found the house deserted. The fragrance of last night’s bread still lingered in the spotless kitchen. The table had been scrubbed and laid with silverware and napkins but Jeanette was nowhere to be seen. He lingered a moment in front of the cooking fire, savoring its warmth. The striped cat gazed up at him from the rocker and then went back to meticulously licking its paws. He walked out the back door onto the terrace bordered by herb beds. The air was cool but pleasant, the sky cloudless and blue. He found Marcus gazing into the distance, a pipe in his hand. Not far away a church bell tolled.
“God,” he gasped, “it’s Sunday!” Everyone had gone to church and left him to sleep.
Marcus seemed undisturbed. “Do you want to go?”
“Yes,” Devin answered irritably.
He went back inside, grabbing his coat from the hook in the hall and went out the front door. The spire was visible from the street and the voice of the bells drew them through the ancient graveyard to the church.
The service had started before they entered. Devin dipped his fingers in the font of holy water and made the sign of the cross. The symbol he’d made so often mechanically seemed special this morning and intensely sacred. Jean Chastel sat by himself in the very front of the sanctuary. A few rows behind him, Gaspard, Adrian, Jeanette and Armand filled half a pew but Devin didn’t join them. When Marcus knelt and slid into a pew, Devin chose the one behind him, preferring to sit alone and enjoy the solitude. He found peace in the familiarity of the service and the Latin words. If he closed his eyes to block out the simple sanctuary, he could have been in the cathedral in Coreé on any given Sunday.
It wasn’t until Devin went forward to receive the host that Gaspard spotted him. When his friend joined him, Devin returned to his pew but the pleasant anonymity and peace he had felt at first were shattered. He found himself staring at Marcus’s broad shoulders which strained the fabric of his jacket; his large head and muscular neck gave the impression of formidable strength and power. Did such men ever become priests or professors, he wondered? Or were they predestined by their physical attributes to turn toward more militant professions: soldiers, gendarmes, and assassins?
He rose when the mass ended, and waited obediently for the others to come to him. Gaspard circled his shoulders roughly with an arm and shook him.
“You’re back in the land of the living, I see.”
Armand studied him critically a moment. “Since today is Sunday, Monsieur Roché, we’ll forgo further study. Take some time to rest this afternoon.”
Devin shook his head in frustration. “That’s not necessary. Please, Armand, my time here is so limited. I need to spend every possible moment memorizing your stories.”
“I insist,” Armand replied, brushing past him. The hard edge to his voice told Devin there was no sense in pursuing the issue any further.
Armand’s mercurial moods required constant adjustment on Devin’s part. He swallowed his anger, and intentionally fell behind as they exited the church. He walked down the steps alone, aware of Marcus trailing at a distance.
The graveyard lay spread before him. The morning sunshine did nothing to soften the hard angles of the stones that marked the final resting places of the village dead. Devin lingered a moment, reading the names: Marie, beloved wife of Henri Bassett, died in childbirth; Henri Bassett, infant son of Marie and Henri, stillborn. Five other Bassett infants had never reached their first birthday. Henri, the father, had married three wives, all of them died before the age of twenty-four.
Tragedy wasn’t limited to the Bassetts. The pattern was the same in family after family: one husband, several wives, and multiple children, either stillborn or struck down in the early years of life. Perhaps one child, or at the most two in a family, survived to adulthood.
Devin stood, his hands jammed in his pockets, gazing down at the stones. They offered cold comfort and mute testimony to lives marred by constant heartbreak and sorrow.
“Dev?” Gaspard came up behind him and tapped his shoulder.
Devin didn’t look up, his eyes still on the inscriptions. “Did any of your brothers or sisters die as infants?”
Gaspard circled, to stand in front of him. “What?” he asked.
Devin pointed to a row of tombstones. “Look at this. Eleven children – every one stillborn – what do you think happened?”
Gaspard shrugged. “How should I know?”
“My mother never lost a child,” Devin mused, “or, at least, if she did she never mentioned it.”
“What’s your point?”
Devin rubbed distractedly at his forehead. “There’s so much death here.”
“Everybody dies, Dev, whether it’s here in Ombria or at home in Coreé. One way or the other death comes to all of us.”
“But this is different,” Devin protested. “These babies never had a chance, neither, apparently, did their mothers.” He walked a little further on, weaving between the headstones. Gaspard followed.
“Could I have some money?” Gaspard asked, after a moment.
Devin looked up. “Of course, I should have given you some before now. How much do you need?”
Gaspard hesitated, looking back at the door of the church. “Chastel asked me to play cards tomorrow night with some of his friends…”
“Gaspard…,” Devin protested. His friend had never been prudent where gambling was concerned. Devin had bailed him out several times in the last year when his losses had reached critical proportions. He had not brought enough money with him to cover any major debts.
Gaspard was suitably contrite. “I know…I know…I’ll be careful. I promise. Look, I’ll let you set the limit. I can’t lose any more money than you give me!”
“Yes, you could,” Devin reminded him. “You have lost more than you had in the past, because you never know when to quit!”
Gaspard shrugged. “There’s nothing to do here, Dev. Before we left yesterday, Chastel invited me to come back to the château for a few days, to do some hunting and meet some of his friends…”
“You don’t hunt,” Devin pointed out.
“I could learn,” Gaspard replied. “I can’t sit for hours in the corner and listen to you tell stories, the way Marcus does.”
“Well, once we leave Ombria, you’ll have to begin recording all of these songs,” Devin told him. “It’s going to take you a great deal of time. I’ll be learning a new Chronicle while I’m retelling the songs and ballads to you.”
Stringent laws forbade folklorists from obtaining material directly from the Chronicle through a Master Bard. The information had to have been passed on to a second source, first. He was certain the original intent was to prohibit any part of the Chronicle from being preserved as a written, rather than oral record. The Council, apparently, had no idea of the complete accuracy men like Armand exacted from their students.
“Maybe I’m not cut out to be a folklorist,” Gaspard replied glibly. “I only said I’d try it to please you.”
“You decided to try it because you were afraid that you wouldn’t pass exams. Don’t blame that on me!” Devin retorted.
Gaspard grinned. “Well, if I will be busy next month…that’s even more reason for me to enjoy my free time while I can!”
Devin rolled his eyes and withdrew his wallet. “How long will you be gone?” he asked as he pulled out a handful of bills.
Gaspard brightened. “I’ll be back by Friday night. Armand will have you performing by then, and I’ll be there to cheer you on.”
Devin felt strangely bereft; marooned with a bodyguard he didn’t trust and a Master Bard who appeared to hate him most of the time. “All right,” he agreed. “But don’t get in over your head, Gaspard. I don’t have access to my bank account here and I cannot use a government chit to cover your gambling debts.”
“Noted, monsieur.” Gaspard tipped his hat merrily. “I’m eternally grateful.”
Devin turned to see Chastel descending the church steps and realized he
must have been waiting for Gaspard. They’d had it all planned. Chastel’s carriage was drawn up on the street, ready to take Gaspard back to the château. Devin tried to erase the annoyance from his face. But Chastel didn’t look pleased either as he strode across the cemetery toward them, a grave expression on his face.
“What’s the matter?” Gaspard asked.
Chastel stopped in front of them. “I need to talk to you both.”
Gaspard waited expectantly but Chastel directed them toward the street. “I need to speak with Marcus, too. Let’s go back to Armand’s.”
Devin laughed uneasily. “Armand doesn’t like you, Chastel; surely you know that! I doubt he will want you visiting his house.”
“I’ll deal with Armand,” Chastel murmured.
They walked the few blocks quickly, catching up with Armand and Adrian at the front door.
“We need a place to speak privately,” Chastel announced when Armand would have slammed the door in his face.
“Then you best be quick about it,” Armand replied. “You aren’t welcome in this house.”
“I have urgent business with Monsieur Roché,” Chastel said. “I won’t darken your doorstep a moment longer than necessary.”
Armand flung the door open and stood to one side. “Take them to the kitchen, Adrian.”
Jeanette had arrived before them and was already placing wine-filled mugs on the table.
“Monsieur Chastel,” she murmured, curtseying.
“Jeanette,” he murmured. “How are you today?”
She smiled. “I am well, thank you.”
“You said your business was urgent,” Armand growled. “Get on with it.”
Marcus moved to stand in front of the fire, his eyes on Armand. Chastel sat down without being asked, and Devin and Gaspard settled on the bench across from him. Chastel gestured at the suede coat Devin was wearing.
“Oddly enough, it involves your coat, Monsieur Roché. The woolen one you wore was badly damaged during the wolf attack. I had sent it down to our seamstress but she said it would have to be patched extensively – not something a gentleman would want to wear in public – ”
“For God’s sake!” Armand interrupted. “Surely wardrobe issues don’t require clandestine meetings!”
“Let me finish!” Chastel demanded, his eyes flashing. “I didn’t know until last night but she gave the jacket to Robert Foulard, one of the young men who worked in the kitchen. He is barely twenty, slight, with light brown hair and blue eyes.”
Devin nodded, wondering what possible crisis could have arisen because of his old jacket.
“Robert wore it when he left to return home Thursday night. He and George Matisse walked back to Lac Dupré together after dark. Neither of them ever reached home, and their families made inquiries at the château on Friday. No one had seen either man; they seemed to have simply disappeared. Last night my gamekeeper found their bodies.”
Jeanette stifled a gasp. Armand went to her, folding his arms around her and pulling her close.
“Were they killed by wolves?” Devin asked, a chill creeping up his back.
“No, both men had been shot in the head,” Chastel explained. “They had been killed several days ago. Their bodies were buried in a shallow grave at the edge of the forest. The remains had been dug up by wild animals but there was still enough flesh to make an identification, that, and your jacket.”
Jeanette was crying against her father’s shoulder. Armand rubbed her back distractedly, trying to soothe her, but his attention was on Chastel.
“Have you notified the authorities?” Devin asked.
“I intend to do that as soon as I leave here,” Chastel assured him. “But I thought you should know first.”
Puzzled, Devin shook his head. “I’m terribly sorry that you have lost two men, Chastel, but why tell me first? The loss of life is a tragedy but that old jacket was worth nothing to me.”
Marcus intervened. He put both hands on the table and leaned over to look Devin in the eye. “Robert Foulard was wearing your jacket, Devin,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “He was killed because someone mistook him for you.”
CHAPTER 30
Investigation
“Come inside,” Marcus urged for the second time. “Jeanette has lunch ready.”
Devin stood on the terrace, facing away from the house, his heart still beating unsteadily. Two decent men had died because of him, he thought. Something as trivial as eating seemed disrespectful under the circumstances.
“Tell them to go ahead without me,” he murmured.
Marcus stood in silence a moment. “There is no way you could have prevented this,” he said gruffly. “You had no idea that your jacket would draw an assassin.”
“Did you?” Devin asked accusingly.
Marcus drew a ragged breath. “No, Devin, I didn’t. I would have taken greater care if I’d had any idea something like this would happen.”
Robert Foulard had been a childhood friend of Jeanette’s…a neighbor of long standing. Even in its damaged state, Devin’s discarded jacket had been finer than anything he’d ever owned. He’d been glad to have it. He’d had no idea that its warm woolen folds would lead to his death, and his companion’s, as well.
“Who’s trying to kill me, Marcus?” Devin demanded. “I’m certain you know more than you’ve told me.”
“I don’t know,” Marcus replied. “I wish I did. I told you that there’s been a movement to discredit your father. His concern was that you might be targeted because of him. But your trip seemed to play right into the opposition’s hands: offering the Council another reason to question his motives. This threat to you personally is puzzling.”
“Henri LeBeau knew who was behind it.”
“I suspect that Henri, himself, may have been a danger to you,” Marcus answered. “His message may have been a ploy to get you alone in some remote location.”
Devin swung around to face him. “Did you kill him, Marcus?”
Marcus’s face was carefully neutral. “No, but I did go looking for LeBeau that morning. I would have been remiss if I had not followed up on his message. I can’t protect you if I don’t know where the threat is coming from. He was already dead when I arrived; his belongings were strewn about but there hadn’t been a struggle. He was killed with one precise thrust of a knife blade at close quarters. The assailant must have been someone he knew and trusted. I suspect that St. Clair was responsible.”
Devin looked away.
“Chastel went to speak with the shérif quite a while ago,” Marcus continued. “He said he would be back if there were any additional developments.”
“Did Gaspard leave with him?” Devin asked tightly.
“No,” Marcus replied. “Gaspard thought you might need him here.”
Devin blinked, surprised and touched by his friend’s sensitivity.
Marcus reached for Devin’s elbow. “Come in. We’ll sort this thing out. There’s nothing to be gained by standing out here alone.”
Devin evaded his grip. “Can’t you see I feel responsible?” he snapped.
“Armand and Jeanette don’t blame you for what happened,” Marcus assured him. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“Am I putting them in danger by staying here?” Devin asked.
Marcus shook his head. “I can’t answer that. I would hope not, but there’s no way to know for certain.”
“Then, perhaps, we should make alternate plans,” Devin replied.
Armand opened the door, his eyes going from Marcus to Devin and back to Marcus again. “The shérif is here with Chastel, will you come in?”
Devin gave in to the inevitable. Entering the warm room, he realized how chilled he’d become on the terrace. He avoided Jeanette’s eyes and concentrated instead on the rotund little man standing behind the table, his hand held out in greeting.
“Monsieur Roché? I’m Jacques Picoté.”
Devin merely nodded, his good manners strained to the limit
with the current situation.
“As you already know, two men were murdered on the road to Lac Dupré. Would you mind answering a few questions, monsieur?” Picoté asked, taking out a small notebook. Devin made a mental note that, apparently, shérifs were taught to read and write, while so many others were not.
“I’m not sure how much help I can be,” Devin answered, sitting down beside Gaspard. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
Picoté inclined his head and sat across from him. “I can ask no more than that.” He rummaged in his pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. “This was found in Robert Foulard’s pocket, monsieur, do you recognize it?”
Devin took it from his hand, unfolding it on the table in front of him. “This is a note that was given to me by Henri LeBeau.”
Picoté’s stare was unwavering. “It indicates that your life is in danger. Can you tell me why you chose to ignore it?”
“I didn’t ignore it,” Devin objected. “I was simply unable to find out who wished me ill.”
Picoté gestured with his hand. “You have not tried to contact this Monsieur LeBeau?”
“Henri LeBeau was murdered shortly after he gave me that note,” Devin replied. “It would be impossible to obtain further information from him now.”
Picoté’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Has the murderer been apprehended?”
“I don’t believe so,” Devin said.
“Is it fair to assume the same man might have killed Robert Foulard and George Matisse?” Picoté asked.
Marcus intervened. “I think it would be foolish to make any assumptions, at this point.”
Picoté picked up his pen. “And you are?”
“Marcus Beringer: Monsieur Roché’s bodyguard.”
“And you have information about the man who murdered this Henri LeBeau?”
“I have no information about either murder,” Marcus clarified. “I simply think that making suppositions at this stage is pointless.”
Picoté’s eyes narrowed. “It is useful, monsieur, to have a place to start. The last murder in Lac Dupré occurred seventeen years ago, when a drunken butcher accidentally killed his wife during an argument. To have two young men from our village struck down together is unprecedented.”
Among Wolves Page 18
