‘Rama, Rama.’
The man turned.
‘We’re off. Get over here.’ The strongman was calling.
The Indian bowed in Marguerite’s direction.
‘Where are you all heading, Monsieur? I hope you are not leaving the region?’
‘Hope is not enough, Madame. We have been ordered. Ordered in terms that were hardly pleasant. We have overstayed our welcome. So we must set off.’
‘Ordered?’ the inspector echoed, then asked in French, ‘Ordered by whom?’
‘By the police. By the mayor.’
‘But how will you discover what happened to Danuta? Or your snake?’
He shrugged. ‘We may not. That is the way of authority. It is not interested in our wishes. Goodbye Madame. Thank you for your interest.’
Marguerite chased after him, her heavy coat and dress lifted awkwardly, her feet crunching the gathering snow. ‘Tell me, Sir. Please. Was this Danuta with child? Was this one of the reasons she kept going and coming back, going and coming back?’
‘With child?’ The man looked at her as if she had lost her senses. ‘How would poor Rama know? What is clearer is that she was with snake.’
Marguerite exchanged glances with Durand and reverted to French, ‘Perhaps, Sir, given the inclement weather, I could arrange for you to spend another few nights in the area. I shall go straight away to the town hall. Worse comes to worse, I can offer you one of my meadows for the night.’
Marguerite had an image of Olivier’s face if she came home with a band of travellers. She wanted to shudder and laugh simultaneously.
‘Perhaps even a few nights. Though it would mean going in the other direction.’
‘Auguste.’ He called the strongman over. ‘A proposal has been put to us.’ He repeated her words.
The wrestler looked her up and down, his expression surly. He grunted something to the effect that if they didn’t leave here in the next half-hour they would be snowed in, in any event.
‘That settles it, Messieurs. You go back to the campsite, and leave the rest to me.’
The chief inspector stopped her on the steps of the carriage. ‘If you permit me to say, Madame, this latest generous offer of yours, if I understood you correctly, seems to me something of an extravagance. I wonder if Monsieur le Comte will look upon it kindly.’
Marguerite smiled. She had forgotten something else. Chief Inspector Durand might be as staunch a Republican as Olivier was a Royalist, but between them they would happily build a wall around France to protect her from foreigners and vagabonds.
‘I shall deal with Olivier,’ Marguerite put far more certainty in her voice than she felt, ‘when and if the need arises.’
The need didn’t arise. While Chief Inspector Durand went off to talk things over with the local police, Marguerite managed a five-minute visit to the mayor, who was as obsequious as someone waiting for the imminent return of one of the mighty Louis, erstwhile Kings of France. She convinced him that it was inhuman, unchristian and certainly unpatriotic to send the travellers away in weather like this, after the sadness of losing one of their members. It would all reflect very badly on the town. Undoubtedly they would be deprived of fairs and mountebanks, much loved of the people, in the future. The travellers had their own grapevine and it functioned effectively, of that he could be certain.
The mayor nodded gravely, thanked her for her renewed interest in the commune and called for a messenger.
By noon, when she left the mairie, the skies had cleared and a pale sun glimmered like a lemon lozenge on the starched linen of the snow-decked town.
The inspector had still not returned to the carriage, so she told Georges she would pay a quick visit to Dr Labrousse. When she arrived in his consulting room, he ushered her through in front of an old woman and a gnarled man who were waiting.
‘As your physician, I must tell that you should not be out in this weather.’ Labrousse shook his narrow head.
‘I simply wanted to know, Doctor, whether by any chance you had the opportunity to pay a visit to Madame Tellier.’
‘I called in on my way back from La Rochambert, yesterday.’
‘And…’
‘None of them were in. Let me have a look at your arm, while you’re here, Madame.’
‘So you didn’t go in?’
‘I did. Madame Molineuf escorted me.
He paused.
‘And…’ Marguerite was impatient, but she noticed that the doctor looked tired. The skin around his eyes was drawn; his cheeks had grown paler against the bristle of beard.
‘Yes … yes … I did think there was a resemblance between the portrait on the stairs and the cadaver.’
‘A mere resemblance?’
Labrousse heaved his shoulders with a sigh. ‘I must be cautious, Madame. We never saw the man alive. Gesture changes everything. Colouring. Nor are portraits necessarily accurate. On top of it all, time passes. Change takes place. Decay sets in.’
‘So Madame Molineuf told you something which made you doubt the resemblance your eyes perceived. As did mine.’
‘Perhaps.’ He gave her a soft smile. ‘To build up our diagnoses, we doctors listen to what people tell us, as well as examining their bodies.’
‘No doubt. What did she tell you? How did you put it to her?’
‘I asked her who that fine portrait was of, next to the one of the young Napoléon Marchand.’
‘So the other portrait is of the father.’
He nodded. ‘She told me it was a painting of Monsieur’s brother. He left France a very long time ago, sailed to the Caribbean. To Martinique, Madame always said.’
‘Did you mention the body on the tracks to her? Convey a message to Madame to come and see him?’
‘That’s hardly my business as her physician.’
‘The police, then. You’ll tell them.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Madame Molineuf was adamant, though. When I said I thought I had seen that man, she was certain I must be mistaken. Why, if he had been in the country, he would certainly have come to visit his family. His brother, his niece, his grandnieces whom he had never seen. Which makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘Families rarely make sense,’ Marguerite murmured. ‘Whatever ideologues might like to tell us.’
He stared at her.
‘Well, according to Madame Molineuf, whom I’m inclined to believe rather more than Madame Tellier, never mind the old man who drinks so much he couldn’t see straight if he tried, no one has seen hide nor hair of Napoléon’s brother for years and years.
‘Except you and me,’ Marguerite said with a touch of scepticism. ‘Not to mention his murderers. I’d like Inspector Durand, who has arrived from Paris, to see the body, if that’s still possible.’
‘I’ve managed to keep him back until today. Unlike Danuta. Luckily it’s been very cold. Gravediggers don’t like being pressed to burial in the cold.’
‘I shall send the inspector over. Meanwhile, Doctor, it occurs to me. I never visited the chemist you said had handled Yvette Branquart’s prescription. She may have gone back to him without any of us knowing, so he might even have some knowledge of her whereabouts.’
Dr Labrousse gave her what wasn’t his friendliest look, but he pointed her in the right direction and said he would wait for the inspector’s visit. She didn’t test him on her hunch about brothels. Labrousse, despite his scientific frame of mind, preferred a sentimental idea of women and would be little help in that direction.
Monsieur Tournevau’s pharmacy on the market square sparkled with mahogany and glass. Jars and phials displayed liquids of aquamarine, indigo, ruby red and dandelion yellow. Powders were neatly ranged. Patent medicines, mineral waters and blood purifiers were lined up like so many soldiers, their banners screaming their regiments in copper plate or bold print. Scales stood on the gleaming counter. A door to the side displayed the word ‘laboratory’ in proud gold letters.
The man behind the counter was measuring out a p
owder from a large jar. He had a sheaf of straw-coloured hair and watery eyes. As she approached, he spilled some powder on the counter.
‘Monsieur Tournevau?’ Marguerite asked.
The man nodded while cleaning the spilt powder with an awkward hand.
She introduced herself, then rushed on. ‘I’m interested in learning when Yvette Branquart last came to you to fill out a prescription given her by Dr Labrousse.’
‘Yvette,’ the man repeated with a mooning expression that made her think he was a little slow.
‘Yes, Yvette Branquart.’
The door on the side opened and an older man appeared. He was wearing a white coat. Spectacles sat at the edge of his nose. Hair bushed from the sides of his balding pate giving him the air of a brown owl.
‘What is it, Jacques?’ He was truculent until he took in Marguerite’s presence. He offered a little bow. ‘Is my son helping you adequately, Madame?’
She smiled, repeated her query.
‘Let me check in the ledger. You are…?’
‘Madame de Landois. Her sister is working as my secretary and is worried about her.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ He brought out a thick leather volume with embossed letters on its right. He flicked the pages with great authority.
‘Yes, here we are.’ He adjusted the spectacles on his nose. ‘Yvette Branquart. All paid and up to date. Ah yes, even the two repeats of her prescription. Let’s see, 15 October was the last.’
‘15 October?’ Marguerite edged closer to the counter to stare at the ledger. That was well after Martine had last heard from her sister.
‘Yes, that’s right. Now let me think. That’s right. That’s right. The girl didn’t come in herself. Who was it now?’ He tapped his fingers on the counter.
‘It was Frère Michel,’ his son called out. ‘You remember. You shouted at me because I went after him, even though Madame Forestier was here. Too late. He’d vanished.’ The young man was wild-eyed, almost in tears.
‘Frère Michel, that’s right,’ the father repeated equably.
‘And where can I find this man?’ Marguerite asked.
The chemist raised his hands and shrugged. ‘That, Madame, I’m sorry to say, is not always simple to determine. He comes through Montoire now and again. He stays with various orders. He moves about.’
‘I see.’
‘Madame is disappointed. But never fear. He’ll be back. Next time he comes in my son will question him. He is more than eager to locate the young woman. He lost his heart to her. I fear he also lost his head. It has done nothing for his efficiency. Nothing at all. Well, Jacques. Are those salts measured out yet?’
The son was blushing to the roots of his hair. Marguerite began to feel sorry for him.
‘Please, if you see him, let us know. Let us know straight away. Send a message to La Rochambert. Or, better still, alert him. Tell him we wish to speak to him.’
They had almost reached the door when she turned back. ‘What does he look like, this Frère Michel?’
The chemist shrugged. ‘What they all look like, Madame. Until the Republic puts an end to these religious orders. Brown soutane, scapular. Except he has more wrinkles. Not that he’s a bad man, this one. Quite amenable, if a trifle over-superstitious. Kind to the poor. Good walker, too. Walks everywhere. If the church gave sainthoods for walking rather than silly young women’s visions, Frère Michel would be a saint. Frère Michel of the highways and byways.’
Marguerite stared at the chemist, who was evidently not of her husband’s party. She wished she had come to him earlier. She had a terrible feeling that she had seen Frère Michel just a few hours ago. Seen him without knowing and missed the first significant lead they had come across in all these days.
FOURTEEN
The snow had already begun to melt. Great sucking noises accompanied her boots’ passage. She could feel the wet accumulating on the hem of her dress and petticoat and rising in uneven stains.
In the market square, with its fine array of buildings, the last of the vendors were packing away their wares. Marguerite hurried towards the river where she wanted to inquire quickly once more at the blanchisserie to see if any information had come to light. But the manageress recognised her as soon as she came into the warmth of the steam-filled room. She ushered her out of her girls’ line of vision, behind a vast white sheet, shook her head and said none of her girls, as she had known, could help Madame. She was sorry.
Marguerite rushed back towards the carriage, which was parked to the side of the market square. Stepping round a crate of potatoes, she all but collided with the inspector. ‘Ah Madame, I was just coming to find you. The local police have been most amenable to my persuasion. They will keep the cases open for a little while, but…’
Marguerite interrupted him. ‘Well done, Inspector. In that case, you must go straight to Dr Labrousse’s surgery and ask him to show you the body. I’m hurrying back to find the travellers. There may be someone with them who can help us to find Yvette and save us a great deal of time with our enquiries.’
‘Not without me, Madame. I meant to say to you … I don’t know if you noticed, but that degenerate, that P’tit Ours as you call him, was amongst them. He may be dangerous to you. Watching him, I was quite convinced that he could easily be the man who knocked you down in the woods when you found Danuta. And he certainly must have known her if he was at the funeral. He may have recognised you and wishes you harm. Which was one of the reasons he came to La Rochambert yesterday … I suspect he’s not altogether in charge of his actions or his strength.’
She didn’t contradict Durand, didn’t say it was unlikely that P’tit Ours had seen through her disguise as Antoine, even if her cap had fallen off, given that his sight wasn’t all that good.
‘But he can’t do me any harm in broad daylight.’
‘No, I insist, we must go together or not at all.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The police have also kindly supplied me with a list of names of all the girls in the one local brothel. Yvette Branquart doesn’t figure amongst them, though of course these women can be adept at changing their identity. I shall make enquiries while you wait. As for Blois, it is as you thought. They have no lists here, so the journey is unavoidable.’
Marguerite stared at him. She hadn’t considered that the inspector would be unwilling for her to go into the establishments with him. She needed to go with him. She had an ulterior motive. She wanted to ask the women if any of their fellows had left because of pregnancy. It was unlikely, since most of the prostitutes used pessaries, but accidents happened. She thought she might be able to elicit information from them, certainly read their faces better than Durand would, for all his surface affability.
‘Given the hour, Inspector, the weather and the length of the journey, I suggest we delay the trip to Blois until tomorrow. And I do need to be with you.’
He examined her, his astuteness all in his light eyes, which were just on a level with hers. He coughed, his bushy brows rising, then in a soft voice, as if he were breaching a line of privacy, murmured, ‘I understand, Madame, that you might want to enquire after the foundling at the same time, but I think I can be instrumental there as well. However, if you insist … and if Monsieur le Comte will not take it amiss, should he find out…’
‘I insist, Inspector. You see, I think there is little likelihood that we will find Yvette in Montoire. I doubt that the girl could be so close without anyone at all recognising her, particularly the chemist’s son, who I now realise was in love with her … However, the mother of our little Gabriel may well not be very far. Ah, look. There is Monsieur Villemardi. If he accompanies me to the fairground, you can see Dr Labrousse first of all, and have a bite to eat at the inn, Inspector.’
She waylaid his protests. ‘No, no, I’m not at all hungry, really,’ she insisted, thinking that Olivier might disapprove more of her being seen with the inspector at the inn than of her going discreetly to an establishment no one they knew visited. ‘
Then we shall go together to our local temple of vice. I must hurry, Inspector, if I’m to find my man.’
The horses moved slowly in the melting snow. The fields at the edge of the small town loomed as uncertain as a white-crested sea through the mist on her window. Only Villemardi’s voice was clear. She half listened as he talked excitedly about possible new work, flinging his long hair back every few moments as he did so, his face a swirl of expressions. But only when she heard him pronounce Martine’s name did she focus in and away from her own thoughts.
‘I wonder if Madame would mind if she posed for me. I know Mlle Branquart is on edge, because of her sister, but it might relax her. And she would make a wonderful dancer. On one of my rare trips to the capital, I saw an exceptional figure by Manet. I can see Mademoiselle in a similar pose. I could do something good.’
‘You must put it to her, Monsieur Villemardi. She will have my permission. But tell me, there’s something else I’ve been intending to ask you. You said Père Benoit’s name at birth was Marchand. Is he by any chance related to the Marchands of Troo?’
‘As far as I know, Madame, all the Marchands in the area of Tours are related, though I have never specifically had occasion to enquire of our good curé. I shall ask him for you, if you like. It will give me pleasure.’
Was it because of his attitude to the curé that Marguerite had come to trust Villemardi? Was she right to do so? At the moment, she had little choice.
The travellers were back at their encampment, their wagons and caravans stationed in a semicircle. Some desultory fires burned, meagre protection against the bitter cold. At a little distance, two children were rolling out the base of a snowman.
Marguerite looked round for Mr Rama, since it was with him she had set up some kind of relationship. She was directed to his caravan, a sumptuously coloured affair, with a great cobra coiling round it. He appeared at his door almost before Villemardi had knocked.
‘Ah, my lady. Welcome. Welcome.’
‘I have what I hope is good news for you, Mr Rama. You have permission to stay here for the time being. The mayor understands your predicament and how sad it would be to have to leave so soon after the funeral of one of your colleagues.’
Sacred Ends Page 15
