The Essence of Malice

by Ashley Weaver

  My musings were met with silence.

  “Milo?”

  With a rush of indignation, I recognized that deep, steady breathing. He was already asleep.

  12

  I TOOK NO particular care to keep from waking Milo the next morning, but he slept soundly and was undisturbed by my preparations.

  I bathed and dressed and was just about to leave the room when I noticed his dinner jacket had slid to the ground from the chair where he had carelessly tossed it when he had come in this morning. As Parks was already likely to be highly annoyed that the jacket had been soiled, I thought it best that I keep it from getting rumpled further.

  I scooped the jacket up and noticed a piece of paper on the floor beneath it. Likely it had fallen from Milo’s pocket. Picking it up, I saw that it was a train ticket. That struck me as curious. Milo certainly had not been wearing evening clothes on the train from Italy, and I knew that a ticket would not have escaped Parks’s eagle eye for any length of time. What, then, was it doing in Milo’s pocket?

  I looked closer at the ticket. As I had suspected, it was not the train from Milan. In fact, it was a ticket from Paris to Beauvais. I frowned. We had not been to Beauvais, nor could I think of any reason we should want to go there. What on earth was this doing in Milo’s pocket?

  The realization hit me suddenly, followed by chagrin that it had taken me so long to come to it. Milo had come in so late, not because of the time he had spent gathering information at a nightclub, but because he had taken the train to Beauvais and back. The liquor he had been doused in had probably been spilled on him by an unsteady rider on the train and not an inebriated woman.

  I went over in my mind what he had told me last night. Thinking about it now, I didn’t see how the conversation he had had with the morgue employee, René, could have taken more than half an hour. Whatever Milo had been doing last night, it was clear that he had not spent the entire evening in a nightclub.

  I recognized that familiar sinking feeling accompanied by a surge of indignation. My husband had lied to me.

  * * *

  I DRESSED CAREFULLY for my meeting with Cecile Belanger that afternoon. I wanted to continue to cultivate the impression of a woman of leisure with money to spare. The Belangers might be from humble origins, but they were decidedly discerning in their tastes now.

  I selected a black suit with a loose jacket over a black silk shirt with white polka dots. I chose my pearl necklace and bracelet to accent it, as well as a plain black hat with a feather. It was a subtle choice, but one that I thought would fit well with Cecile Belanger’s understated elegance.

  I bid Milo good-bye without asking him about the ticket I had found in his pocket. I needed time to decide how I wanted to address it. I was sure there was a perfectly good explanation, or at least one that seemed good to him. Whatever it was, something told me to bide my time. That didn’t mean, however, that I did not ponder the matter for my entire cab ride.

  The Belanger home seemed just as imposing as it had on the night of the party. I hoped that today would prove more useful to the investigation than the party had been.

  I was admitted and led into a small sitting room. It was exquisitely decorated in shades that reminded me of a flower garden in the spring. The furniture was pale violet satin, the curtains rose-colored velvet. Oil paintings of decadent bouquets hung in heavy silver frames. Even the paper on the walls was a muted floral design. The room spoke of taste and luxury, and the scent of lavender hung in the air.

  A moment after I had entered the room and taken a seat near the marble fireplace, Cecile Belanger came in. I was surprised to see that she was followed by the elder Belanger brother, Anton. They were both dressed in black and looked solemn and striking in contrast to the soft colors of the room. I was glad I had chosen a similarly subdued ensemble.

  “Thank you for having me today,” I said to Cecile when we had exchanged pleasantries. “I realize there must be a great many other pressing matters you have to attend to.”

  “There are many details to discuss, and I was unsure of how long you intend to remain in Paris,” she replied. “My brother Anton has decided to join us. As you know, he is acting as the head of Parfumes Belanger now.” There was a tightness about the words, as though she was almost unwilling to say them. I wondered if she would continue to accept his rule without question. Given what I had overheard between them on the night of the party, I didn’t think so.

  “How do you do, madame?” he said in a tone that made it clear he was not at all interested in how I did. Anton Belanger, it appeared, did not have his brother’s outward charm. Instead, he looked as though he was trying very hard to tamp down his impatience. There were better things to do than to cater to an Englishwoman seeking to indulge her vanity.

  I suspected that he was annoyed with his sister for agreeing to do business with me. I was certain the Belanger family was not in particular need of our money, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Cecile had done it expressly to annoy her brother.

  It could very well be, of course, that Anton Belanger was grief-stricken and resented the intrusion so soon after his father’s death. Under normal circumstances, that would have been my assumption. Having seen, however, the somewhat callous way he had staked his right to the Belanger throne at the party, I did not think that it was the case.

  It would be difficult, I thought, to play to both of them in the same room. After all, they were vying for power and I couldn’t very well support both of them at once. Then again, I supposed there was a way I could offer something both of them wanted. Anton craved respect, and I thought Cecile would respond to sympathy. It was only a matter of finding a balance between the two.

  We settled ourselves and the maid brought tea to us. I noticed that the food was much more British than French.

  “We have become accustomed to taking English tea,” Cecile said, as though following my thoughts. “Beryl is very particular about her teatime.” I could not infer from her words what she thought about her stepmother.

  I glanced at Anton Belanger, wondering if his feelings on the matter might be apparent, but there was nothing on his features.

  “We drink Turkish coffee and Indian chai just as often,” Anton said, and I was a bit surprised that he had joined the conversation. “Our father was a man of the world and embraced all it had to offer. He adopted many foreign customs and spoke seven languages. He raised us to speak several as well, making it usually possible for us to converse with our clients in their own languages.” I had noticed that both of them initiated their conversations with me in English, despite my willingness to converse in French, and now I understood why. It was a part of the Belanger technique, another small way to indulge their clientele. Helios Belanger had been a smart man.

  “Your father sounds like a fascinating man,” I said.

  “He was,” Cecile replied, her tone softer than I had yet heard it. Anton did not comment.

  The fragrance of the tea floated up to me, and I took in the aroma. “This tea smells wonderful,” I said. “Jasmine?”

  “Yes. The nanny who looks after my young sister created it for us. She spent many years in England and said she knew a lovely recipe for tea. My father was especially fond of it. He took a cup every night.”

  “How nice,” I said, hoping to shift the conversation away from Madame Nanette. I didn’t want to risk revealing a connection between her and Milo.

  “I have enjoyed Belanger scents for many years,” I said, taking a sip of my tea. “I am quite excited to have a scent of my own.”

  Cecile nodded. “I hope that we will prove worthy of carrying on his legacy.”

  A hint of a frown flickered across Anton’s handsome brow, but he said nothing.

  “I’m sure you shall,” I said quickly.

  “My father was a great man,” Cecile said. I glanced at Anton, wondering if he had noticed that she had not said “our father.” It seemed as though Cecile had decided to proceed as if her brother wer
e not in the room.

  If he had found the phrase insulting, he did not show it. In fact, I was not entirely sure that he was listening to us. He had lit a cigarette and was smoking it, his eyes off in one corner of the room.

  “He was a man unlike anyone I ever met,” she said. “He told me once that as a young man he had dreamed of far-off places. When he was little more than a child, often sleeping on the cool ground, he would look up at the stars and imagine that he was in some far-flung country. He was a man who made his dreams come true.

  “He later traveled the world from Egypt to Persia to India. He saw their wonders and he gathered their scents. I think that was one reason that he loved perfume. He said that each perfume was a combination of memories for him. He turned the things, the experiences he loved, into a tangible object. I don’t know of any other man who could have done it as my father did.”

  She spoke eloquently, and I felt a pang of sadness that so rich and vibrant a life had come so abruptly to an end. What a waste, that all that knowledge, the passion that came with taking fragrances and turning them into a physical substance, was gone. I was glad that Cecile Belanger seemed to have inherited that passion from her father. Parfumes Belanger would be in good hands. Provided Anton allowed her to take part in it.

  “I expected that your husband would be here to discuss the details,” Anton said suddenly, breaking into Cecile’s sentimental reveries. I understood, of course, what he meant. He had expected Milo to handle the financial aspects of this particular transaction. Well, I was well versed on that score.

  “My husband knows that I am perfectly capable of discussing the details myself,” I told him pleasantly.

  Again, he did a poor job of hiding his annoyance. “Very well. Then let’s discuss the price, shall we?”

  We did, and I found that Monsieur Belanger drove a hard bargain. I had expected the price to be high, and it was. As Milo had pointed out, however, it was a small price to pay if it helped us to solve a murder. I could really think of no other means of spending considerable time with the Belanger family. After all, if I had not come up with this scheme, I would certainly not be having tea with them now.

  The negotiations finished, Anton seemed to have lost all interest in the proceedings. “I will leave you two now, to discuss the details,” he said, rising. “I am pleased to have met you, Madame Ames.”

  With that, he turned and left the room. I was, admittedly, glad to see him go. It was not that he made me uneasy—I had interacted with dour personalities often enough—but I was glad for the chance to speak with Cecile alone.

  “You must excuse my brother,” she said when he had gone. “Anton has never been very good at social niceties. I suppose he is somewhat like my father in that sense.”

  “Which of you is more like your father?” I asked.

  The question seemed to catch her off guard, and for a moment I was worried that I might have said the wrong thing. Then she seemed to consider the question.

  “We are both like him, I suppose. I have my father’s passion, but Anton has his determination, his desire to succeed.”

  “I imagine he was very proud of both of you.”

  A shadow crossed her eyes. “I believe that he was, yes.”

  I wondered if it had occurred to Anton and Cecile that they would have a much better chance of success if they worked together. The traits they had inherited from their father would best be used in combination. It was not my place to say so, however. That was something they would have to work out on their own.

  “Well,” she said, seeming to rouse herself. “Now we will get to the pleasant part. We will discuss scents.” There was a sudden light in her eyes.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about the way perfume is made,” I said. “I am relying on you.”

  “The science of scent,” she said, seated on the edge of the satin chair, her hands folded in her lap, “is something which cannot be explained in a few moments. Indeed, it is really something that requires a lifetime to master. I have studied a long time and there is still much I have to learn. I imagine many people believe that it’s just a shake of orchid and a dab of rosewater that creates perfume in the bottle. It’s nothing at all like that. It’s much more mysterious. It is chemical and yet magical.”

  She looked up as though she suddenly felt that she had been talking too much, but her smile was not an embarrassed one. Rather, she looked a bit amused at the idea that anyone might not care as much for the subject as she. “You must excuse me. I do tend to run on about perfume.”

  I smiled. “I find it fascinating.”

  She studied me for a moment, as though looking for falsity in my words, but I had been perfectly sincere. I admired both her passion and the skill that was required to pursue it.

  Cecile stood, then, smoothing out her skirt. “Neither of my brothers has what it takes to become a master parfumier. Anton, perhaps, has the brains for it, but not the heart. Making perfume is like making music. One can know all the right notes, but if there is no true feeling, the piece is missing something. It doesn’t capture the senses.”

  “I’ve never thought about it in that way,” I said, “but I suppose you’re right.”

  “My father understood this. Many people thought he was a hard man, and he was in some ways, despite his kindness. But there was something else in him, the heart of an artist. We understood one another.”

  She stopped again. “But I talk too much. Never mind. Would you like to see my scent garden?”

  I hesitated ever so slightly, unsure of what she meant.

  “It started as a small garden in the courtyard, a collection of flowers and herbs that I thought would help me to hone my sense of smell. I wanted to really be able to differentiate between the notes in the perfume. My garden grew, and then I began to become interested in some plants that were not exactly suited to our climate. My father gave me the old greenhouse and helped me choose plants for it. As my collection grew, so did the greenhouse. My father expanded it for me several times. I’m very proud of it.”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  I followed her from the sitting room and through the house, out into the little courtyard where I had encountered Michel the night of the party. The scent of flowers was as strong here today as it had been then, and I could see what I had not been able to see that night. The little courtyard was part of a garden, awash in color and scent. Forsythia, lilac, and mimosa were in bloom, and the branches of the cherry blossom tree along the stone wall swayed in the breeze. Along the walk grew a profusion of flowers: daffodils, peonies, irises, nasturtiums, and the delicate bell-shaped lilies of the valley.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said sincerely.

  “Not all of the plants here are suitable for perfumery, of course, but it is nice to surround oneself with flowers. Do you garden, Madame Ames?”

  “I have a small flower garden at our country home, though it is rather a paltry effort compared to this.”

  She shrugged. “I do not spend much time outside of Paris. My plants give me something to occupy my time. If you’ll come this way.”

  We rounded a flowering bush, and came face-to-face with Beryl Belanger.

  “Oh,” she said. “Hello.”

  She looked even smaller up close than she had from afar, standing on the staircase at the party. Again I had the impression of a delicate little bird, her eyes fluttering from Cecile to me and back again.

  I was not sure why, but I felt that there was something almost guilty in her expression. I wondered if it had to do with the fact that she held a basket with freshly cut roses in it. Perhaps she had been poaching in Cecile’s private reserve.

  “Hello, Beryl,” Cecile said. “Allow me to introduce you to Madame Ames. Madame Ames, this is my father’s widow, Beryl Belanger.” She made this unfaltering introduction without emotion, but I thought Beryl flinched a bit at the word “widow.” Cecile was a difficult woman to read. I tried and failed to determine what her feelings for h
er young stepmother might be. Whatever she felt, she was very careful not to make it apparent.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ames,” Beryl said. “Cecile mentioned that she is creating a perfume for you. I’m sure it will be wonderful. My husband was very proud of her talents.”

  “Have you been in the greenhouse?” Cecile asked. Her tone was pleasant, but I felt almost as though it held a note of scolding. I wondered what the dynamic in the house had been with Cecile, who had been her father’s protégée, and the young woman who had been his wife. It seemed that Cecile’s personality was much stronger, and I could believe that it would not be easy for Beryl Belanger in this house now that her husband was dead.

  “I … no,” Beryl said. “These are the roses from the other side of the garden. I thought they would be nice in a vase in the sitting room.”

  “Yes,” Cecile said. “I only wanted to make sure that, if you had been there, that you had made sure to secure the door. I found it ajar a few days ago, and I should hate for Seraphine to wander in one day. There are a great many dangerous plants, not to mention my chemicals.”

  “I don’t go into the greenhouse,” Beryl said.

  “Well, someone was there,” Cecile said. “Perhaps I ought to get a lock.”

  “Yes, perhaps you should,” Beryl replied agreeably.

  So the greenhouse contained dangerous plants and chemicals and was left unlocked. It seemed, then, that anyone might have access to poisons necessary to kill Helios Belanger.

  “Well, if you will excuse us,” Cecile said. “I am going to show the greenhouse to Madame Ames.”

  “It was very nice to have met you,” I told Beryl.

  “Yes, I’m so pleased I was here when you came,” she said. “It has been a very long time since I was in London. Perhaps we will meet again before you go home and you can tell me the news.”

  “I would like that,” I said.

  She went on her way then and Cecile turned to me. “My stepmother is very fond of plants, though she chooses them more for the way they look than the way they smell.”