by Charles Todd
“We’re not happy about that ourselves. But now I think it’s time you told me all there is to know about this man Moreau.”
He asked a lot of questions as I explained everything I thought he needed to hear. The Major had a logical mind, and I could see that he was carefully cataloging every fact.
When I’d finished, he turned to me. “Dear God, Bess, you’ve got yourself in the middle of something that’s dangerous. You’re damned lucky you weren’t hurt as well last night.”
I didn’t tell him that it wasn’t for lack of trying on our assailant’s part.
“I can’t see why an old murder should be responsible for all that’s happened. But I can’t find any other connection between the nun, her old governess, and Philippe Moreau.” I hesitated. “I did think, in that base hospital, that he might be a German spy. But Matron suggested that it was his upbringing in Alsace that made him so fluent in German. You had to be, once Germany took over. Everything—church services, business matters, schooling, even at home—everyone had to speak the language of their new masters. You could be in serious trouble if you didn’t.”
The day had faded, early dusk falling with the heavy banks of clouds that had moved in from the west.
“Well, yes, that’s true,” the Major said, slowing as a woman on a bicycle came weaving her way out of a side road and turned in front of us. On the back of the bicycle was a cage, and in it were two hens, staring at us with gold eyes. “But I’m finding it hard to believe that there’s no record of a French officer by that name. Had you considered that he might have been called Philippe as a child, but now uses his full name? He could be François, Armand, Georges, Louis—it would be impossible to look up all of them and learn which he might be.”
“I had thought about it,” I said ruefully. “And another possibility has just occurred to me. He was not a Moreau when he first came to France as a child. He was adopted, given that family’s name. After what happened in the Bois, when he was accused of murder and disappeared, he could very well have decided to use his birth name.” Frowning, I added, “But how do you reconcile that with giving us his name as Moreau when he was interviewed in hospital?”
“Perhaps his birth name was German, not French. He might have feared he couldn’t explain that away, and chosen the easier way out of the problem.”
I sighed in frustration. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what the truth is. Unless he’s found. I’ll be going back to the Front very soon. That means it could remain a mystery.”
“Well. It helped to pass the time while you were recovering,” the Major said, smiling across at me. His black patch, in the glow of the headlamps, looked sinister. And then he turned his gaze back to the road, and I saw only the profile of his good side.
The silhouettes of Paris loomed ahead, and soon we were back at the clinic. Major Vernon dropped me at the door and went on to return the motorcar to Captain Broussard.
I was crossing the courtyard when a man’s muffled voice said, “Sister Crawford?”
I spun around, realizing that I couldn’t reach the door before whoever it was reached me.
“Don’t scream, for God’s sake.”
I saw him then. A darker shape in the deep shadows by the thick square gateposts.
“Who are you? What do you want?” I asked, keeping my voice low in spite of the pounding of my heart.
“I don’t intend to hurt you.”
French. His English was French accented. But he must have been wearing a scarf around the lower part of his face. And the way he was hunched, it would be impossible to judge how tall he was, or how slim or compact his body might be.
“Who are you?”
“Leave Paris. Leave me alone. You don’t know what this is about.”
“It’s about the murder of five people,” I said. He jerked at that, and I went on quickly, “Move toward me and I will scream. There’s an orderly just on the other side of that door.” At least I hoped he was on duty, and not at his dinner.
After a moment he said, “Yes, all right. Murder, if you like. One more won’t matter.”
“You nearly killed Sister Marie-Luc.”
He replied, surprise in his voice, “Why should I want her dead?”
“She knows who you are and what you did. I think Juliane Theissen told her a long time ago what you did.”
“That’s probably true. Go back to your own people, Sister Crawford, and let the past stay buried.” His voice changed, rough and chilling. “You won’t see me the next time. You won’t know I’m there."
He turned and walked swiftly through the gates, moving with a twisted gait, and I couldn’t tell whether it was exaggerated or an indication that his feet were troubling him.
I raced for the gate, looking to see where he was going. But there was no one on the street. Surely he couldn’t have disappeared so quickly, if his feet hadn’t healed?
He could have turned into another courtyard, or concealed himself in a doorway, lying in wait and hoping I would follow him. An attack that would take me by surprise and allow him to strike before I could even scream. I hesitated, standing there in the street.
I had no weapon, and if I went into the clinic and persuaded an orderly to come out with me, there would be no one to find.
I was still standing there when I heard footsteps fast approaching from the other direction.
Wheeling, I was poised to race for the clinic’s door when I realized it was Major Vernon, returning from dropping off the motorcar.
“Bess? What are you doing there in the middle of the street?” he demanded. “Why aren’t you inside? You haven’t been standing there waiting for me all this time, have you?”
“You’ve already returned the motorcar?” I asked, confused. It hadn’t been long enough, had it?
“Broussard is at the Café Rouge this evening. I was instructed to leave the motorcar there, where he could take it back to barracks himself.”
“Oh,” I said, and as he caught me up, we turned and went through the gates up to the door.
“Why were you in the street?” he asked again.
“I thought I saw someone I recognized,” I replied. “I must have been wrong.”
We had hardly reached the door when a wall of rain came down the avenue, spreading fast. Major Vernon flung the door open. I was inside, and then he was at my heels, shoving it shut behind us. I could hear the heavy drops of rain striking the paneling like the sound of distant machine-gun fire.
The orderly at the desk looked up, surprised. “Rain?” he said, then, listening, “A nasty night out there.”
He was more right than he knew.
We left our coats under the stairs and went in to dinner. Our conversation was stilted, with long spaces of silence, because we couldn’t talk about what we were thinking. And afterward I went up to my room.
Was the man in the courtyard tonight Philippe Moreau?
He hadn’t been able to kill me last night. Instead he’d wounded Captain Barkley. But why had he come to try to frighten me away? Perhaps that was much less dangerous than a murder, attracting the attention of that cold-eyed policeman. Especially since he’d already failed once to discourage me.
I slept restlessly, trying to work out the answer.
I wished for my father, or Simon, someone I could talk to about what was happening here in Paris. A clear eye, uninvolved, someone I trusted.
But there was no one to turn to for advice or explanation.
I could always go to the staff doctor here at Belle-Île and tell him that I was fully recovered, that I was ready to go back to my post in one of the forward aid stations.
That would be to retreat from what I’d started. And my great-great-great-grandmother who had shown such courage on the eve of Waterloo would disown me.
I was smiling as I finally drifted into a deeper sleep.
Somehow in the night I’d taken a decision about what to do next. It was useless to try to pass on to the French Army the little informati
on I possessed about Philippe Moreau. Who would listen? I couldn’t go back to St. Anne’s—I didn’t think Marie-Luc would speak to me. But there was the police Inspector. The problem was finding the police station he was assigned to. Was it in the area where Marie-Luc had been found stabbed? Or in the district near St. Anne’s? He had also come here, which meant that he was handling this inquiry as well.
After breakfast, I looked in on Captain Barkley, who was fuming about his enforced stay in the clinic.
“I have no fever, the stitches are clean, and I see no reason I can’t go on about my business. Speak to them for me, Bess. Tell them I’m not a fool, I know how to take care of my wound.”
“I’m a patient here myself,” I told him. “My word doesn’t carry much weight. Matron will decide when you can leave.”
He grumbled on a bit longer, and then said, still quite annoyed, “I understand you went to Petite-Beauvais again. With Major Vernon.”
Ah, I thought, that was his problem. And men tended to gossip as much as women did, sometimes.
“It was a wasted trip,” I said. “Father Robert wouldn’t talk to me, and we couldn’t raise anyone at the Moreau house. I don’t know if Paul Moreau is still in residence or not.”
He seemed pleased that we hadn’t made any progress.
“What I don’t understand is why Father Robert is so afraid of Paul Moreau.”
“He’s the equivalent of the local squire. And he probably wouldn’t be best pleased to discover the local priest was telling strangers about his family’s skeletons. He wasn’t the pleasantest person to deal with, when he came to the governess’s cottage that night. I’d wager he has something of a temper.”
“That’s true. We’re probably the first to come knocking on the rectory door asking about the family’s history in nearly twenty years. Monsieur Moreau wouldn’t care to remind everyone in the village about what happened.”
We talked for several minutes longer, and then one of the staff came in with his breakfast, and I took that as an opportunity to leave.
I had every intention of seeking advice from Madame Ezay about finding the French policeman. She was not upstairs making up beds, and I’d come back down, crossing Reception to look in the kitchens or laundry for her, when the outside door opened, and who should step in but the Inspector.
With him he had a short, sturdy man in workman’s clothing who looked rather frightened, his eyes wide as he glanced nervously around him.
“Sister Crawford,” he greeted me. “Well met. I have with me this morning a well-known miscreant who favors the knife to cut purse strings and pockets. I thought perhaps you might recognize him.”
At this, his prisoner turned to stare at me, surprise in his face.
I was feeling as surprised as he was. He looked nothing like the man I’d seen running away from the restaurant where we’d been attacked, the Captain and I.
But I paid both men the courtesy of taking my time before shaking my head and saying, “I’m so sorry, Inspector. I don’t believe he is the man.”
“Turn around,” he ordered his prisoner. And he did, showing me his broad back.
Again, I could only shake my head.
“I will speak to the Captain, if you please. He was chasing his assailant, he might well know him again.”
By this time the orderly had come up from his own breakfast. Seeing the newcomers, he hurried to his desk and asked how he could be of assistance.
I didn’t think the man the Inspector had brought with him could speak or understand English. He was looking more and more ill at ease, and when I’d told the orderly to take the policeman to the Captain, the man struggled in the Inspector’s grip.
The Inspector ignored the impediment and strode after the orderly. I followed behind, and the prisoner cast me a frantic look.
We were admitted to the Captain’s room, and the Inspector repeated his questions.
Captain Barkley studied the man, front and back, then shook his head.
“He was taller, slimmer, I think. Sister Crawford, does this person look familiar to you?”
“I don’t believe it’s the same man.”
“Nor do I.”
The Inspector thanked him and, with a nod, left. By this time his prisoner had decided he wasn’t to be hanged—or guillotined—and he followed meekly.
I went after them, and in Reception, as the Inspector was preparing to leave, I said quickly, “May I speak with you privately?”
“I’ll take this person out to one of my men,” he agreed, and after a moment, he returned alone.
The library was empty at this hour, and I led him there. As I shut the door behind us, I said, “If you please, I’d like an honest answer. If Jerome Karadeg stabbed the nun, Sister Marie-Luc, and he’s dead, then who tried to stab Captain Barkley and me? It’s important that I know. I’ve never met Jerome Karadeg, I wouldn’t know him if he walked through that door. I didn’t recognize our assailant, what little I saw of him. Have you had any luck speaking to witnesses?”
“I have found only two. A man and his wife, walking across the street, who saw the Canadian officer chasing someone and then collapsing. No one else has come forward.”
“Who was the witness to the nun’s stabbing?”
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
We were still standing, and he was growing impatient with me.
I took a deep breath and then plunged in. “I was only a child myself in 1900, but I have been told that there were murders in a house near the Bois. Five of them, and a twelve-year-old boy was suspected of the crime. It’s this twelve-year-old, now a man, whom the nun believes stabbed her. I don’t know the details of this earlier crime—I only know about it at third hand, so to speak. It was before your time as well. But I haven’t been able to find anything in old newspapers, and I don’t know anyone who was involved.”
He was interested in spite of himself. “And you believe this grown man, who tried to kill the nun, has also tried to attack you and Captain Barkley. Why? Because you know Sister Marie-Luc? Or because you believe he knows that you are aware of what he’s done?”
“I can’t answer that. But it does seem odd, does it not, that the three of us have been attacked in a matter of days. And if Jerome Karadeg stabbed Marie-Luc, who stabbed us? This person took nothing from us. It wasn’t robbery. What was it? And the man you brought here today isn’t anyone we know.”
“Are you in possession of the names of the victims in this earlier crime?”
“I believe so. It was sometime in 1900, and I would guess during the summer. The man and his wife were a Monsieur and Madame Lavaud. His mother, also Madame Lavaud. There were two maids in the house at the time, but I don’t know their names.”
“Lavaud,” he repeated, half to himself. “Why is that name familiar?”
“It went unsolved. The boy who was charged never went to trial, although everyone at the time must have been convinced that he was guilty.”
“This was the son of the house?”
“Someone visiting that child.”
“How did the nun know of this affair?”
“Her former governess, an old woman who died recently, had also at one time served the Moreau family. She had moved on to care for other charges by that time, of course, and one of them was Marie-Luc. But surely she would have felt the shock and horror personally, having known the accused.”
“Of course,” he echoed. “I shall have to look into this matter.”
“There’s one more thing. You’ve hinted that there was some question about the death of Jerome Karadeg. Something that cast doubt on the fact that he’d committed suicide. Can you tell me what that was? It might be important, you see.”
He parried the question. “Why do you care? I understand you are convalescing and will be returning to your post very shortly.”
Who had told him that? Matron, the other night when he was here? Had he been looking into me and into Captain Barkley as well? It was an unpleasan
t thought.
“It has nothing to do with me. But I should like to know, since the Captain and I were attacked, that I can safely put this man Karadeg out of my mind. This will allow me to see what happened outside the restaurant in a different light.”
“He was a coward to the end.” It was said contemptuously, and I remembered all at once that Jerome Karadeg was a victim of shell shock. “He even tried to cut his own throat before he went into the water, dreading drowning.”
This was news indeed. “Are you sure he did this? That he tried to cut his own throat?”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, we are quite satisfied. It was a shock to his father, I can tell you, when he was brought in to identify the body. The doctor who examined it has said the slash was not well done. It is not easy to do this to oneself.”
I thought to myself that it might have been more horrific to try than to drown. I shivered, understanding now why the Karadegs were so upset. Not just at the suicide of their son but also at the manner of it. No wonder they believed he’d been hounded to the point of desperation.
When I said nothing, the Inspector commented, “You need not fear the dead, Mademoiselle.”
“No. But you are telling me that it was not Philippe Moreau after all, that Sister Marie-Luc was wrong about that. It also tells me that what happened to Captain Barkley was another matter altogether.”
“Very likely.”
I left it at that. I’d already told him too much about the Lavaud family as it was, but I’d hoped he would help me.
He nodded to me. “If that’s everything you wish to discuss, I will say bonjour and take my leave.”
“Yes, thank you, Inspector. I appreciate your listening to me.”
“Not at all.”
And then he was gone.
I stood there, staring into space, thinking about our conversation. And then I left the library and went up to my room.
Was it true that Philippe Moreau had nothing to do with what had happened to Marie-Luc? She was obsessed with him, she had called him a monster, and when she had thought she saw him on the streets of Paris, she had been almost driven mad by her anger. It would have made her happier to believe that her attacker was Philippe Moreau and not Jerome.
