* * * * *
Evidently Eug?nie was convinced that her husband was still alive, for the apartment bore no signs of formal mourning and she wore a stylish indigo-blue day dress, though Aristide thought that her pallor and the dark smudges beneath her eyes betrayed her anxiety over his whereabouts. She did not rise from the divan on which she was reclining, but gestured them to chairs in the green and yellow salon, where Sophie and Marguerite sat sewing beside the comfortable fire burning in the hearth. The pale winter sun shone in the windows, burnishing Eug?nie's golden hair into an aureole about her head.
"Have-have you any news about my husband?" Her gray eyes rested on Aristide for a moment before moving to Derville.
Aristide shook his head. "No, madame, I fear any news I might have is probably bad. He's not appeared, or sent you any word?"
"No. Nothing."
"Madame," said Derville, "do you have any idea what Monsieur Saint-Landry might have been up to?something connected to his status as a Freemason?"
"Up to?" she said blankly, looking from one to the other of them.
"He might have been part of-of some sort of plot."
Her eyes widened. "But Lambert has always insisted that the Masons were a benevolent society."
"We've no reason to think otherwise," Aristide said. "But it's possible, don't you see, that your husband committed some offense against them, real or imaginary, and some madman among them murdered him."
"Lambert?" she echoed him. "I don't know what he could possibly have done to offend anyone."
"He's the most inoffensive of men," said Sophie, looking up from her sewing. "He's kind and domestic and dull. I don't think he's ever been in a quarrel in his life. Or, at least," she added, with a quick smile, "not since he got in a fight as a schoolboy and had one of his teeth knocked out. I expect he learned his lesson-"
"He was missing a tooth?" Aristide exclaimed. "Just the one?"
"Yes. Just there," she said, pointing to her left cheek. "One of the upper ones. You can't see it, thank goodness, unless he laughs." Suddenly her smile faded and she looked straight at him. "You saw the-this man before he?disappeared. He had a tooth missing, too, didn't he?"
"I fear so. In the same spot as you describe; I noticed it at the morgue."
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut and stifled a sob. Derville half rose from his chair, but Marguerite was quicker and hurried to her with a handkerchief. She shot Aristide a baleful glare before pressing Sophie to her and letting the girl weep into her shoulder.
"No," said Eug?nie. She half rose from the divan and propped herself up, her back rigid. "No, it's simply a coincidence. I won't believe it."
Aristide turned to her. "Madame, all the evidence we've-"
"No!" she cried. "He's not dead! He must be away on some secret errand-something for Monsieur de Beaupr?au and the rest. Lambert will come back-you'll see! He will come back!"
Derville took a step toward her, but she abruptly clapped a hand to her mouth, scrambled from the divan, and fled the room. For a moment the salon was silent but for Sophie's muffled sobs.
"I'm all right, Marguerite," she said at last, drawing a long breath. She clasped her cousin's hand and gave her a weak smile. "I'm all right."
Marguerite nodded. "If you'll excuse me, messieurs, I'd better see to Madame Saint-Landry."
"Monsieur Ravel," Sophie said, after Marguerite had quitted them, "how did my brother die?"
Oh, Lord, he said to himself. "He, er, his-"
She sat up straight and faced them, her small chin set at a determined angle. "I want the truth, please. You needn't hide it from me."
"His throat was cut, mademoiselle," he said. He looked away as she gave a little gasp of horror. "The morgue attendant said he would have-it would have been over almost at once. He didn't suffer."
"That's a blessing, I suppose," Derville said at last, in the silence.
"What must we do now?" said Sophie.
Aristide looked at her, hoping the sudden panic he felt did not show in his face. Brasseur was far too optimistic about his talents as an investigator, he thought, and now Sophie seemed to think he was in charge of finding her brother's corpse, and perhaps even his killer, when in truth he had no idea what to do next.
A maid entered, bearing tiny glasses of liqueur on a tray. Aristide took one and stared at the crystal facets, wondering what Brasseur would do. Collect further information about the household, he decided, now it seemed certain-despite Eug?nie's stubborn insistence that her husband would return-that the murdered man had been Saint-Landry.
"How many are you in the household, please?"
"Only the four of us," said Sophie, staring at her clasped hands. "Lambert, Eug?nie, Marguerite, and myself. No children. And the servants, of course." She counted them off on her fingers. "Marie-Anne, the cook; Jacques, the man of all work; Victoire and Babette, the maids."
"No coachman or housekeeper?" he said, scribbling notes. He had remembered to bring an extra pencil with him this time, and a penknife for sharpening it.
She smiled slightly. "We're not that grand. Lambert likes to-liked to economize where he could, despite his wealth. He flatly refused to bear the expense of keeping a carriage and pair."
"Even though Eug?nie tried her best to cajole him into it," Derville added.
"Yes, he'd always insist that a carriage hired by the day, when needed, was quite sufficient. And Marguerite manages the servants."
"I like to earn my keep," Marguerite said, returning and overhearing, "and I believe I'm good at it."
"And you, mademoiselle-"
"Madame," Derville corrected him.
"Madame Fournier. I'm a widow."
Aristide nodded. "I'm sorry."
"You needn't be," she said. "My husband spent all my dowry, and gave me a black eye whenever he was drunk, which was most of the time."
"The only thing he did properly, I hear," said Derville, "was to die quickly."
"He treated her very badly indeed," Sophie said indignantly, looking up, "and left her with practically nothing. Lambert took her in, as a companion for Eug?nie and me. It was just kindness. She's my mother's cousin, not his."
"Couldn't you have joined a religious order, madame?" Aristide said, curious. That was, he thought, what most women in such a situation would have done; the convent provided them with a home, security, companionship, and useful work.
Marguerite shook her head. "It's not the life for me."
"Marguerite had already entered a convent when she was a girl," Sophie said, "but she left before taking final vows."
"It didn't suit me," the older woman said simply.
"So her mother arranged a marriage for her, and-well, you can see how successful that was."
"And you all-here in this household-get along well enough?" Aristide said hurriedly, before the conversation turned entirely to women's gossip.
"Of course," said Marguerite. "Nothing worse than the usual bickering at times."
He glanced at his notebook, in which, at the morgue, he had scrawled "Died between 9 in the evening and early morning." "Where were you-all of you-on Monday night, when Monsieur Saint-Landry left the apartment? He left at about eleven, is that right?"
"Yes. Marguerite and I played cards that evening," said Sophie, "while we waited for Lambert to return, but finally, since he'd told us not to stay up for him, we went to bed. That must have been a little after midnight. Say quarter past twelve, or half past."
"And Madame Saint-Landry?"
Sophie looked blank, but Marguerite nodded. "She went to bed just a little while after Lambert left the house."
"Forgive me for asking," Aristide said, "but could anyone have left the apartment, late at night, without the rest of the household knowing?"
"You suspect Madame Saint-Landry?" Derville said quickly.
"No, this was a man's crime, not a woman's."
"I certainly agree," said Derville. "Can you really imagine Eug?nie attacking Saint-Landry with a knife?"
Aristide shook his head. Eug?nie Saint-Landry was of a small, slender build; such a woman would never have had the sheer physical strength to commit such a murder.
"At any rate, I think it would be impossible for Eug?nie to have left the house so late, unnoticed," Marguerite said, as if reading his thoughts. "Poor Lambert was murdered in the middle of the night, wasn't he?"
"They do keep separate bedrooms," Sophie broke in.
"Yes; that's my point. Eug?nie is rather delicate. She's subject to nightmares and nervous fits, and so she insists that her maid sleep in her boudoir, just a few steps away. Babette's a light sleeper. She could never have gone out in the middle of the night without Babette knowing. And if any of us had left the house at that hour, surely someone would have noticed a woman alone on the street, wouldn't they?"
"Yes, I imagine so." Anything so unexpected and unseemly as a woman who was not a laborer, a beggar, a professional midwife, or a prostitute, on foot alone in the streets after midnight, would have been remarked upon, and remembered, by the Guard or late-going passersby. "Er, what about the servants?"
"Babette sleeps in Eug?nie's boudoir," Marguerite said. "Marie-Anne and Victoire share a room in the attics, and Jacques sleeps in the kitchen. I don't think any one of those three could have crept out without rousing one of the others. But what earthly motive could any of them have had to murder Lambert?"
"Are any of the women young and pretty?" he said, thinking of angry fathers, brothers, or sweethearts.
"Nonsense," she said briskly.
"Saint-Landry wasn't that sort of man," Derville agreed. "Sober and domestic, all the way. I don't believe he even kept a mistress. And what sort of man would want a chambermaid when he was married to a beautiful woman like Eug?nie?"
"Marie-Anne and Babette are both fairly young," Marguerite said, "but they seem happy and content here. If either of them was carrying on with Lambert-which I find most unlikely-then there were no hard feelings, as far as I can tell."
"Even if he'd?well?gotten one of them into trouble?" he inquired, with a glance at Sophie, hoping he was not shocking her.
"As I said, they both seem content. I think I'd have noticed if one of them were worried or upset."
"How old is your male domestic?" he said suddenly, remembering that the sexton at the graveyard had mentioned a young man.
"Jacques? Oh, perhaps fifty."
Think, he said to himself, staring down at his notes, which seemed extraordinarily inadequate.
Gain, jealousy, revenge, self-preservation, love.
"Who benefits?" he blurted out. "I mean-where does Monsieur Saint-Landry's fortune go?"
"To me, I suppose," Sophie said, after a moment's thought. "Eug?nie brought quite an adequate dowry to the marriage."
Which she would receive back, of course, when the estate was settled, always assuming the Saint-Landry fortune was intact. But a wealthy man with a well-dowered wife would not have needed to make any special provisions for her possible widowhood.
"And they've never had any children," Marguerite said, nodding, "so I think Sophie would indeed be his only heir."
"Got any fortune hunters hounding you, Sophie?" Derville inquired.
"Only a few very respectable young men with excellent prospects," Sophie said. "That's how Lambert described them, at any rate."
"And how do you describe them?"
Aristide could have sworn that her glance flicked toward him for an instant before she replied, with a sad smile, "Very respectable, and very boring."
"No wedding bells in your immediate future, eh?"
"Oh, no. Not with one of them."
"So no one you know of would have realistic hopes of marrying you for your fortune," Aristide said, "and?and murdering your brother to hurry matters along?"
"No, certainly not."
Again he sensed that her glance was sliding toward him and he hastily looked down at his notes.
From what he had learned of the late Jean-Lambert Saint-Landry's character, jealousy as a motive for murdering him seemed unlikely. But if, as Brasseur had claimed, spouses were the most likely murderers?
"Forgive me for asking, mademoiselle, madame, but since we've concluded that Madame Saint-Landry couldn't have committed this murder herself, is it possible she might have a lover who-"
"No," Marguerite interrupted him. "Eug?nie's reputation is spotless."
"She certainly made it clear to me that it was nothing doing, about a year ago, when I tried to make advances," Derville said ruefully. "Sorry if that's a bit coarse, but you might as well know."
"Besides," Marguerite added, with a chilly glance at Derville, "I spend much of my time in her company. When would she have the chance to see a lover?"
So much for the domestic side of things, Aristide thought. But revenge and self-preservation were still to be explored?
Saint-Landry's connection to the Lodge of the Sacred Trinity, it seemed, was well worth examining.
"Er?Mademoiselle Saint-Landry?are you acquainted with the Marquis de Beaupr?au? I know your brother knew him."
"Oh, yes," Sophie said, with a faint smile. "We know him, a little. He's twice done us the honor of dining with us. He and Lambert are-were- members of the same lodge, or whatever it's called."
"Sometimes he also calls informally on Lambert," Marguerite said.
"Does he? What did they talk about?"
"I couldn't say; they'd usually go into Lambert's study and shut the door."
Sophie giggled. "Babette and Marie-Anne are always thrilled when Monsieur de Beaupr?au comes to call, because he usually brings along that handsome valet of his! They flirt with him like mad."
"A superior young man," Marguerite said. "I've seen him now and then in the kitchen, when I've been speaking with Marie-Anne. He never pays any attention to those silly girls' coquetry, though he's invariably polite."
"So you've no idea what these conversations between Monsieur de Beaupr?au and Monsieur Saint-Landry might have been about?" he inquired.
Both women shook their heads. "None at all," said Marguerite. "Although they were extraordinarily careful to avoid being overheard," she added. "Often they'd encourage us to go out for the afternoon, and sometimes Lambert would even give the servants a few hours off. And Lambert would laugh it off after Monsieur de Beaupr?au had gone: 'It's nothing you need concern yourselves with,' and so on."
No doubt Brasseur, accustomed to investigation, would have known better what to ask, Aristide thought, as he took a final sip from his liqueur glass. He could not think of anything else to ask them. "Thank you for your patience," he said, rising. "If either of you thinks of anything helpful, please send me or Inspector Brasseur a message."
"Good day, Monsieur Ravel, Monsieur Derville," Sophie said. "Thank you both." Marguerite showed them out of the salon. Aristide could not help a brief, admiring glance backward at Sophie as he reached the door, and was rewarded with a similar glance and a blushing smile.
Eug?nie appeared in the foyer as the manservant fetched their overcoats. "Monsieur Derville?a moment of your time, if I may?" She dismissed the servant with a glance and carefully seated herself on a cane-backed, upholstered bench. "You've always been such a good friend to our family; pray tell me, what should I do?"
"Do, madame?" Derville inquired.
"I've been behaving like a child, I know, and refusing to listen to reason. I hate to consider it, but I must be practical and at least accept the possibility that my husband is dead." She gazed sadly up at him, the great gray eyes shining with tears. She looked ill and exhausted, Aristide thought. "You've known us both for so long; can you really offer me any hope that he's alive?"
"I fear not, madame," he said. He took her hands in his and stood gazing down at her. "But Saint-Landry was a good man and he's undoubtedly left you well provided for. Your man of business can advise you; he'll be more useful than I could be."
"Yes-yes, of course. I ought to consult Ma?tre Ouvrard. But how on earth can we
be sure that my husband really is dead, without a body?"
"Your notary would know more about that than I," Derville said. "I'm sure there are legal measures?"
Eug?nie smiled for an instant. "Of course there must be. I'm so ignorant about such things. You'll visit us often, won't you, Monsieur Derville, to help us weather this difficult time?"
"Of course, madame."
"I-perhaps I should warn you that I do not intend to wear mourning for my husband until the day I've seen his body. Imagine what he would feel if he did return, to discover everything draped in hideous black, and to realize that I'd given up hope so easily!"
"You must do as you think best, of course." He raised her hand to his lips and bowed. "Good day, madame."
"Good day, madame," Aristide echoed him, following Derville out. She murmured a perfunctory goodbye and turned away.
"Private conversations, making sure everyone was out of earshot?" Aristide said, after they had descended the staircase and crossed the little front courtyard to the street. "Saint-Landry and Beaupr?au were certainly up to something."
"Saint-Landry?" Derville said dubiously. "I don't know?as the charming Sophie says, he was almost tediously honest and respectable."
"And Beaupr?au?" Aristide said, thinking of the faceless man in the street outside the H?tel de Beaupr?au. "Does he share Saint-Landry's principles?"
"He's perfectly decent, as far as I know. Though he's little more than an cordial acquaintance."
"But they were members of the same lodge. You heard Desmoulins and his friends; members of the Lodge of the Sacred Trinity aren't as scrupulous as most about their activities."
"Really, I doubt they'd stoop to murder. And you don't need a dark, secret conspiracy to publish illegal political tracts," Derville added, with a chuckle. "After all, everybody does that."
He fell silent until they had gone the length of the short Rue des Grands Augustins and were walking westward along the quay, their collars turned up against the frigid breeze. Dozens of small boats lay idle at wharves or on the stony shore, where the river had frozen solid twenty feet out into the channel, and from bank to bank around the islands, where the Seine was narrow. Elsewhere, great slabs of ice, that could block or even endanger the barges that delivered grain and firewood from the countryside, still floated below them, drifting slowly with the current. The prices of essentials, already steep this year, would be rising again soon, Aristide thought; there might once more be food riots in the poorer quarters by spring.
"And speaking of the charming Sophie," Derville said suddenly, "I imagine you noticed how she was looking at you?"
"Looking at me?" Aristide said.
Derville paused, leaned against the balustrade that edged the riverbank below, and raked his gaze over him. "My dear idiot, you really don't have much of an opinion of yourself, do you? It's true you're a glum sort of fellow-though some ladies find that intriguing-and of course you dress atrociously, but obviously Sophie seems to find something about you beguiling."
It was true, Aristide realized, with an unexpected jolt of satisfaction, that not only had Sophie given him a pink-cheeked, playful smile, but she had scarcely glanced at Derville during their interview, family friend though he was.
"Don't change the subject," he said.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Cavalier of the Apocalypse Page 20
