The Death of Me

by M. J. Tjia

  “Murder?”

  “Carnage, Heloise. Carnage.”

  It’s as if a cold draught passes across my skin at the tone of his voice. I sit back into the sofa. “Surely the French police should be told of this, then? I don’t understand why you must become involved.”

  He taps ash onto the floor. “The plot we intend to foil is to be undertaken on English soil. Not in France. From what I gather, my contact, as we will call him, has taken refuge here in Paris, as it has become too dangerous for him in London.”

  “You expect the fellow to be British?”

  Again, he shrugs. “I assume so. But who is to know for sure?”

  “But then how are you to know him?”

  He shifts in his chair so that he is facing me. “Do you mean to take on this task, Heloise? I can only tell you the details if you agree to go in my stead.”

  I take in a deep breath, so that my bosom strains against my stays. Somerscale stands and makes his way back to the curtained French door. He beckons for me to follow.

  Twitching the curtain aside, he stands against the wall and peers outside again. “I’m being watched,” he says. “A dark man, thin, bulky overcoat.” He glances at me and his voice is testy when he says, “It’s no use grinning at me like that, Heloise. It’s true, not a figment of my imagination.” He bids me stand next to him, and nods down to the street. “There! By the old woman selling shoes or whatever’s on that confounded cart. See him?”

  I see the man Somerscale’s talking of; he’s reading a newspaper, looks up briefly as a carriage passes him by.

  “There’s another damned fellow too, somewhere about.” He rakes his hands through his hair. “Mind you, I can’t be sure how many of the rascals have their eyes on me.”

  “You think it’s connected to your business tonight, to Westminster?”

  “I’m sure of it. They’ve been following me for days.”

  I plonk back down onto the sofa, while Somerscale fetches me a fresh glass of wine, which I hold in my lap. I don’t want to become too befuddled. “Therefore, you need someone to meet him in your stead. Someone who will not be suspected of this little piece of espionage. Someone like me?”

  “Exactly.” His smile is triumphant. “If a friend or servant of mine turns up, they will know I have sent him in my place, and all will be lost. The information might be compromised. But if you go… Who will suspect you?”

  “But, Somerscale, these men who are keeping an eye out for you, they would’ve seen me come in here. If the tavern is being watched, or I am followed, they will suspect you have sent me to undertake your commission.”

  “That’s the beauty of my plan,” he says, proudly. “You are infamous, my dear. As soon as they ask around and find out that you’re none other than Heloise Chancey, Paon de Nuit, they will think nothing of this visit. They will assume you are here for – ” his lips curve into a smile again, “shall we say – a connubial visit. I am almost sure they will not follow you, or even think of you again. They will never dream that I require you to carry out this sordid assignment.”

  I’m stung enough by his sentiments to briefly consider turning down his request. His words make it sound as if I gallivant about town lifting my skirts for any old humbug with lashings of money and middling looks.

  But when I look back at Somerscale I see a steady challenge in his eyes, mischief even. He’s watching for my reaction, blast him. Wants to see if I rise to his bait. Perhaps he even thinks he might catch a glimpse of my famous temper. But I will not let him see that I care one hoot about his careless words, or what he thinks of me. I lift my chin, laugh, and say, “Well, in that case, I will gladly take on this dirty little job of yours but, I warn you, it will cost you a very pretty pile of gold francs. Almost as much as if I actually were here on a connubial visit.”

  CHAPTER 2

  AMAH

  Amah Li Leen pauses in her stroll through Hyde Park and gazes down upon a crocus, its furled purple petals peeping out at the tepid sunlight. It’s as loath to admit spring has arrived as Amah is herself. But the daffodils are merry, dance and preen to the chilly breeze that cuts across the grassy folds of green. She pulls her coat tighter, wishing she’d wrapped her scarf about her neck.

  Three stalwart picnickers unload sandwiches and bowls of strawberries and dried fruit from a basket, lay them out on a plaid blanket. Why are they seated under the waxy leaves of the magnolia tree, and not out in what sunlight can be garnered? Amah lifts her own face to the sky, waiting for the sun’s warm fingertips to touch her cheeks. A frosty gust of wind whips the ribbon of her bonnet and she gives up. As she treads upon the path, the heels of her black shoes clacking to the beat of her thoughts, she wonders if she will ever see Makassar again; wonders if she’ll ever feel that heat that seemed to seep into the very marrow of her body.

  Making her way along Park Lane she looks up at the grand buildings, their French style reminding her of Heloise; of her daughter’s sojourn in Paris with Hatterleigh. Her lips tighten but, really, she doesn’t feel all that put out. She believes Heloise’s promise of taking her to Venice at another time and, at any rate, racqueting about with Heloise could be very tiring. Amah has enjoyed the restful time she has spent in London, walking and reading by day, embroidering a silk shawl by evening. And Agneau has taught her numerous new dishes to cook: a fine soup made of onion, and a choux pastry which she adores, almost as much as his quiche. Tonight she will teach him how to prepare a beef sauce for, in truth, she did not think much of his beef in red wine. She stops for a moment, gazing into the display window of the apothecary’s. Perhaps she should make a quick visit to Limehouse, ask Miriam for more bean paste. She shakes her head and resumes her walk home – surely there is enough in the jar she fetched last time.

  As she arrives at the corner of South Street, a man and woman brush past her.

  “Cab,” the man calls out, waving his leather satchel towards a line of hansom cabs across the way. He’s a ferrety-looking thing. His clothing appears to be of the highest fashion, but Amah’s discerning eye catches out the shine of his trousers, the flashy cheapness of his coat. His companion – her plump prettiness marred by goggling eyes and a dissatisfied pout to the mouth – demands he wipes down the cab seat with his kerchief before she will enter.

  “If we could just afford our own carriage, we wouldn’t have to stoop to hiring cabs all the time,” she says, the nasal tone of her voice rising on an accusatory note.

  Amah walks past, smiling grimly behind her lace veil as the man steps into the cab to wipe down the seat. Should have told her to do it herself, Amah thinks. That’s one thing she did right with Heloise, she didn’t bring her up to be useless. Or whiny.

  As the woman pulls herself and her wide skirts into the cab, the back of her crinoline swoops into the air, and her split drawers yawn wide over the marbly flesh of one buttock. Amah looks away, but not swiftly enough. She will never understand why the silly women of London insist on wearing those ridiculous cage contraptions.

  Amah makes her way along South Street until she’s looking up at Heloise’s house, her gloved fingers resting on the handrail.

  She wonders if Agneau is in the kitchen, conscious of a tightness in the pit of her stomach. Something like excitement. A feeling she has not experienced in many a year. Perhaps Agneau is already…

  The front door swings open.

  “Thought it were you,” says Abigail, pail in hand. “Saw you through the window.”

  Amah trots up the steps, follows the housemaid into the hallway. She shies away from going straight to the kitchen, despite being parched. She will first sip some cold tea in her room, take off her bonnet, straighten her hair. She catches that thought. She will not straighten her hair. She frowns at herself as she climbs the stairs to her rooms.

  “Any word when the mistress’ll be back?” asks Abigail.

  “Who knows. She is a mystery to us all.”

  “I just thought, you’s being her lady’s maid and al
l, that you’d have to know when to be ready.”

  Amah wonders if the girl is fishing for information. Is sure of it, in fact. She’s sharp, is Abigail. But she’ll get no fodder from her. “I am always ready, Abigail. So should you be,” she says, without looking back.

  In her sitting room, Amah takes off her bonnet and lays it on the walnut side board, ignoring the urge to check her features in the mirror. She tugs off her gloves and then tends to the fire that has faltered in her absence. She holds her fingertips above the comfortable blaze, watches pink life come into her skin again. Glancing across at the embroidery on the table, she wonders if she should while away some of the time – wouldn’t do to look too eager – with taking up the needle or with reading by what daylight is still available. She decides upon the latter and goes into her bedroom to fetch her Dickens.

  She gasps, stopped short in the doorway. For next to the book, upended on her bed, is her oak jewellery box. Beads, several brooches, a gold bracelet, her pearls and earrings are strewn across the eiderdown. The jewellery box’s little drawers lie empty and one of its mirrored doors has been mangled from its hinges. Her eyes take in the rest of her bedroom – the chest drawers gape open, her shifts and petticoats spilling forth. Her gowns are scattered across the floor, her portmanteaus ransacked. Ribbons, hair nets, bonnets, a bottle of crème are heaped on her dresser. For a few startled seconds she wonders if Abigail is responsible. Perhaps she had an accident while dusting or was in the midst of cleaning Amah’s room. But it doesn’t take her long to realise much rougher hands have been at work. Rough hands bent upon mischief.

  She rushes to her dressing table and, with trembling fingers, pulls the miniature drawers and frame away. She eases out the secret compartment. A long breath escapes her lips when she sees the silk purses are still there. Digging her fingers to the bottom of a red pouch with a drawstring tie, she brings out a tiny gold orb, a figure of a dragon entwined around its circumference. Her mother’s earring. All Amah has left of her. She clasps it in her fist for five tight heartbeats, feeling its knobbly presence in the palm of her hand. She places it back into its pouch and returns the drawers and dressing table to how they were.

  Amah gazes again on the mess of trinkets on her bed and stiffens. What of Heloise’s jewels? She races out onto the landing and down the flight of stairs. In Heloise’s sitting room some books have been tugged from shelves but her bedroom seems untouched. Amah opens the door to Heloise’s dressing room to find the same kind of chaos as she had found upstairs. Amah tuts when she sees Heloise’s newest trunk of dresses lying open, on its side. And what would she say if she saw all her favourite hair ornaments dumped on the floor like that? Good thing she isn’t home, with that temper of hers. She’d shout the place down, swearing and kicking like one of those smelly sailors on Toxteth Docks.

  With lips set in a firm line, Amah steps across to a large painting on the wall nearest the wardrobe. She takes hold of the left side of the gilt frame and pulls the painting wide, as though it is a cabinet door. The green safe, built into the wall behind, looks undisturbed. Just to be sure, Amah winds the secret numbers – a blend of her own birth date with Heloise’s – into the combination lock and heaves the heavy, iron door open. Velvet boxes, coin albums, neat stacks of ribboned correspondence and contracts fill the dim space. Amah lifts a page in an album to spy a row of gold coins and opens the closest velvet box, revealing a rope necklace of pear-shaped diamonds. She closes the safe door again and clicks the painting back into place. Amah eyes the portrait of a young couple; their stony gazes, their umbrella buckling under the weight of gusty rain. They look to be at the bow of a barque, and not too happy about it. She’s always wondered if the expression on her face was similar, that day many years before when their ship approached England.

  Hands on hips, she turns to survey the mess. Her initial fright has simmered down to a hum of anger. Nothing seems to be missing, just as in her own rooms. What could the burglar have been after?

  She looks back towards the safe. Heloise’s jewels, of course. What did the girl expect after lording it all around town draped in diamonds and emeralds? Amah tuts again, shakes her head. Virtually asking to be robbed, foolish girl. She thinks of Heloise in Paris – without Amah’s sharp eye on her – and a faint feeling of alarm stokes the fire of her anger. Always trouble, that girl.

  “Abigail!” She calls for the maid before she even reaches the corridor. “Abigail, come here please. And fetch Bundle.”

  Abigail lumbers up the stairs. “He’s not here. He got a message to say his sister were ill.”

  Amah stares at the girl. “I didn’t know about that.”

  “Happened as soon as you left, it did.”

  “Come in here.” She gestures for Abigail to follow her into Heloise’s bed chamber. “You’d better go fetch the constable for me.”

  The duster drops from the housemaid’s hand as she gapes at the mess.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, clearly, we’ve been burgled,” says Amah. “Did you not hear anything?”

  The maid shakes her head, jaw hanging loose.

  “Stop gawping,” says Amah. “Go fetch the police.” She catches the servant by her sleeve. “First, tell me, are you sure you did not hear anything?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “Was anyone else in the house? Any tradesmen? Visitors?” Heloise has pretty shady characters keep her company sometimes, after all.

  “No, Amah, just the man about the chimneys.”

  Amah cocks her head to the side. “What man?”

  “He come to check the chimneys. Said he’d been sought. Showed me a piece of paper saying so.”

  “And you just let him in?”

  “He had a piece of paper!” says Abigail, stridently, but with a slight quiver.

  “And what did he do, this man?”

  “Well, he looked at all the fireplaces, didn’t he? Said we had to be very careful that they did not cause a house fire. He’d just come from a nasty case in Forest Hill, he said.”

  “Did he? And you stayed with him the whole time?”

  She hesitated. “Of course.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, actually, there was another knock at the door. And Bundle being away, I had to answer it.”

  “Where did you leave him?”

  “We’d just come down from the servant’s quarters.”

  “Onto my landing?”

  “Yes.” Colour is bright in Abigail’s cheeks. “But he were a nice man, Amah. He would never do anything like…” Her eyes wander over the mess in Heloise’s rooms. Something seems to occur to her and she takes a step towards Amah. “But it must’ve been him, isn’t that right? It must’ve been him.”

  Amah stares at her for a moment. “Who was at the door?”

  “This dratted woman wanted to know if I’d seen her dog. Run away in the park, he had. She showed me sketches she’d made of the mongrel. Long-haired thing, it were.”

  “Were you with her long?”

  “Not long.” She looks troubled now. “But she asked were there any more servants in the house. Demanded to speak to Agneau when I said there were only him.”

  Amah’s eyes widen. She can’t help but be diverted. She would have enjoyed seeing the indignation on Agneau’s face at being summoned from his kitchen. “And how did he take that?”

  “Well, he wouldn’t come, would he?”

  “You didn’t invite her in, too, did you?” Amah’s voice is sharp.

  “No, of course I didn’t.”

  “Of course.”

  The servant’s fat bottom lip starts to push forward and Amah wonders if she is about to cry.

  “It’s true, Amah. It’s true. And when I was finished with her, the man was walking down them stairs again. He said all was in order and left.”

  Amah gives Abigail a hard look.

  “It’s true.”

  “So you let in a mysterious chimney inspector, and then you were dist
racted by a woman searching for her dog?”

  “Uh-huh.” Abigail nods. Her ears are red now. “It’s true. He really were here. He really were. I’m not making this up, Amah. Even when I dust in here, I never disturb madam’s jewellery. Never touch it.”

  Abigail is usually a bit mouthy, sure of herself, and Amah’s a little puzzled by her agitation until it occurs to her that Abigail thinks that Amah believes her to be the culprit.

  “I don’t think you did it, you foolish girl.”

  “I would never, Amah. Never.” A flush of tears bright in her eyes.

  “I know that. Go now. Go fetch the constable.”

  CHAPTER 3

  As I make my way into the Hotel Chevalier, Violette hard upon my heels, I think again of how much the hotel reminds me of a gothic castle in some Radcliffe novel, with its turret-like structures and lichen shadows in the stonework. But inside, the entrance hall shines with marble and brass, and Hatterleigh insists the Hotel Chevalier has the very best suites in Paris. He also likes it because it’s in close proximity to his cronies who live along Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

  As we climb the carpeted stairs to our third-floor suite, I tell Violette to take some time to herself.

  “Oui, Comtesse,” she murmurs.

  Here, in Paris, I am referred to as Comtesse, or Countess, which I originally found irksome and just a little embarrassing. I have learnt, though, that Lady Hatterleigh abhors Paris’s exotic underside and never accompanies Hatterleigh here, so I have become accustomed to being called Countess. In another world, at another time, perhaps it would be my rightful title, after all?

  I’m slipping the gold and pearl bracelets from my wrists and placing them on the dressing table when Hatterleigh enters our boudoir and puts his arms around me.

  “What have you been up to, you minx?” he asks, nuzzling my neck.

  He smells of cologne, sweat and whisky.

  I grimace, moving along the cushioned stool away from him. “Where have you been? I thought you were just at the Jockey Club?” But I grin too, as he pulls me back into his arms. He presses his mouth to mine, and I could get tight just inhaling the liquor fumes upon his breath.