The Shattered Tree

by Charles Todd

  I said, “Inspector. You looked into the inquiry into the murders of the Lavaud family. Well, the man you have in custody for striking an officer of the law is their son. I think you’ll find he killed all those people. His name was changed—I expect because it must have been a sensational case in its day, his aunt wanted to shield him from what had happened. At any rate, he also stabbed the nun at St. Anne’s hospital, and Captain Barkley here. If you examine his possessions, you’ll no doubt find he has a knife.”

  “If I remember correctly, young Philippe Moreau was to be tried for that crime.”

  “I am in possession of a letter he wrote at the time, telling the family’s governess that he’d been persuaded by his mother to confess, because the police were about to charge his younger brother with the crimes. Paul Moreau was only ten, you see. But the two brothers weren’t allowed to speak to each other. Paul was kept in the gardener’s cottage, while Philippe was in the house. Neither of them had had anything to do with the murders. It was Madame Moreau who turned her elder son in, to be rid of him.”

  His face was hard as he remembered. “Yes. Quite,” he said. “But this doesn’t prove that Broussard is the killer. What would have been his motive?”

  I had no idea what his motive must have been. I said, “Statements at the time indicated that he was sulking in the kennels. Was he angry enough to kill anyone in his way? He threatened to kill me tonight. He even tried. You’ll find a scratch on his hand where he encountered the pin I’m wearing. Captain Barkley was a witness.”

  He looked to the Captain, who nodded.

  “This bears investigating. Now, start at the beginning.”

  I did, explaining that someone had come up to him in the restaurant and called him by the name of Lavaud. “There’s a witness to that—the officer he was dining with. After that, he went rather wild, as the restaurant staff can attest. It could so easily have been passed off as a case of mistaken identity. He could have been polite about it, and it would have ended there. She was an older woman, it quite upset her when he reacted as he did. But why would he behave like that, unless it was true?”

  He went away then, to speak to Captain Broussard.

  “Who was that woman at the restaurant?” Captain Barkley asked me when the Inspector was out of hearing. He still didn’t know who she was. “It wasn’t the nun.”

  “No, she’s still in hospital. And it really won’t make much difference whether the police manage to find that restaurant guest or not. The Lieutenant was a witness to the exchange.”

  “Do you think he believes you? The Inspector?”

  “I don’t know. But given that scene at the restaurant, he must investigate. What other conclusion can he draw?” I paused. “If the woman had come to our table and called you by another name, you’d have spoken politely to her, assured her that you were not the person she had thought you were, and she would have been a little embarrassed as she went back to her own table. No harm done.”

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  After a time he asked, “Why was Broussard so upset?”

  “I don’t know,” I said again. “But I’m very glad he was.” Privately, I thought this confrontation was the last straw for a man who had been under a great deal of strain for some time.

  It was close to dawn when Inspector Duplessis let us go. Sometime in the night I had folded my coat into a square and put my head down on it, falling into a restless sleep. The room was not the most salubrious. It smelled of those strong French cigarettes with their Turkish tobacco, and other things I didn’t want to think about, primary among them stale sweat. The captain’s head had sunk to his chest, his long legs were stretched out in front of him, and he had fallen asleep in the way men in the trenches had learned to do over four years of war.

  The Inspector came into our room looking as haggard as I felt, but he said without greeting, “It appears that for the past eight years, Captain Broussard has been paying a goodly sum to someone named Theissen. Blackmail.”

  We must have looked as blank as we felt.

  “This woman claimed to have a paper signed by the groom at the family’s home stating that the Lavaud child was not at the kennels the entire time. She died recently, and it seems that Broussard thought the nun, Sister Marie-Luc, had found the paper and was intending to continue the blackmail. Apparently she had stayed with the woman during her last illness and had searched the house for a certain black lacquer box. He himself had searched for it when he saw the notice of the older woman’s death. He had reason to believe that you had found it instead.”

  There had been no black lacquer box. I had searched—for Marie-Luc. Had there also been no paper signed by the family’s groom? Was this the revenge that Juliane Theissen had sought for the suffering she and Philippe had endured? But how had she guessed that the child had killed?

  The answer came to me after a moment. Broussard—Charles Lavaud—had paid her to keep silent. The wonder was that he hadn’t killed her instead. Somehow she must have convinced him that the groom’s letter would be turned over to the police if he tried. And an aging governess living in a backwater village far from Paris was less of a threat than renewed police interest in the Lavaud murders.

  Cutting to the chase, I said, “Is it true, then? Has he confessed?”

  Captain Barkley said, still refusing to accept all of this, “But his name is Broussard.”

  “It was his aunt’s surname. Lavaud’s mother’s maiden name, you understand. She had it changed because of the notoriety surrounding the murders. He was still a child at the time. It wasn’t difficult. He was christened Victor Henri Broussard Lavaud.”

  “What will you do about this matter?” I asked.

  “Investigate it thoroughly. In the meantime, I have spoken to the Army. Since the crimes in question took place before 1914, we have jurisdiction. He will remain in our custody.”

  Which surely meant that the police—and this man in particular—were not satisfied with Captain Broussard’s explanations.

  “You have looked for Jerome Karadeg in connection with the attack on the nun. Is that still outstanding?”

  “Sister Marie-Luc claimed from the start that it was not Karadeg who attacked her. I now believe that she was right.”

  I told him my theory about the attacker having only one arm.

  “Very astute, Mademoiselle. I will consider the possibility. Very well. You are free to leave. With my apologies. But the matter required sorting out.”

  I was sure that it had. Inspector Duplessis was the sort of man who took nothing at face value.

  We walked out into a misty dawn. Captain Barkley and I found a taxi soon after. He yawned as he sat back in his seat, and I thought his wound was hurting more than he cared to admit. He had been sitting in a very uncomfortable position for a very long time. And there had been the struggle outside The Golden Door. Matron would certainly not have approved of that.

  But what had become of his cane? Was it still at the restaurant? I realized I hadn’t seen it since.

  He said, when we were halfway to the clinic, “Why did Juliane Theissen let Marie-Luc think that Philippe Moreau was a monster?”

  “To protect him? She dared not tell the truth.”

  “Not because her blackmail would have to stop?”

  I shook my head wearily. “God knows. She must have spent a good deal of time and money looking for Broussard.”

  “I’m not convinced of that. Perhaps she never found the groom. Perhaps she found that all she had to do was tell Broussard that she had the paper. Somewhere along the line she must have come across him. As a governess, she might have met him in any number of ways—even through her own charges when they went off to school. Through the families that employed her. Someone might have written to her saying that they had met a child whose entire family had been killed. Gossip to most people, but gold to her.”

  “But why did he kill them? I would like to know. To have such an awful thing make sense.”


  The taxi pulled up in front of the Hôtel de Belle-Île, and we climbed stiffly out.

  As we walked up to the door, Captain Barkley said, “There’s still the question of Philippe Moreau, and what’s become of him.”

  I said, “Yes.”

  The problem was, where to find him?

  Chapter Eighteen

  As soon as I’d seen Captain Barkley to his bed, I went in search of Madame Ezay.

  I couldn’t find her anywhere, and giving up, I went to my room. For all I knew, she had stayed at her sister’s house.

  Opening my door, I thought longingly of my own bed, just as the creak of the rocking chair wiped all thought of sleep from my mind.

  “Who’s there?” I demanded of the dark room.

  “It is I, Mademoiselle. What has kept you so long? I was so afraid that there would be repercussions from the events at The Golden Door,” Madame Ezay answered almost on the heels of my words.

  I was so relieved, I could hardly light the lamp. “I’ve looked everywhere for you,” I said, turning to see her in her accustomed black. “That man, the one you spoke to, is in police custody. We’ve been at the police station as the Inspector checked all the information I gave him. All is well.”

  “Thank God,” she answered fervently. “I shall go to my own bed now.”

  “I must tell you, you were brilliant,” I said, kneeling to put a little more coal on the sinking fire. “I had no idea you could carry it all off so beautifully. An actress could have done no better. And how did you leave the restaurant? I didn’t see you after you were taken away, nearly fainting.”

  “Through the kitchen door. I told them I was so embarrassed, I couldn’t face that room full of people again. That door led to an alley, and I came out on the next street.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, embracing her.

  “As for the actress,” she said, a touch of pride in her face, “I was one, you know. Many years ago, before Monsieur Ezay forbade me to appear again on the stage.”

  “Were you, indeed?” I asked, staring at her. I had missed that. I had seen only the charwoman who helped wherever she could in this English convalescent clinic.

  “There are surprises everywhere you look,” she said. “My sister was also on the stage. Only she had kept several of the gowns and some of the makeup.” She smiled. “I have not lost all my training.”

  And she was gone.

  Afraid that I would sleep for hours, I took her place in the rocking chair and watched the coals send up little licks of flame that soon grew to warmth. I must have drifted off for half an hour before I woke with a start.

  The sun had just broken the horizon, sending long shards of light between the buildings and down the avenues, when I left for the café where I had last seen Philippe Moreau.

  For three wretched hours in the cold I sat there at the table he’d used, ignoring Australian soldiers eager to make my acquaintance, the disapproving stares of a number of women, and what seemed to be at least half the French Army.

  Finally I got up and walked on. I’d hoped it might work, that he would watch that café to see if I came again—especially since the police hadn’t followed him that day.

  But he was too wary a fish to be caught so easily.

  I was perhaps a quarter of a mile from the café when someone came up behind me and took my arm. I wheeled, expecting to find another Aussie on leave, and looked straight into the face of the man I wanted to see. He was still wearing his American uniform.

  “Keep walking. Why did you sit there waiting? Was it for me?”

  “Yes,” I said. “There has been a recent development that will interest you.” And I told him about Captain Broussard.

  “By God,” he said, “are you quite sure?”

  “Fairly sure. Yes, quite sure.”

  “I never thought—but it makes sense, you know. Now that I’m no longer a child. I couldn’t imagine—at the time, events seemed so catastrophic that nothing else mattered. But he was angry that day. Did you know that I’d been invited to stay a few days with the family? And Paul had come as well. Only two years between us, and he was a good sport. I think the family was pleased to have him.”

  “What makes sense?” I demanded, looking up into his face. We were walking at a snail’s pace because his feet were still so tender.

  “Victor was told that morning that he wouldn’t be returning to the school we’d been attending. His father had had a row with the headmaster, and he’d been withdrawn.”

  I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring now, searching his face for signs that he was lying to me. Several people nearly collided with us, walking around us and glaring at us. “You don’t kill five people because you aren’t going back to a school you like. And as it was, he was sent to his aunt in Nice. He’d gained nothing.”

  “He was twelve, he hadn’t thought it through. Paul and I were at the school. A number of his other friends as well. That’s why he was sulking. Why Paul took out one of the horses. Why I retreated to my room.”

  “Did Paul know this?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’d overheard the argument. It was hard not to overhear. It took place in the room next to mine. He and his parents and his grandmother were going at it hammer and tongs.”

  “But his clothes must have been bloody. They would have to be.”

  “He wore some of mine to kill them,” he said grimly. “He must have done. I found them in my room after the police sent me there while they contacted my mother.”

  “Then they must have found them there. It would have sealed your guilt.”

  “I thought Paul must have killed them. God help me, Mama told me that he had. And so I buried the clothes under the mattress in one of the unused rooms.”

  Where they must have been found. If this was true, the newspapers, everyone, had got it wrong when they said he’d been wearing clothing with blood on it.

  I was torn between sympathy for this man and the knowledge that he had betrayed his own country. Could anyone blame him? After what he’d been accused of doing?

  I said, bluntly, “I hope you are telling me the truth. Inspector Duplessis is questioning Captain Broussard right now. If you are lying, I will know it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Do you know why your mother wanted you to be charged?”

  He shook his head at that. “I’d always known she favored Paul. She would have done anything to protect him. I wasn’t surprised when she asked me to save him. I thought it a brave thing to do. I thought my father would have been proud of me. I thought it might make her love me. More fool I.”

  “Then why did you spy on your own country?” It had to be answered. Philippe Moreau—Lieutenant Theissen—wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  He was the one who stopped short then. Taking my arm in a tight grip, he pulled me into a service alley between a restaurant and a hotel. I was suddenly frightened, trying to think what I could use as a weapon.

  “What the hell are you trying to do?” he said savagely, pinning me against the wall.

  “The evidence is there,” I said. “And Captain Barkley has the proof, Major Anderson as well. So you might as well let me go.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you, damn it.”

  “You’re going about it in the wrong way, then. Let me go.”

  To my surprise he did, stepping back, his face in his hands, as if he was uncertain what to do. He dropped them after a moment. “I got out while I could. I put on a dead man’s uniform, such as it was, and made for my own lines. Germany is collapsing, you have no idea what it’s like there. I didn’t want to get caught in a German uniform.”

  And then, before I could stop him, he was gone.

  I ran after him, but he’d vanished. With his feet still healing he couldn’t have got far, and so I went into the restaurant and then into the lobby of the hotel, searching for him.

  The only thing I could think of was that he’d gone up the hotel stairs. Or into a lavatory, where I could
n’t follow him.

  One of the hotel staff came up to me and asked if he could be of assistance.

  “There was an American officer who came just now,” I said. “He has a terrible limp. I think he’s a friend of my fiancé. I wanted to let him know I was in Paris too.”

  “I saw no one like that, Mademoiselle. I’m sorry.”

  “But I’m sure he came here. I was behind him on the street, I thought I saw him step through the door.”

  He had been friendly. Now he was suspicious. “If Mademoiselle will give me a name, I will have this man paged.”

  I couldn’t give him a name.

  I shook my head. “My fiancé will be so disappointed. I must have been mistaken.” And with a smile, I turned and walked out of the hotel.

  I was scheduled to join the convoy as soon as the ambulances came from Rouen with their wounded. That didn’t leave much time.

  I could turn Philippe Moreau over to the police. But they had got it wrong twice, with the boy Philippe and later, with Jerome.

  As for the Army—there was still the court martial charge, not to mention spying, which would mean death by firing squad. The Army was never wrong . . .

  Suddenly I remembered Jerome Karadeg and Marie-Luc. I must not leave Paris without letting her know that Jerome was alive. Wherever he might have gone after leaving St. Anne’s. It would lift the weight off her heart.

  I found a taxi, and was soon walking into her room. They were preparing to move her back to the ward, and I saw her stand shakily as the nuns helped her out of bed.

  “This is good news,” I said, more cheerfully than I felt. “You’ll be discharged soon. I’ve come to tell you that this evening I’ll be returning to my own duties. I’m glad I’ll be leaving you feeling much better.”

  She nodded as they brought the wheeled chair up behind her and were there to lower her gently into it. “I feel like myself for the first time. I’ve asked to be taken to the chapel before I’m carried on to the ward. I’ve much to thank God for.”