Martin bent down to the woman. “Mme LaFarge, listen to me. Don’t you want to find the person who killed your mistress?”
She nodded, her eyes wide and frightened.
“Then you must talk to me. It is the law. I will not hurt you. I will not send you back to Paris.”
Her chest began to heave again. More sobs. And this was the woman who Martin had hoped would be his entrée into Solange Vernet’s world.
Franc cleared his throat to catch Martin’s attention and asked if they could speak in chambers. Martin was eager to speak to Franc as well, about why they hadn’t been able to find Cézanne.
Before Martin could open his mouth, Franc began. He was quite agitated. “Don’t be too easy on her, sir, I beg you. I just talked with Riquel. She came to the morgue late yesterday afternoon while me and my men were off searching the quarry. Apparently the Englishman told her that she could have ‘the honor’ of dressing the corpse. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think that Riquel played the fool. He left her alone with the body.”
“How did that happen?” Not that Martin could see the harm.
“According to him, she begged to be left alone ‘one last time’ with her mistress. And she wanted to look at the clothes she was murdered in, to fold them nice and neat for her mistress.” Franc’s voice was laced with sarcasm. “She said that her mistress was a lady,” practically spitting out the word, “and she wanted to treat her like one.”
Martin could not fathom why his inspector found the maid’s regard for her mistress so infuriating. If it was only because Solange Vernet had found a way to rise above her origins, then Franc, the ambitious, self-proclaimed man of the people, was a flaming hypocrite. And if it was something else, why should Franc care so deeply about whether or not the murdered woman had had lovers?
Franc took Martin’s silence as leave to continue his ranting. “By the time I got back to bring the evidence box to you, the Vernet woman was dressed in a fancy white nightgown—as if she were some pure young thing—and every piece of clothing had been smoothed out just as nice as you please. I only got all the details of the ‘final visit’ this morning when I asked Riquel about her reactions.”
After building up this head of steam, Franc suddenly stopped and waited for a response, making Martin feel like he was failing some sort of test.
“The note!” Franc finally exploded. “We haven’t found it yet!”
Evidently Franc had come around to the view that it really did exist. Or was he just frustrated by his own failures of the morning? “Surely you had searched through the clothes,” Martin said, trying to calm down his inspector.
“Yes, but don’t you see? These women have their ways, their secrets.” Franc held up his two thick hands. “I couldn’t search the way she could. They were hatmakers and dressmakers, remember? They know all the secret places where women hide things that they don’t want us men to find. And think, what if Westerbury asked her to try to find it for him?”
What if? “Even if it were true, what do you propose to do about it? Strip her?” Not in his office. And not while he was in charge of the case.
“That might not be such a bad idea.”
Martin did not want to quarrel with Franc. They needed each other. “Look,” he said, “let’s just think for a minute. Whose side would Arlette be on? Westerbury’s or Vernet’s? Surely she was not a love interest for Westerbury. How did she react around the body?”
“When she was done with her little game, she began to wail and keen. Riquel said that she threw herself on the corpse. He had trouble pulling her off. Then she kept holding onto Vernet’s hand, kissing it over and over again.”
Kissing those gray, swollen hands. Martin sucked in his breath. He hoped that the cool of the prison basement had slowed down Solange Vernet’s decomposition, and that the ministrations of Dr. Riquel had quelled the smell of rot and excrement. Still, Arlette LaFarge must have loved her mistress very much. Or had something to feel guilty about.
“I’m not at all sure she would risk being sent back to Paris or to prison for helping Westerbury,” Martin reasoned aloud in another attempt to try to steady his companion. “I’ll question her carefully about the note.”
Franc did not hide his skepticism very well. He was huffing and puffing like a bull in heat.
“I’m good at it too, you know. Questioning.” It was demeaning to have to assert himself to his own inspector. Martin fully expected Franc to explode when he laid out his plan. But he forged ahead anyway. “Moreover, I’m thinking of sending the maid home and questioning her in the apartment.”
“Back to the apartment!”
Martin held up his hand. “I’m not letting her off the hook. I’ve decided it would be a good idea for me to go there, to have my own look around. And she may feel more like talking, away from all this.”
“But then she’ll have even more time to make up some story,” Franc protested. Their eyes met for a moment, and then a glimmer of approval lit up the inspector’s face, blossoming into a smile. “Aha. So that’s it. You’re going to become a real investigating magistrate.”
Or one bursting with unseemly ambition. Anyone who read the newspapers had heard of judges eager to make a mark by beating their prosecutors to crime scenes and breaking down the doors of suspects’ houses. That wasn’t Martin’s style. He didn’t want notoriety. Although from the look on his inspector’s face, it seemed that Franc might prefer working with a judge who did. “While you’re at it, you might as well consider going out to the Cézanne estate.”
“What?” Did the inspector think that Martin should be out hunting for suspects?
“I think Old Joseph already told you.” Franc began to talk very rapidly, as if to ward off any expression of Martin’s displeasure. “I went out early this morning. The ‘artist’ wasn’t around, and they had no idea when or if he will be. At least that’s what the women claimed. But do you want to know who had been there?” A superior grin spread across Franc’s grizzled face. “Our prime suspect, Westerbury. He was there last night, throwing stones at the windows and making a disturbance.”
Martin sank into one of the wooden chairs facing his desk. On top of everything else, Westerbury was running amok. This case was slipping out of his control.
“Look, I’ll take care of finding the Englishman. We can arrest him for disturbing the peace,” Franc said. “You don’t have to worry about that. And I assume you’ll let me keep him in jail this time.”
Still numb, Martin nodded his consent. Of course they’d hold Westerbury this time. The only real question was, why had he let the sniveling wretch go in the first place? To prove that French law was every bit as civilized as English? Martin scratched his beard in frustration. How stupid that seemed now. This was a murder case, not a patriotic civics lesson.
“And you, sir, you can deal with the Cézannes,” Franc went on relentlessly. “That’s a much more delicate situation. They’re rich and have a lot of connections. On top of that, the women told me the old banker is sick. I don’t think you want to be in a position of dragging any of them down here for questioning.”
“First, before anything else,” Martin said, pulling himself together enough to stop the flow of Franc’s presumptions, “tell me what happened when you went to find Cézanne.” Martin needed to drive home the point that he was not the only one making mistakes.
But the question did not even faze Franc. “It’s a big place. It would have taken a dozen men to search it. And if he slipped out the back. . . .” He shrugged. “There are lots of ways he could have hidden or gotten away.” The inspector seemed surprisingly unbothered by the artist’s evasions. It was as if Franc were certain that they already knew who the murderer was.
“So you’re not sure he wasn’t there?”
“No, but the women insisted. You could go with one of my men this afternoon.”
Martin rubbed his aching forehead. Not only might Cézanne have escaped, but he might have done so with the full co
mplicity of his rich and influential family. Everyone in the courthouse would agree with Franc that Martin should tread lightly, that he should treat the Cézannes with more care and deference than a maid or a foreigner. Everyone except Martin. At least in this instance, Martin thought with a certain bitter irony, he would be treating the rich and influential family with the same courtesy that he planned to give the maid. Martin looked up at his inspector and agreed to visit the Cézannes.
“Good!” Franc’s dark, bullish mood had completely evaporated. He was almost bouncing on his toes. “Frankly, sir, now that you’ve thought of it, I think sending the maid home and going there is a good idea. See how they lived, and tell me if you don’t agree that there was something fishy going on.”
Instead of reprimanding Franc for not rounding up Cézanne, Martin found himself oddly relieved at having gotten the inspector’s approval. Franc, the man of experience, exuded righteous anger and confidence, while Martin was barely keeping his head above water. Without another word, he got up and went out into the hall where the maid and the gendarmes were sitting in a silent truce. He sent them all back to the Cours Mirabeau. Then he wrote out a warrant for Westerbury’s arrest, which he handed to Franc, and ordered his clerk to go to search through the police and municipal records for anything he could find on Paul Cézanne.
Alone in his office, Martin sat for a moment, staring into space, before reaching in his pocket to pull out his mother’s letter. He might as well read it, since the morning could not get much worse. He tore open the envelope and unfolded the sturdy cream-colored paper. Just as he expected, every line was calculated to make him cringe.
Lille
Feast of St. Helen
Dearest Son,
How I do miss my only child! And how I pray every night that you will be safe. So does Marthe. I saw her in the street last week with her sisters and, I fear, I must scold you. She says that you have only written her twice since Christmas. The poor dear did not complain, of course, but surely it is time that you made your intentions clear once and for all. Being the oldest is becoming such a burden to her. She fears that none of her sisters will feel free to marry until she does.
You know my feelings, dearest son. What a wonderful daughter she would make for me. And what a match for you! It’s not only the money, it’s the children. Coming from that large family, surely, she will give you many sons and daughters, and me, the greatest comfort for my old age, grandchildren.
But I not only scold. I bring news. As I write this Marthe is in Lourdes! She is taking three of her cases, a crippled boy, an old woman, and a poor, sick seamstress, on the famous white train from Paris. They are all hoping for a miracle. Marthe was so excited. I wish you could have seen her. She told me that more people than ever are going on the National Pilgrimage, and standing up for their faith. But, of course, you must know that. I am assuming they do have Catholic newspapers down there.
Marthe told me that she will ask our Holy Mother to protect you from the cholera. She did not say it, but I also think that she will be praying to get a marriage proposal soon. This would not be a miracle, just good sense and gratitude to a family that took us under their wing after your father died.
Enough preaching! My greatest wish is to see you again soon. Can’t you find some time this summer to come and visit your poor mother? If not, write! Tell me that you are well and happy. You are my greatest, my only joy.
Your most loving Maman
Martin folded his mother’s letter and put it back in the envelope. At home in his attic room, buried somewhere amidst the debris on his table, was a page, blank except for the date, “Feast of the Assumption.” It had been his intention to describe the Virgin’s procession to his mother and tell her that he had been left in charge of the Palais. But he could not do it. It would have been too hypocritical and duplicitous. It would comfort her to think that he still kept the holy calendar, but he did not. It would arouse her maternal pride to think that he was left in charge because he was important, but he was not. It would trouble her greatly to know that he had not yet decided to propose to Marthe, but he could not. At least not yet. He did not yet know what he was capable of, or what kind of man he would become.
Martin opened his drawer and took out a piece of official stationery. He uncovered his inkpot and dipped his pen. This time he could tell the truth.
20 August 1885
Dearest Maman, he began. Thank you for your kind letter. I long to see you too, but I am very busy at the moment. A most important case has come up here, the murder of a woman. . . . Martin wrote steadily, purposefully. When he finished, he was ready to think about what he would find in Solange Vernet’s apartment.
7
AN HOUR LATER MARTIN WAS WINDING his way to the Vernet apartment, hoping to catch a glimpse of a world that he had let pass him by. There was so much he wanted to know about Solange Vernet and her past. But even if he did not uncover all her secrets, he had every intention of finding out what had transpired in the days immediately proceeding her murder. The maid had witnessed a great deal, he was sure of it. All he had to do was to get her to tell him what she knew.
Solange Vernet had chosen to live on Aix’s main thoroughfare, the wide, gracious Cours Mirabeau, which cut through the center of town, dividing the sleepy aristocratic quarters to the south from the rest of the city. Even before Martin turned the corner onto the boulevard, he heard the clatter of the wagons, carriages, and omnibuses that went constantly to and fro, past and around the three great fountains that marked the Cours’s beginning, end and midpoint. The broad sidewalks on the north side were home to spacious outdoor cafés, book stalls, and shops. Late in the morning, even in the middle of August, they were alive with the murmur of conversation, the shouts of waiters, and the clink of glasses and silverware.
Martin did not frequent the cafés. They reminded him too much of his carefree life as a student in Paris. Still, he considered the Cours the most beautiful place in all of Aix. He especially admired the tall plane trees that were planted in double rows on either side of the boulevard. Their sturdy blond trunks patched with silver-gray bark offered a muted, gentle contrast to Provence’s garish red-orange earth and vivid blue skies. In the summer, their olive green leaves formed a sheltering sun-dappled archway overhead. Today their branches swayed in the breeze, changing the patterns of light and shade along Martin’s path. The Cours sparkled with possibility. It lifted Martin’s spirits. He was escaping from the unhappy surprises of the morning, and he was setting out on an adventure. How many men get to walk upon—nay, have the very right and duty to embark upon—a path not taken?
Spotting the Vernet apartment was not hard. The two gendarmes posted outside the entrance were catching the curious glances of shoppers. They saluted smartly as he approached, and Martin, putting on a solemn face, nodded in reply and headed up the stairs. He rang a bell fastened beside a heavy wooden door, which was polished to a soft mahogany sheen. Arlette LaFarge curtsied as he entered, took his hat, and led him into a large rectangular salon. She had calmed down since her morning’s outbursts. Her black dress and the white cap and apron said a great deal about the airs that Solange Vernet had put on in Aix.
“I can prepare some tea. I think Mme Solange would have liked that,” Arlette said, her lips quivering. She seemed to be clinging to form as if her life depended on it. What else did she have in a strange town without her mistress?
“Thank you, I would like that,” Martin said, welcoming the opportunity to be left on his own. The salon had been the staging ground for Solange Vernet’s and Westerbury’s ambitions. The maid’s absence gave him time to get a feel for the place without being watched.
Hands behind his back, Martin strolled slowly around the room, taking in the order and opulence of the arrangements. Chairs, divans, and side tables formed a large elongated oval around an empty space in the center of the room. In one corner stood a small grand piano. In front of a divan opposite the windows, a low mahogany tab
le held glasses and a brandy snifter. The side tables held candelabras and gas lamps; books, cigar humidifiers, and settings for refreshments. Everything necessary to make the guests comfortable and, presumably, talkative.
Sunlight filled the room. The dark blue velvet drapes had been pulled back from the five high windows that faced onto the Cours, boldly exposing the salon to the indifferent aristocratic houses across the way. Solange Vernet had hoped to be the center of a “circle,” the hostess to entertainments. If she really was a hatmaker of humble origins, what on earth had she been thinking?
The walls held four pretty, not particularly distinguished, landscapes and city scenes, one at the east end and three on the long wall in the middle. None hung on the west wall. Martin approached and looked closely. A small hole in the yellow-striped wallpaper indicated that a painting had been hanging there. One of Cézanne’s? He took his notebook from his pocket and added “missing painting” to the list that he had made up in his office: “the message,” “the boy,” “arguments.”
“Monsieur le juge, will you sit over here?” Arlette reappeared, placing a large tray with a teapot, two cups and a plate of little white, crustless triangles, on the table in front of the divan. It was all very English, making Martin wonder if the service reflected Westerbury’s influence, or was yet another sign of Solange Vernet’s aspirations.
“Sir, do you mind if I join you?” This was odd, a maid and a guest, but of course Martin agreed. After all, this was a strange household, and Arlette LaFarge looked as if she could use some sustenance. Martin set his notebook and pencil beside him as she pulled up a chair. He scrutinized her as she began to pour the tea. There were few indications that this sallow creature had ever been pretty. Now her face, under the dark fringe of hair, was worn with care and her dark eyes red with crying, signs of grief and anxiety that would only make her more suspicious and timid. He needed to prod her gently.
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