“That is a poor excuse,” interjected Milady, wagging a finger.
“Don’t treat me like a schoolgirl!”
“I wouldn’t mention schoolgirls here, if I were you. Your pawn killed many schoolgirls.”
“I used Luis Fourneau because the crimes required his artistry to be credible.”
“You little fool!” screeched Milady. “That monster should never have been born. You should have let him rot in his asylum. And you should know that Madame Koluchy agrees with me.”
“Does she now?”
“Many of our female colleagues have attended the Fourneau boarding school. Professor Chavain of the High Council has even formed an Alumni Association.”
“I know. I’m a member–unlike you.”
“Your membership has been revoked. Professor Chavain was shocked to learn of your involvement with the murderous maniac responsible for the school’s closure. Wild rumors circulated after the press publicized your alliance with Luis Fourneau. It was even said that you and Madame Koluchy had plotted the school’s destruction together. But she quashed these stories by addressing the Alumni...”
“What did she say?”
“The truth. That you used Luis without her knowledge.”
Josephine knew that Koluchy was lying. Certain details of the Bluebeard Murders had been withheld from Milady and the Black Coats.
“I want to talk to the Alumni. I need to explain my conduct.”
“Such a meeting has, in fact, been already scheduled. I’ve taken the liberty to prepare your speech.”
Milady handed Josephine a sheet of paper. The blonde woman’s features grew darker as she read it.
“But this is a confession! This is a lie.”
“This speech will appease Professor Chavain. The High Council plans to debate Madame Koluchy’s proposal to rename the Brotherhood the Black Skirts. Such a change would consolidate the increased role of women in our society, but for this measure to pass, the Council’s only other female member must support it. Be thankful that Professor Chavain, as a botanist, didn’t insist that a branch be cut.”
In Black Coat parlance, the cutting of a branch meant the imposition of the death penalty.
“We need to discuss your attire at the Alumni meeting,” resumed Milady. “Our campaign would suffer if you wore your uniform.”
“What uniform?”
“Under the Brotherhood’s new dress code, uniforms are worn by all female members.”
“Ah, yes. I saw them in Paris. Brown blouses, black skirts and ties. They’re even sold commercially. But executives are exempt from the dress code.”
“Yes, but this exemption applies to me–not you.”
“I’m no longer an executive?”
“You’re now a mere employee, entrusted with this building’s security.”
“You mean, I’ve been demoted to being a security guard! Me–Countess Cagliostro!”
Josephine defiantly raised her hand. It bore a ring with the image of a golden ram.
“As far as I know, your title is unverified. I’ve instructed the other employees to only call you Mademoiselle Balsamo.”
“Yet, everyone calls you Milady.”
“Have you researched my lineage?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then you spoke without thinking. In my youth, I suffered from the same fault. But I shall cure you of that habit...”
Josephine delivered her humiliating speech that evening. In another act of humiliation devised by Milady, she had been forced to appear naked before the Alumni. After the speech, Milady instructed Josephine to wait in a dressing room for her new uniform. Josephine stared at her shoulders in a mirror. Two “V” had been branded into each shoulder. Even though this disfigurement had been done on Madame Koluchy’s orders, Josephine held Irina Putine of the Chupin Detective Agency responsible. Remembering her triumphant adversary from their days together at the boarding school, the blonde woman began to mutter to herself:
“The Furnace letters... Milady de Winter... Kaitlin de Winter... The necklace...”
There was a knock on the door.
“May I come in, Countess?”
“Yes,” responded a stunned Josephine.
A brunette carrying a box entered.
“Your uniform, Countess.”
“Thank you, Maude. You’ve always understood proper etiquette.”
“I haven’t forgotten your generous wedding gift, Countess. Besides, my former mistress, Lady Beltham, instilled in me a proper appreciation for titles.”
“Maude” had been born Hendrika Pienaar in Pretoria. Her codename was derived from the British aristocrat whom she had once served as a maid. Maude also liked to mimic Lady Beltham’s courtly accent.
“Do you still have access to the personnel files, Maude?” Josephine asked. “I’d like to see Milady’s.”
“It’s too risky, Countess. Anyone caught reading her file would be worse off than B. F.”
“B. F.?”
“You might remember her as ‘Dodger.’ She’s a burglar transferred here from Paris. She’s in the dungeon now. Milady treats her like dirt. Apparently, they have some prior history together.”
“B. F... Those initials are familiar. Can you get me her file instead?”
“That should be easy. I’ll get it from Purity.”
A week later, two middle-aged ladies from Bristol crossed the English Channel. One had brown hair while the other was a blonde. Arriving at the Chupin Detective Agency in Paris, they requested to see the firm’s owner. A secretary informed them that Monsieur Chupin was in Spain. The visitors were instead directed to the office of Irina Putine, his chief assistant.
Irina was 26, tall and slender, with a glossy mane of black hair. A brooch shaped like a pentagram was pinned on the right side of her orange dress. A black tie was tied around her collar. It matched the black silk gloves on her hands. Silver bracelets graced her wrists.
“My name is Rosette Trevor,” said the brown-haired lady. “I live in Bristol with my husband and daughter. This is my neighbor, Eva Relli.”
“I teach architecture at a local university,” said Eva. “I moved with my son to England from Naples after my husband’s death.”
“Madame Trevor, your maiden name is Morrell,” replied Irina. “Your two siblings are deceased. Your brother was a painter. Your sister, Natalie, ran a boarding school in Provence. Two of her three children are dead.”
“Why, that’s amazing,” said Eva. “It’s just like Dr. Watson’s accounts. Imagine Mademoiselle Putine deducing all that from your appearance, Rosette.”
“It’s very easy for Mademoiselle Putine to make those statements, Eva. She knows all about my family. A month ago, she killed my nephew, Luis Fourneau.”
“I was acting in self-defense,” said Irina.
“I don’t doubt it. Luis was a fiend.”
“Your sister, too, was also somewhat controversial.”
“I won’t defend Natalie’s reputation. The floggings at her school were abhorrent. I’m here about her daughter, Berenice. She and your employer’s late niece, Irene Chupin, were close friends.”
“Irene’s very much alive, Madame Trevor. She told me about Berenice.”
“But the newspapers reported Irene’s death from shock after my nephew...”
“You were about to say–after your nephew chopped off her hands. The accounts of her death were inaccurate.3 Irene’s relatives wished to protect her from publicity. They never issued a denial.”
“May I meet her?” inquired Madame Trevor.
“That’s impossible, I’m afraid. Irene now lives in complete seclusion. But I have something else to show you...”
Irina went to a large safe in her office. She entered the combination and opened the door. Among shelves of papers, she removed a bundle of letters tied together and handed them to Madame Trevor.
“These are some of Berenice’s letters to Irene.”
Madame Trevor untied the letters and
skimmed through them.
“I recognize my niece’s handwriting. How did you get them?”
“During Irene’s recuperation, they came into Monsieur Chupin’s possession.”
“He couldn’t know Berenice wrote those letters. She used an assumed name.”
“ ‘Blythe Furnace,’ yes. But the French translation of Furnace is Fourneau. Your niece’s alias shares the same initials as her real name. Monsieur Chupin astutely uncovered her true identity.”
“Your employer never contacted my niece.”
“Monsieur Chupin only found the letters after your niece’s disappearance. Perhaps you could confirm Berenice’s friendship with Irene, if only to verify our own information?”
“My niece was lonely and friendless during her childhood. My sister Natalie doted on her sons, but woefully neglected Berenice. The three children resided in a segregated area at the school. Natalie forbade Berenice to socialize with her students, whom she regarded as the dregs of society. She was, in fact, planning to send Berenice to a proper boarding school in Paris. Berenice, who was then 13, feared that Parisian girls would see her as a graceless provincial...”
“A concise summary, Madame Trevor, but there is one missing fact: Berenice did befriend a student at your sister’s school.”
“What year was that?” queried Eva.
“It was in August 1885,” answered Irina. “But please continue, Madame Trevor.”
“Berenice stole a set of keys from her mother. She wandered around the school at night.”
“Just like a burglar,” observed Eva.
“My niece was a bit of a tomboy, since her only playmates until then had been her brothers. As you noted, Mademoiselle Putine, a new student’s arrival changed all that. Her name was Irene. She had been locked in a storeroom while Natalie conferred privately with the girl’s guardian...”
“ ‘Guardian’ isn’t quite the proper term to describe Henriette d’Andresy,” noted Irina. “Her son, a cunning thief, had been nursed by Victoire Chupin, Irene’s mother, and when the girl was falsely accused of one of his thefts, Henriette enrolled her son’s foster-sister at your sister’s school.”
“Yes, my niece told me all that. Berenice unlocked the storeroom where Irene had been confined. That’s how the friendship between the two girls began. Irene had a book with her, a novel by Charles Dickens–I don’t remember the title...”
“Oliver Twist,” said Irina.
“My sister reviled Dickens as a defamer of the French Revolution. Berenice warned Irene that her mother would burn the book if she found it, so Irene gave it to Berenice, and even inscribed it. Over the next few weeks, the girls continued to meet clandestinely. When Natalie eventually enrolled Berenice at the Institution Bachelard in Paris, the girls hoped to correspond, but complications arose in the matter of Irene’s surname.”
“How was that a problem?” wondered Eva.
“Perhaps I should explain,” volunteered Irina. “Natalie Fourneau’s pupils were unwanted children. She protected the reputation of the people responsible for her students’ confinement by changing the surnames of many girls. Chupin became Tupin.”
“So Irene wouldn’t be able to receive mail!” said Eva.
“Irene was a special case,” said Irina. “Henriette d’Andresy had warned Madame Fourneau that Irene’s uncle was Victor Chupin, the private detective. Monsieur Chupin had been deceived about the reasons for his niece’s presence at the school, but insisted on writing to her nevertheless. Of course, his letters were addressed to Irene Chupin.”
“How did Berenice manage to circumvent this peculiar arrangement?”
“My sister kept meticulous records and Berenice was able to break into Irene’s file. Then, using the identity of ‘Blythe Furnace,’ she pretended to be an old friend who had gotten Irene’s address from Monsieur Chupin. This subterfuge was necessary because the mail was also being censored.”
“Natalie was reading the mail?” asked Eva.
“My sister delegated that task to her prefect,” said Madame Trevor.
“Josephine Balsamo, your nephew’s accomplice in the Bluebeard Murders,” added Irina.
“My niece’s stratagem worked and the correspondence went on for over four years,” continued Madame Trevor. “During this time, she was badly harassed by a fellow student, Kaitlin de Winter, the daughter of an English Baron assigned to the Paris Embassy. She gave Berenice vicious nicknames. My niece’s initials are meaningless in French, but Kaitlin said they stood for ‘Bloody Fool.’ In a letter, Irene advised Berenice to fight fire with fire.”
“Meaning?” asked Eva.
“Kaitlin professed to be related to the de Winter family from Monsieur Dumas’ Musketeers novels. She insisted on being addressed as ‘Milady.’ Irene pointed out that the proper title of a Baron’s daughter is ‘Right Honorable,’ so Berenice started calling Kaitlin’s ‘Right Dishonorable.’ Kaitlin was also a devotee of Edgar Allen Poe. She liked the nickname of ‘Raven’ because of the poem, so Irene suggested that Berenice call her ‘Craven.’ Irene knew how to handle a bully for a simple reason. Because she was a bully herself. She was, in fact, my sister’s last prefect.”
“But Irene was coerced by Josephine into becoming a prefect,” said Irina. “So Berenice was advised on how to fight a bully by a person who had already submitted to another bully’s domination.”
“Whatever Irene’s motives, my niece was very grateful,” said Madame Trevor. “She viewed Irene as her best friend. Berenice was later devastated to learn of her mother’s death, her brother’s incarceration and Irene’s alleged demise. I then traveled to Paris in order to take her back to Bristol. Before we could return to England, a horrible event transpired. Berenice returned from Sunday Mass to discover her room vandalized. Irene’s letters had been torn to sheds. The pages of Irene’s gift, the Dickens book, were ripped out. My niece saw this as a horrible desecration. All the remembrances of her best friend had been destroyed. Neither I nor the Countess could console her.”
“What Countess?” said Irina.
“Countess Corbucci, one of my sister’s former students. She came to the Institution Bachelard to offer her condolences.”
“Was this Countess a blonde?”
“No, a brunette. Soon after the vandalism, Berenice disappeared. Her room showed signs of a struggle. All her clothes and possessions were missing. The same night, Kaitlin also vanished with her belongings. The police couldn’t trace either girl. I believe Kaitlin was responsible for both the vandalism and my niece’s disappearance.”
“Why reopen this case?”
“I received this letter. I didn’t want to go to the French police because of their general ineptitude. Eva recommended your Agency because of Berenice’s connection to Irene.”
Rosette handed a letter to Irina. The sleuth scrutinized it.
“The person who wrote this is a terrible writer,” commented Eva. “Several English words are misused. Do you get the gist?”
“Yes, Madame Relli. The writer identifies himself only as ‘Parker.’ He or she wants 50,000 francs for information about Berenice’s whereabouts. Parker desires a meeting at a warehouse along the Seine this Sunday night. The signal will be the playing of a musical instrument.”
“I don’t have that kind of money,” pleaded Madame Trevor.
“It doesn’t matter. The Chupin Detective Agency will gladly pay for this information in light of your niece’s friendship with Irene. We will also be waiving our customary fee. I will contact you to report on the meeting’s results.”
“You’re very generous,” said Madame Trevor. “Thank you.”
“Rosette has been very honest, Mademoiselle Putine,” said Eva. “Don’t you think that you should be equally forthcoming?”
“Eva!” reprimanded Madame Trevor. “You must apologize. Mademoiselle Putine has been extremely kind.”
“But not altogether candid with us. She’s Irene!”
“What has prompted this absurd con
clusion?” asked Irina.
“The similarity of names: Irene Tupin–Irina Putine,” said Eva.
“Despite the fact that Madame Trevor mentioned the horrible mutilation that befell Irene.”
“You’re wearing gloves.”
“My hands are normal,” said Irina. “You may examine them.”
Irina removed her gloves. Eva gently touched her hands, puzzled at first, but then pushed back the silver bracelets.
“There are scars on your wrists! You have much explaining to do, Mademoiselle.”
“My scars resulted from a suicide attempt.”
“Why did you attempt suicide?” asked Madame Trevor.
“Are you familiar with the Nihilists?” said Irina.
“They’re anarchists who murder Russian aristocrats.”
“Yes. Years ago, I was in Paris with my Russian mother. The Nihilists murdered her and took me prisoner. Their vicious abuse prompted me to slit my wrists. Monsieur Chupin rescued me and became my legal guardian. I spent years at an English boarding school. Upon my return to France, Monsieur Chupin changed my name to avoid further Nihilist persecution. My alias is derived from his niece’s name.”
“Nihilists operate in Russia,” challenged Eva. “This is France.”
“Madame Relli, did you ever hear of Countess Yalta?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I remember the case,” said Madame Trevor. “The Countess was poisoned by the Nihilists in Paris 16 years ago. A hospital in Avignon was named after her.”
“That is correct. Countess Yalta was my mother,” said Irina.
“I don’t recall any reference to a daughter in the newspapers.”
“My parents were unmarried,” replied Irina, lowering her head in shame.
“I’m sorry for forcing that admission. Eva, you must apologize to this gracious lady,” said Madame Trevor.
After the two women had left, Irina, who was really Irene, mentally rehashed the lies she had just told. She had, in fact, gone to an English nursing home, not a boarding school, after her discharge from the Countess Yalta Memorial Hospital, where a surgeon had surreptitiously given her a new pair of hands.4
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 10
