The Cavalier of the Apocalypse

by Susanne Alleyn

25

  No one else left the Saint-Landry household in the morning. At half past one, a fiacre pulled up outside the gate and Derville, carrying a small parcel and what was apparently a well-wrapped bouquet of hothouse flowers, ambled into the courtyard. Aristide tilted his hat lower over his face as he watched him. I wish you had murdered Saint-Landry, he thought venomously, so I'd have the pleasure of seeing Brasseur arrest you, and balled his fists inside his coat pockets, stretching them irredeemably out of shape and further tearing the already tatty lining. A quarter hour later, Brasseur, shrouded in a heavy gray overcoat, strolled up to him and beckoned him away.

  "Anything?"

  "She should be leaving the house around half past three. Other than that, Marguerite and the cook went to the market as usual, Sophie went to her dressmaker and returned, and Derville's evidently come to dine." Wearing his damned expensive best suit and bringing his damned gifts like a respectable fianc?, he could not help adding to himself. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

  Brasseur glanced up at the windows, sighed, and looked at his watch. "Well, they're probably sitting down to dinner now. If I know that sort, they'll dine at two. Go get a bite to eat, and be back at three."

  Aristide bought a roll from a peddler and a slice of sausage from the closest charcuterie, and returned. By the time the bells of St. Andr? des Arts rang half past three, he was well chilled and yawning hugely, wishing he had thought to have a cup of coffee, dreadful as it would probably have been, from the woman who sold hot drinks from a cart in the nearby Place St. Michel.

  Derville left the house a few minutes after the half hour, whistling and looking far too pleased with himself, Aristide thought. Not long after Derville had vanished up the street, jauntily swinging his walking stick, a smart chaise rolled up to the house and the driver sprang lightly down, tossing the reins to his companion.

  Beaupr?au, Aristide said to himself, recognizing him. He started forward, as Beaupr?au vanished into the little courtyard, and then remembered he was supposed to remain anonymous. He retreated to the street corner and resumed his pose, the disreputable hat low over his eyes.

  Moreau, waiting in the chaise, seemed restless. At last he climbed down from the seat and paced back and forth, rubbing his hands together for warmth, the reins forgotten. After some time had passed, he abruptly paused, frowned, peered straight at Aristide, and raised a tentative hand to his hat in greeting to him.

  Oh, damn, Aristide thought, before warily approaching the carriage. Moreau stepped forward, a sudden smile illuminating his boyish features.

  "Monsieur Ravel! Did you see? Monsieur Alexis came back last evening. We were all fit to be tied, when he walked in without so much as an explanation!"

  "I saw," Aristide said, endeavoring to keep his voice low. "Is he well?"

  "Yes, he's perfectly safe-told me later that he'd had to be out of Paris on important, secret business for the Duc d'Orl?ans himself. Something he couldn't reveal even to me."

  A delicate way of putting it, he thought. "But what's he doing here?"

  "Ah?well, you see," Moreau said, his smile fading, "as soon as he turned up at the house, he said he would have to be off again. To the country, to Andrez?, if you can believe it. In January!"

  "Did he say why?"

  "No. Only that it was something else having to do with the duke's business. So he said that, before we left Paris, he ought to call on Madame Saint-Landry. To offer her help if she needed it, and so on. I gather her husband's still missing, presumed dead." He glanced swiftly up at the first-floor windows, which were still not yet draped in black. "Then he'll have to get ready to leave; Monsieur Alexis says he must be gone by tomorrow morning. The rest of the household can follow."

  "You're not going with him?" Aristide said, noting Moreau's choice of words.

  "I?I don't know. Circumstances might keep me here in Paris. This business-he said he might need me to stay behind in case he needs someone he can trust in town."

  "Look me up, then, if you're staying," Aristide said, wondering what the duke's other mysterious business might be.

  "Are you not visiting the Saint-Landrys, then?" Moreau said as Aristide began to edge away.

  "No." He backed away a few steps, feeling that he had spent long enough in the valet's company; any longer and it might seem peculiar to an observer. Before he could return to the safety of the street corner, Beaupr?au came hurrying down the stairs and out to the courtyard. "Well," he said to Moreau, "we've fulfilled our social obligations, I think." He paused for an instant as he caught sight of Aristide. One eyebrow twitched, but he passed him without a word, climbed into the chaise, and took the reins from Moreau. Aristide retreated once more to the corner as the carriage drove away toward the faubourg St. Germain.

  Eug?nie Saint-Landry left the house, alone and on foot, fifteen minutes after Beaupr?au had quitted her. Praying she would not recognize him or notice him, Aristide strolled after her.

  She proceeded at a brisk pace along the Quai des Augustins and turned northward across the Pont-Neuf. After passing the municipal pumphouse that stood at the northern end of the bridge, and the busy caf? at the corner, Eug?nie turned westward once again on a small street lined with modest shops. Pretending to eye the wares displayed in the shop windows, he followed her at a careful distance.

  She did not go far. Halfway along the street, she paused, glanced about her, and vanished into a doorway that bore the legend HOTEL RICHEBOURG above it in flaking paint. Shaking his head, Aristide retreated across the street and waited, but she did not reappear. After a quarter of an hour had passed, he crossed the street again.

  "The very attractive, fair-haired lady in the dark green figured gown," he said to the clerk at the hotel's counter, "do you know her? Has she been here before?"

  "I don't know her name," the clerk said, glancing from Aristide's seedy coat and hat to the five-sou piece he held, "but she comes here now and then."

  "To meet someone?" Aristide said, adding a second coin to the first.

  "She's always asked for a Monsieur Legros."

  "Who's Legros?"

  "How should I know?"

  "Can you describe him?"

  The clerk shrugged. "Thirty maybe, good-looking, fine clothes, seems to have plenty of money."

  "Where does he come from?"

  "Laon." He shoved the register toward Aristide.

  "How long do their, er, meetings usually last?"

  "Couple of hours, mostly," the clerk said, with a leer. "But if you're waiting to catch them, monsieur, if you're her husband, or working for him, I can't be responsible for any of it, understand?"

  "Thanks." Aristide slid the coins toward the clerk, who deftly pocketed them. He glanced at his watch and left the hotel, thinking hard. The name and the Laon address meant nothing; the desk clerk would have conveniently forgotten to ask for identity papers, no doubt, for the sake of a small bribe.

  At last he went to a modest caf?, half empty in the afternoon and almost directly across the street from the Hotel Richebourg, and scribbled a note to Brasseur. Errand runners were thick on the ground in the center of Paris; he soon found a shabby youth loafing outside a tavern and sent him off, with the note and two sous, to Brasseur's office. Returning to the caf?, he chose a table at the front window, which had a good view of the hotel's entrance, and warmed his hands as well as he could on a demitasse of coffee while glancing over a copy of the day's Journal de Paris.

  Brasseur appeared shortly as the last of the daylight was failing, at half past five, and settled into a chair opposite him. "Good work. They still there?"

  "I've not seen Eug?nie leave."

  "Excellent. Now in my experience, when a lady and gentleman meet at a hotel, usually the gentleman arrives first and leaves last, so the lady isn't left alone in the room. So I'll guess that he'll leave a quarter hour after she does. We'll collar him then, and take him back to my headquarters, I think, to give him a bit of a scare. Any idea who he might be?"

  "None at a
ll. The clerk told me his name was Legros, but that's sure to be an alias, isn't it?"

  "Probably."

  Aristide drank the last of his coffee and leaned back precariously in his rickety chair. "Don't the police have the authority to arrest adulterers?"

  "Only if the husband makes a formal complaint. But we ought to be able to get ourselves an ally. Back in a moment." Brasseur pushed his chair aside and strode off, returning a few minutes later. "Wonderful what a police card will do. The desk clerk, in exchange for my forgetting to mention to my superiors that he's been lax about getting the guest register filled out properly, is going to signal to us when 'Legros' leaves the hotel. So have another coffee; it's on me."

  Half an hour later, as they gazed out the window, surveying the pedestrians, delivery carts, and private carriages that crawled past along the narrow street, the hotel door opened once again. Aristide stirred.

  "There goes Eug?nie."

  They watched her glance swiftly about her before mingling with the passersby, and quickly paid their bill and exited the caf?. Ten minutes later, as they loitered by the hotel's front window, the desk clerk at last turned and peered through at them, with a sharp nod. Brasseur started forward as a young man in a stylish dark blue overcoat and high-crowned hat sauntered out the door and down the street in the opposite direction from Eug?nie. The man soon paused to glance in a shop window and Brasseur and Aristide caught up with him.

  "I'd like a word with you, monsieur," Brasseur said, holding up his police card. The man turned, puzzled, and Aristide blinked.

  "I know you."

  "I beg your pardon?" the young man said, looking from one to the other of them. "Do I know either of you gentlemen?"

  "Police," said Brasseur. "Your identity papers, if you please."

  "I'm sure I don't know what you want from me, monsieur inspector; I'm a respectable man of business-my premises are just a short distance away."

  Brasseur unfolded the papers offered him and glanced over them, squinting, in the half-light of a street lantern above. "What's the nature of your relationship with Madame Saint-Landry-as if I couldn't guess-Monsieur Joubert?"

  "Joubert!" Aristide said. "Of course. Nicolas Joubert. We met a fortnight ago, at your brother's bookshop. I see you're still chasing married women."

  "Married women don't have fanatical mothers hovering about them," Nicolas said. "Monsieur, I haven't been debauching any virgins. Are you charging me with something? Has some angry husband-"

  "I only need the answers to a few questions," Brasseur said blandly. "If you'd be so kind as to come with me to my office, monsieur, I expect we can sort this out soon enough."

  Before Nicolas could protest, Brasseur deftly steered him into an empty fiacre, where he sat sullenly through the twenty-minute journey to Brasseur's headquarters in the Eighteenth District. As they entered the antechamber to Brasseur's office, Aristide following, the dour subinspector who sometimes took notes came forward.

  "Monsieur, a young lady says she wishes to speak with you on an urgent matter. I've put her in your office."

  "Very good, Paumier." Brasseur glanced at Nicolas. "Just keep an eye on this fellow, won't you, while we talk with the young lady. Make sure he doesn't disappear before we've had a chance to discuss a few things."

  Nicolas seemed ready to protest, but thought better of it and retreated to a bench, where a woman was already sitting. As Aristide passed, he recognized Marguerite Fournier and was unsurprised, a moment later, to discover Sophie waiting alone inside Brasseur's office.

  "Mademoiselle Saint-Landry?" Brasseur settled himself behind the desk, lit a few candles, and took up a quill. "How may I help you?"

  "Good evening?" She quickly avoided Aristide's gaze and seemed to fix her eyes on Brasseur's quill. "Monsieur Brasseur, I had to come and speak with you," she continued in a rush, as if she feared her courage would fail her. "Because I've been thinking and thinking, and I just can't see how Eug?nie could have done it. As much as I would prefer it otherwise. But I think I know who did." She stopped suddenly, reddened, and looked away.

  "You don't like her much, do you, mademoiselle?" Aristide said softly.

  "I used to?or, rather, I never disliked her. But I think Eug?nie has probably been unfaithful to Lambert for some time now, and I can't forgive that." She rapidly blinked and snatched a handkerchief from her pocket. "You see, Monsieur Brasseur, I?I'm going to be married."

  She paused infinitesimally, as if expecting one or the other of them to offer congratulations. Brasseur glanced quickly at Aristide, who said nothing and turned his gaze to the window.

  "The notary visited us yesterday," Sophie hastily continued when they remained silent, "to discuss the marriage contract. He also spoke of Lambert's estate, should Lambert be declared dead. He told us that the terms of the will were that, if Lambert should die without children, Eug?nie would get her dowry back, of course, and a certain amount beyond that, and Marguerite would receive a small legacy; and all the rest-quite a lot of money and shares, apparently-would come to me. But if they had children, of course they would be Lambert's heirs, instead of me, and they would get most of it, except for a generous portion for my dowry."

  "Yes?" Brasseur said, when she paused. "It sounds like a perfectly straightforward document to me, mademoiselle."

  "Yes, monsieur, but that's not the point. You see, I?if I weren't so silly and ignorant, I'd have put it together much sooner?it-it's growing clearer now that Eug?nie is?expecting."

  "Expecting!" said Brasseur. "Are you sure?"

  "I don't know much about such things," Sophie said, staring hard at the floor, "not as if I were a married woman, but she looks tired and pale all the time, and she's been eating more than usual lately, and then sometimes, after breakfast, she suddenly looks ghastly and runs off to her boudoir. It's been going on for three or four months now. I thought she'd caught some strange sort of fever, but Victoire told me, when I asked her about it, that Eug?nie's often sick in the mornings. Even I know what that means."

  Fool, Aristide said to himself; he and Derville had watched Eug?nie abruptly look ill and flee the room one day, and thought nothing of it.

  "Doesn't Madame Fournier attend your sister-in-law?" he inquired. "She's had a husband, knows about women's concerns?surely she would have guessed before anyone else."

  "Yes, I imagine Marguerite knows," Sophie said. She looked up at Brasseur, unsmiling. "But Marguerite adores her, you see, and whatever Eug?nie did, Marguerite would keep her secrets. I can tell, when the three of us are together?sometimes I catch her looking at Eug?nie. It's the same way Lambert would look at her: a lover's gaze. Some women are like that, aren't they?"

  "Yes."

  "She doesn't like men much," she continued, her voice unnaturally calm, as if she were fighting to keep her composure. "Actually I've always wondered if perhaps Marguerite poisoned her husband. She was horribly unhappy in her marriage, you know. But I doubt anyone could ever prove it." She paused. "And I do like her, really. Marguerite's always been good to me. But she would never, ever betray Eug?nie, not to anyone, not over anything.

  "I can put two and two together, though. Lambert and Eug?nie were married for nine years and never had any children. And now suddenly this-so I doubt the child is Lambert's. I think that Eug?nie has a lover, who is the baby's real father, and that she's been meeting him on the days when she says she's going to attend ceremonies with the Order of the Dove. It must have been her lover who murdered Lambert."

  "Well, mademoiselle," Brasseur said, thoughtfully tapping his fingers on the heap of papers on his desk, "I'll tell you, in confidence, that you're certainly right about the lover. And if Madame Saint-Landry is with child, as you suggest, then she'll undoubtedly be managing her husband's fortune until the child comes of age, won't she?"

  "Yes, Ma?tre Ouvrard said that that was normally how it was arranged."

  "A man who's never fathered any other children," Aristide said softly, still gazing at the window, "in nine year
s of marriage, might have doubts about who the child's father was, if his wife suddenly turned up in an interesting condition. Wouldn't it be to her advantage to keep him from ever denying paternity?"

  "Yes," said Sophie, "that's what I thought."

  She rose, curtsied formally to them, and quickly left them.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~