The Essence of Malice

by Ashley Weaver

  “Not at all. I understand very well the allure of perfume.”

  “I heard only recently that Cecile Belanger wears her own unique perfume, and the novelty of the idea struck me. I thought it would be wonderful to have a scent all my own.”

  “I see,” he said. I could tell that he did not believe me. I wondered if there was any way he suspected my motives. I didn’t see how he could, but I could not rule out the possibility. I would have to tread carefully.

  “Perhaps it was not an ideal time to approach the matter, given Monsieur Belanger’s death, but I have always been one to seize opportunities.”

  He smiled, leaning forward ever so slightly. “I am also one to seize opportunities. I agree that sometimes one must strike while the iron is hot.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Besides,” he said. “It will be good for Cecile to have something to focus on. She was very close to her father, and I know his death has shaken her.”

  “Yes, she has spoken very fondly of him,” I said.

  “He taught her well, and she will do him proud. She’ll run things as well as he ever did. I’ve offered to fly her to Grasse to tend to things at the factory when she’s ready.”

  “I’m sure she will be glad to have the company.”

  I wondered if I should steer the topic away from Monsieur Belanger’s death. I didn’t want André to think I was unduly curious. I had already asked him a great deal of questions over the course of our short acquaintance. He seemed as though he wanted to protect Cecile, and I imagined that protective instinct was what had made him wary of my inquiries.

  “I just don’t know that I could ever be comfortable in an aeroplane,” I said, taking a bite of my lovely bouillabaisse. “But perhaps it takes getting used to. Have you been flying long?”

  “Yes, I signed up for the war and became a pilot. It made for an eventful war. I was shot down over Germany, in fact,” he said. “I parachuted and made it out safely, but it isn’t something I would care to repeat.”

  “No, I imagine not. I think it’s wonderful that you continued to fly after such an experience.”

  “Once flying gets in one’s blood, I’m afraid there’s no cure,” he said with a smile.

  I laughed. “Then I shall blame you if my husband contracts that particular disease.”

  “I should hate to be in your bad graces, Amory.”

  “Well, you have given me your lovely perfume, so I feel as though it will be difficult for me to be angry with you for long.”

  “It will be nothing compared to L’Ange de Mémoire, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I think your perfume speaks of quality.”

  “I hope so. Monsieur Belanger taught me quite a lot. In fact, he was annotating a book on perfumery for me. I was anxious to learn some of his techniques.”

  This piqued my interest. I wondered if André was aware that Helios Belanger had been developing a new, highly secret process for L’Ange de Mémoire. I could not help but feel that André was an ideal suspect when it came to the missing formula. The fact remained, however, that he had not been in Paris the night of Monsieur Belanger’s accident. It would have been impossible for him to switch the formulas in the attaché case.

  “It sounds selfish, I suppose,” he said, “but I do hope I can get the book back. I’m sure it will prove very valuable. When the time is right, I need to ask Cecile if she can locate it.”

  I thought this might be as good a time as any to shift the topic toward Beryl and Herr Muller. Given his former ties to the family, it was just possible he might have some information to share.

  “The L’Ange de Mémoire bottle is very lovely,” I said. “I recently met Herr Muller. He was at a nightclub when Milo and I went to dinner, and I was able to speak with him.”

  “He seems to be quite a character,” he said. “I don’t know him well, of course, but it appears to me that he thinks rather highly of his art.”

  “He seemed rather taken by his model, Angelique,” I said, hoping that this might prod him to tell me more about the affairs of the Belangers.

  He laughed suddenly. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “I understand she’s very beautiful.”

  “Yes, among other things,” he said dryly.

  “And she was Michel Belanger’s mistress?” I knew that such things were not exactly polite conversation, but sometimes there was no other way to get the information one was seeking than to be blunt.

  “She was something of the kind,” André said. “Despite the fact that I was very close to Cecile, I saw little of Michel and Angelique. They preferred their company a bit livelier, I’m afraid.”

  “Their romance was doomed to failure, then?”

  “If you could call it a romance. They seemed to enjoy getting into public rows more than anything else. Once she threw a knife at him, so the story goes.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. “It does sound like rather a contentious relationship.”

  He smiled a bit grimly. “Michel seems to enjoy that sort of thing. He has rather a violent temper. He’s constantly getting into rows. Nearly killed a man once.”

  “I didn’t realize,” I said.

  “I’d say Angelique, troublesome though she is, was well rid of him.”

  “It seems there has been a great deal of unrest in the Belanger home,” I said mildly.

  “Yes. But I’m surprised your husband didn’t tell you all of this,” he said.

  I frowned. “Why should Milo know about this?”

  “I told him. We’ve spent evenings gambling together, and I’m afraid I indulged in a bit of gossip. It seems your husband isn’t inclined to tell tales.”

  “No,” I said as lightly as I could manage. “I suppose it must have slipped his mind.”

  So Milo had been gathering information all along and hadn’t shared it with me.

  André had confirmed what I already knew. First, the motives for Helios Belanger’s murder were plentiful. Second, my husband was an absolute wretch.

  18

  MADAME NANETTE ARRIVED punctually for tea, and I showed her to the little sitting area where the hotel maid had laid things out.

  “I’m afraid Milo was called away on some business,” I said as I poured the steaming liquid. “He asked me to make his excuses.”

  “We can do without him,” she said with a smile. “To be honest, I am glad we have the opportunity to talk alone, you and I.”

  “Yes, it will be nice to get to know each other better,” I said. I handed her a cup and saucer and took my own to the seat across from her. “I’m very glad we’ve had the chance to visit with you, despite the circumstances.”

  “So am I. I feel already as though I have learned a great deal about you.” Her warm eyes met mine. “You are just the type of woman I hoped Milo would marry.”

  “Oh?” I asked, a bit surprised.

  “Yes, I knew he would marry a beautiful woman, but I had hoped she would also be a good woman. I am pleased that you are both.”

  “Thank you,” I said, touched by her words.

  “I am not surprised that he also chose someone strong and intelligent with a good head on her shoulders, a woman who would challenge him; he would have tired easily of anything less.”

  “What was Milo like as a child?” I asked. I wasn’t sure where the question had come from, but I was suddenly very eager to know. Perhaps no one was in a better position than Madame Nanette to help me understand him.

  She smiled. “He was much as he is now—charming and full of mischief.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “I should have known, I suppose, that he has always been that way.”

  “Hold on a moment. I have something for you.” She picked up her handbag and reached inside. A moment later she pulled out a small, square leather-bound book and handed it to me.

  I opened it to the first page, and my heart clenched a little at the face that looked up at me. I had never seen a photograph of M
ilo as a child—he had kept very few mementoes of his early life so far as I knew—but it was somehow exactly as I might have imagined he would have looked. I could see the man he had become in the child’s face, the line of his jaw, the blue gaze showing pale in the sepia photograph, the glossy black hair. But it was the precocious smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth and the glint in his eyes that I recognized most clearly. For some reason I felt tears come to my eyes.

  “He was an adorable child,” I said.

  She nodded. “A very handsome boy. He was smart, too, and good-natured. He developed his charm very young and always knew how to work it to the best advantage.”

  I had expected no less. I had always believed Milo had been born with the knack for convincing people to do as he wished.

  Madame Nanette smiled, confirming my thoughts. “It was very difficult to refuse him anything he wanted.”

  I could well imagine it.

  “I kept this book of photographs and other souvenirs of his childhood,” she said. “When I left, I brought it with me to give to him later.”

  I flipped through the pages. There was a photograph of a very young Milo astride a horse, looking as though he had been born for riding. Another showed him standing in front of Thornecrest, our country house. I felt an unexpected twinge of maternal longing as I looked at them. Perhaps one day I would have my own dark-haired child standing with Milo in that very spot.

  The book also contained an array of seemingly inconsequential things: pressed flowers, dried leaves, and feathers—the little things that would have been important to a young boy. There were also a few letters he had written to her, ranging from a childhood note with large, misspelled words and slanted script to a strong, confident hand he had developed as he went away to school. On the last page there was a clipping of our wedding announcement.

  “It’s a wonderful book,” I said. I was reluctant to hand it back to her, for I could not help feeling that some key to unlocking at least some of my husband’s secrets lay in its pages.

  “I’d like you to keep it,” she said. “I was saving it for Milo.”

  I was deeply touched. “Thank you. I shall treasure it.”

  “Has he ever told you how I came to be his nanny?” she asked, taking a sip of her tea.

  “No,” I said. “He hasn’t told me much about his childhood.”

  Milo was not the sort to indulge in nostalgia. Aside from a few fond references to Madame Nanette, I had heard very little about his life before we met.

  “I was engaged by Mrs. Ames before Milo was born,” she said. “I was young, French, and inexperienced, so I did not think I had much of a chance at the position. But she took a liking to me at once. She said I had a kind face and that was what most mattered to her.”

  “What was his mother like?” I asked.

  “She was a beautiful woman. Black hair and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. I didn’t know her long, but I was very impressed with her. She was not like many women, ready to send the child out of sight to the nursery. She was very keen to be a mother.”

  I wished Milo had been able to know her.

  “She sounds lovely.”

  “You know that she died when he was born.”

  I nodded.

  “It was something of a shock to everyone. The delivery went well, but she died suddenly of a hemorrhage the following day. Mr. Ames, Milo’s father, was devastated. He was quite mad about his wife, and there was some worry after she died that he might do something drastic.”

  This was a new piece of information. I had always wondered about Milo’s father. It had been obvious in the way that Milo referenced him that they had not been close. I had attributed their lack of a good relationship to Milo’s youthful wildness, but perhaps the rift ran deeper than that.

  “Mr. Ames had very little to do with him. Milo tried, I think, to win his father’s affection at a young age, but he soon realized that it was useless. Perhaps that was when he decided to win the affection of everyone else.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Perhaps so.” I was glad that she had shared this with me. I sometimes felt as though I knew almost nothing about my husband. It was enlightening to learn something about his childhood.

  “I’m glad he had you as a child,” I told her.

  “I very much enjoyed raising him. He has not always behaved properly, but he was a good boy at heart. So, you see, it was lucky that things went as they did with Helios Belanger.”

  I had wondered about the details of her relationship with Helios Belanger, and now that she had brought it up, I felt that I could ask.

  “What happened with you and Monsieur Belanger?”

  She let out a soft breath that might have been a sigh. “It is hard to say, I suppose. We were very young. One feels so sure of one’s feelings at that age. With youth there is a feeling of invincibility. It is only when you get older that you begin to realize that life is not always going to be the way you expect it to be.”

  “You grew apart?” I asked.

  “Not exactly that,” she said. “Helios had begun to excel at his amateur perfumery. The apothecary for whom he worked saw his potential and began to send Helios to gather ingredients, first throughout France, then across Europe, then farther. Before long, Helios was traveling the world. Still, I thought our love would last. He sent me letters frequently and brought me back gifts from strange and exotic places.”

  “Did you ever talk about marriage?” I asked.

  “Not in so many words. Of course, a young woman always thinks of such things. It was after one trip, however, that everything changed. He came home and told me that we could no longer be together, that our lives were taking us on different paths.”

  “You had no inkling that he was thinking such things?”

  “No, I thought … well, I thought wrong. I didn’t ask questions. If he wanted his freedom, I would let him have it. And so I wished him well and went on my way.”

  “And you hadn’t spoken to him in all these years?”

  She shook her head. “He had moved on with his life, and I had moved on with mine. There was no reason for us to speak.”

  “Why do you think it was that he asked you to come and look after his child?”

  “I have considered that,” she said. “His letter was formal, polite. He gave no particular reason for his request. As I said, I had recently left a post, and, of course, I was curious about what had become of Helios. I saw no reason to refuse the opportunity.”

  “Did you never discuss the past?” I asked.

  She hesitated. I realized that it was a personal question, but I was very curious to know the answer.

  “We did. Only once. It was late one evening not long ago. I had put Seraphine to bed and was passing along the corridor when he came up the stairs. ‘Good evening, Monsieur,’ I said, thinking to say no more. But he put his hand on my arm. He looked at me strangely, and suddenly I felt that all the years had slipped away and I was looking at him as he was then. ‘I hope you are happy, Nanette,’ he said. ‘I cared greatly for you.’”

  I felt as though I was holding my breath, waiting for her to go on, but she merely shrugged. “I said, ‘Thank you.’ And then it seemed as though he came to himself and he dropped his hand from my arm and went along without another word.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I didn’t really know what to make of it. Within the month he was dead. I wish, in a way, that I had said something in return.”

  She shifted the conversation then and we talked of other things, but I felt the shadow of it remained. Though she was not the type of woman who would want sympathy, I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for her. To lose love once was a difficult thing; she had loved and lost the same man twice.

  * * *

  AFTER MADAME NANETTE had gone, I sat contemplating the details of the case. It seemed as though the mystery of Helios Belanger’s death was constantly revealing new facets, and it was difficult to make sense of th
e resulting shape of things.

  I was roused from my reverie by a good deal of chattering coming from Emile’s cage. I went to open the door and he leapt at once into my arms. I was a bit startled as he climbed to my shoulder, but he made several amiable noises and gently patted my hair.

  “You’re a good little fellow, aren’t you?” I said.

  He seemed to agree with me.

  I took him to the sofa, and was feeding him bits of apple when Winnelda came in to help me dress for dinner.

  “Oh, you’ve taken him out!” she cried excitedly. She moved to the sitting area and absently picked up the leather memory book that Madame Nanette had given me from the chair, before taking a seat there.

  Emile chattered loudly and, jumping into Winnelda’s lap, took the book from her and brought it back to me.

  “I beg your pardon,” Winnelda said with every appearance of sincerity. “I didn’t mean to take what didn’t belong to me.”

  I supposed it was one of the monkey’s quirks. I had heard of such animals being trained as pickpockets, but it seemed that mine was extraordinarily conscious of the personal belongings of others.

  For the next several minutes Emile entertained us with his repertoire of tricks, the pièce de résistance of which was a backward flip from the arm of the sofa to the floor. That seemed a good time to return him to his cage, and I began to prepare for dinner.

  It was getting quite late, and there was no sign of Milo. He had been gone for the better part of the day, doing heaven knows what, and I was growing increasingly cross with him. Not just for today, but for his behavior over the course of our stay in Paris.

  I was sitting at my dressing table in my slip, Winnelda smoothing out the waves in my hair, when I at last heard him come in.

  I didn’t look away from the mirror as he came into the bedroom. “Hello, darling,” he said.

  “So you’ve seen fit to come back, have you?” I replied.

  “I told you I wouldn’t miss dinner.”

  “You’ve told me things you didn’t mean before.” Try as I might, I could not keep my anger at bay. I felt very much as though I wanted to quarrel with him, but if we were to have a successful evening, now was not the time.