by M. J. Tjia
The malicious smile on her face makes Amah clutch her hands tight in her lap.
CHAPTER 7
Rain falls heavily outside the prison, and the smell of wet soil and waste drifts through the gaps in the windows as I wait for Somerscale to say something. My fingers pick at the pink ribbon of my pretty bonnet, where it has come loose from the purple felt. Violette must’ve been too damned rough with it last night. I will have to gift it to her now.
Somerscale stops pacing for a moment. “You say you found this in your pocket?”
“I did. And the bastard stole my pistol, while he was at it. Regular little pick pocket, whoever he is.”
“You didn’t get a look at him?”
I grimace, ashamed. “Sorry.”
Somerscale scrapes a kitchen chair across the floor so it’s facing mine, and takes a seat. He takes my hands in his. “Heloise, think on it. Surely someone must have stood out to you?”
I spent the whole night thinking on this. Made an inventory in my mind of who could have been the villain we were trying to contact; anyone I could remember, who was in my vicinity the night before.
“There was one man who seemed a little odd,” I say, thinking of the old man seated alone in such a busy taproom. “He was so heavily concealed in his coat and hat, it was difficult to see anything of him.”
“Did he approach you?”
“I don’t think so. But you have to understand, everyone was packed in the Dernier Livre as tight as a row of minnows in brine. And certainly, when the brawl began—”
“What brawl?”
“A brute beating his missus. This silly Yank who’d befriended us waded in and saved the day.”
“A Yank?”
“Yes. Ripley, he said his name was.” I’d thought of him much throughout the night. How he’d stayed close to our sides. And I can’t help but recall his words and wonder: “I reckon this is the time for a real man to intervene”. Was he merely casting aspersions on my manhood, or had he actually seen through my disguise? “He sought us out almost immediately we arrived. But I don’t think there was any period he would’ve had a chance to sneak something into my pocket.” I think of when we stood outside the tavern, both before and after our time within. I’d certainly been repeatedly jostled by passers-by. Could the swap of pocket contents be from then? “He had a pal. A man named Michel. But he seemed far too drunk to have been our culprit, really.”
“Or seeming three sheets to the wind was a good disguise,” replied Somerscale.
He’s right. Didn’t I perform a misleading part myself?
I stand and take a place next to the windows. Peeking down onto the street, I look for Somerscale’s spies. “Are you still being watched?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I think they’ve given up on me. Why?”
“I did wonder if the same fellow you pointed out to me the other day was the same one I saw outside my hotel and also in the tavern. He wore a straw hat.”
Somerscale’s head bobs. “Could be. But there are many men who wear those sorts of hats, after all.” He gestures towards my chair again and, as I take a seat, he asks, “You don’t remember anyone else suspicious?”
“Well…” I think back to the evening before. “The only person I remember actually pressing up against me was a girl who served drinks. It was when we were watching the fight I found her and my maid grasping my arms in fright.” I think of the barmaid’s sleepy eyes, her knowing smirk, and it occurs to me, not for the first time, that a bar-room brawl is not something that is likely to have startled such a sly, shrewd thing. “I think I heard someone call her father – the tavern’s owner – Bernard or something. The more I think of it, surely it is quite likely that they would be in on it, if their taproom was chosen as the meeting point?”
He looks down at the travel guide again. Thrusting it in front of my face, he points, “He’s circled the last paragraph. Something about a monument to the dead.” He taps his finger on his forehead three times, thinking. “I think I know the one he means. It’s this statue of an extremely robust Greek type, some sort of angel of death, I presume. Perched on top of a very handsome mausoleum, from memory. He must want me to meet him there.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But why make a new rendezvous? Why not just give me the information last night?”
Somerscale looks troubled, shrugs. “Maybe he was spooked by something.”
“True.” I trace my fingertip underneath the last line. “I think there’s something written under the word catacombs, there. See? The number 1300.”
He pokes around in his vest pocket until he brings out a monocle, through which he squints down at the faint writing.
“Maybe he means for you to meet him there at one o’clock? This afternoon?”
Somerscale glares at me. Finally, he shrugs. “Well, I can’t exactly meet him, can I?” he says, slapping the travel guide against his thigh.
He must see the hopeful look on my face, because he says, “No, Heloise, your role in this assignment is finished. Meeting him in such a quiet spot would be far too dangerous. I can’t allow it. Westminster wouldn’t allow it.”
“But you can’t go!”
“No, I can’t.” He strides over to a desk in the corner of the room and, dipping his pen in ink, he scrawls a quick message. After sealing it closed, he brings it to me. “Heloise, as soon as you leave here, take this missive to the Grand Hotel. I’ve kept my rooms there. You’ll find Victor, my valet. He’ll know who to send it on to.”
Taking the letter, I tuck it into my purse, and hurry from his rooms. It’s still quite early – most Parisians would still be breakfasting – but this letter must pass through many channels before it lands in the right hands. When I reach the road, I pull the lace veil over my face to protect it from the rain. My eyes search the many carriages on the street for my hired voiture de remise.
That’s when I see him. The man in the straw hat. I’m sure it’s him this time. Same heavy moustache, thin frame. And he’s staring at me. I gesture for my carriage to collect me, and he too waves over a buggy, and jumps in. After calling out my destination to the coachman, I hop up in and, as we lurch away, I can just see from the corner of the side window that he follows not far behind. I turn around again, back straight against the upholstery. Who is he? What’s his game? Is he one of the Westminster set, or worse, one of the criminals they have their eye on? And why follow me? What do they know? My tongue worries at the tiny chip in my front tooth as I mull over these questions.
A light sheen of raindrops mist my clothing, and my gloves are a little damp as I peel them from my fingers. Feeling in my purse, I pull out Somerscale’s letter and look at it.
I can’t lead them to Victor. It might give Somerscale away; the letter might be intercepted. Then all my work so far will be wasted. Leaning forward I tap the roof of my carriage and call through the opening, “Monsieur, monsieur. Forget the Grand Hotel. Take me back to the Hotel Chevalier.” I’ll have one of the bellboys deliver the letter to Victor as soon as I arrive.
Ducking into the foyer of the hotel, I glance up at the gilt clock on the wall, and almost gasp at how late the hour has become. It had taken longer than expected for the carriage to find its way, what with the rain slowing the traffic and a collision between a dray heaped high with radishes and a smart tilbury which caused a half-hour standstill.
Striding over to the reception desk, I yank Somerscale’s letter from my reticule.
“Yes, Comtesse?” asks the woman manning the desk.
I smooth the creases from the letter. “I need this…” I look up at the clock again. There really will be little time for Somerscale’s man to organise anything. “I need this sent as soon as possible. Immediately, s’il vous plait.”
Taking the grand staircase two steps at a time, I’m quite certain it will be too late. I will have to take Victor’s place. I rush to my apartment and ring for Violette. Casting my hat and tippet onto the sofa, I rummage through the theat
re box again, searching out my disguise from the night before. Violette helps me clasp the braces to my trousers, and tie my cravat. Pressing the moustache to my upper lip, I murmur to Violette that this time she will not need to accompany me. She can have the rest of the day off, but I will need her again that evening, so she can dress my hair before I attend the opera with Hatterleigh. I feel a slight tingling in my fingertips, and a little sick in the stomach. All I have to do is meet with this fellow, at the monument, and retrieve something from him. In the middle of the day. In public. It really should be perfectly safe. My stomach swoops again.
“What will you fill your afternoon with, Violette?” I ask, trying to transform my anxiety into bright curiosity. I watch my maid’s reflection in the glass.
She’s sucking on the end of her plait again, as she pins my hair onto the top of my head. “Cela dépend. I will go out, if that is permissible.”
“Of course, Violette. Will you go far?”
The girl shakes her head. “Not too far. I will have just enough time to visit my love, Alexandre. If I walk very quickly I will be with him in less than an hour.”
I turn on my seat and look up at her, grinning. “That’s a long way to go for a quick cuddle.”
Her brown eyes are a little blank when she looks back at me. “But I like to see him whenever I can. I do not have that many chances. He has become too big for my mother to bring to me.”
“He lives with your mother?”
“But, yes. His father was already married and did not want us.” She clamps the hat down on my head, so that its rim rests on my eyebrows, and her lips hook up into a sad smile. “I don’t think mother wants us much either, but she does what she can. As long as I take her money to support Alexandre.”
Ah. “Your son.”
She nods.
“How old is he?”
“He is nearly five,” she says, helping me pull on my boots. “He’s very small though, for his age. He’s always been frail. I don’t think Mama keeps her rooms warm enough, to tell you the truth.” She looks troubled, but then shrugs. “But what can I do? Madame Sabine certainly doesn’t allow children to stay in her house. And I am lucky Mama can look after Alexandre; many girls I work with have to send their babies into the countryside. Sometimes they never see them again.”
I pick up my purse and shove some money into my trouser pockets. Handing a few coins to Violette, I tell her to catch a cab. “Don’t waste your precious time walking. And buy him some cake too.” She thanks me with a short curtsey and as we return to the drawing room, I catch sight of my bonnet lying on the sofa; the one she ruined last night at the Dernier Livre. “And here, you have this. And the tippet. They match each other handsomely.” I pile them into her arms and see her to the door, waving off her words of gratitude.
Standing in front of the hallstand mirror, I admire my handiwork. Just like I did the evening before, I resemble a neat, diminutive chap. I regret that I don’t have a pair of spectacles to add to my disguise or even a monocle of some sort. Grinning, I walk to the windows, shoving my arms into my coat sleeves.
I freeze, the coat halfway up my arms.
The man is down on the street. He’s sucking on a pipe, his thumbs looped into his vest pockets. Straw hat on his head.
I dart into my room and look at the time on the clock. I only have three quarters of an hour left to make my rendezvous. I can’t lose any time. Dropping the dark overcoat to the floor, I race into Hatterleigh’s room. Where did he say he was going this morning? Riding in the park, or maybe to the Jockey Club? It doesn’t matter. As long as I can swipe his claret velvet coat, without him knowing, I’ll be fine. Surely I won’t be recognised in that.
I linger near the glass doors of the foyer until I can find the opportunity to slip out beside a family that passes through, loudly professing their desire to promenade along the avenue. I sidle along the inside of this little group of people and, out of the corner of my eye, I can see that the man has no interest in us, at all. In fact, besides casting a testy glance over the family, he resumes his doleful observation of the hotel. At the first corner, I shake free from the jolly set, and whistle for a cab.
“Cimetière du Romilly,” I call, as I jump up into my seat.
It only takes fifteen minutes to rattle our way to the cemetery. Alighting from the carriage, I toss a coin to the driver. Glancing up and down the leafy laneway, I cannot see any sign of the man or any evidence I’ve been followed. I allow myself a satisfied grin as I turn to gaze upon the entrance to the cemetery. On either side of the majestic gates, walls of an imposing height curve in a wide arc. Sculpted into the wall’s stone work are wreaths and Roman torches and something written in Latin.
Reaching into my vest pocket, I draw out Hatterleigh’s gold watch I’ve had the foresight to bring. Already one o’clock. I’m late.
Hurrying through the open gates, I come across a heavily jowled man who’s sweeping the path. I ask him where the monument to the dead is, but my French must be unclear, for he just swings his arm wide, taking in the whole cemetery. I try again, this time miming a large statue, of a man with wings. Finally, the man smiles, flashing his tea-brown teeth, and points to a path that leads east. I thank him as he waves me on.
Plane trees line the wide path, blocking the sun, and the temperature seems to drop a few degrees as I walk in their shadow. I hunch my shoulders and yank my collar up. I take a quick look behind me, but there’s nobody there. On another day, this might have been a pleasant stroll, an opportunity to stop and admire the opulent gravestones, or sigh over the pretty, moss-covered crypts dedicated to lost mothers and babies. To savour the hush of stone and flora.
But not today. Today my heartbeat matches my hasty footsteps along the cobblestones. I curse as I pass a bend in the path that just reveals more path, snaking its way through what seems to be an endless array of tombstones. Finally, feeling quite breathless, I reach a crest in the road, and the plane trees fall away, revealing a long lane of catacombs, lined up next to each other, not unlike a row of quaint, miniature terraced houses. I break into a trot, and can feel sweat prickle my upper lip under the moustache as I make my way. Turning a sharp corner, I find myself in a clearing that backs onto the cemetery’s outer wall. I stand still, very still, my ears straining to hear what sounds like a patter of footfall. The steps recede. Someone running away?
In front of me, a magnificent, marble statue of an angel – pale, beautiful, muscular – crouches atop a large crypt, which is easily the size of a small villa in Kensington. This must be it. The angel of death. I haven’t time to admire his finely wrought plumage, or his delicately chiselled lips. Walking further along the path, I glance around for any sign of someone else lurking in the shadows of the yew trees. I hear voices in the distance and, not two seconds later, an elderly couple come around the corner, stop to admire the monument. I eye their neat clothing, his cane, her basket, and decide they are not the culprits I’m to meet. I gaze up into the budding foliage of the nearest tree, pretending to admire the scenery, until they have disappeared from sight again.
I trudge towards the crypt, glum that I’ve missed the assignation. Standing to its left, I shield my eyes from the day’s dull glare as I stare up at the angel. I would expect an angel of death to look forbidding, angry even; this angel, however, has a serene, almost sad expression upon his face. And he’s young. I decide I’d trust him better if he did appear fierce. I’ve known too many pretty young men whose sweet simpering covered a callous heart. Angel of death indeed.
The rain starts up as I circle the crypt. At the back of the building I find a wide iron door. And it’s ajar. Raindrops drum against my top hat, and a drop of water splashes against my cheek. I look around again, but there is still nobody about. Raising my hand to the door handle, I pause. With my other hand, I yank my switchblade from my pocket and then, taking a deep breath, I inch the door open.
The inside of the crypt is so devoid of light, it takes my eyes several moments to
adjust and, even then, I can only make out dark, square shapes. I stand in the doorway for close to a minute, alert to a shift in the shadows or any other sign of life. When I am satisfied it’s not a trap, I take one last glimpse over my shoulder, and step inside. The crypt’s interior is cool, the sound of the downpour muted. I half-expected there to be an unpleasant odour within, maybe even a slight scent of decay, but the crypt smells no more offensive than a dusty library. My eyes, now accustomed to the gloom, take in the shelves that line the walls, and the long, wooden boxes that are upon them. I have to know what’s in them. The ground is gritty against the soles of my shoes as I approach the closest box. Lifting the lid a few inches, I peep in. Neat, ivory bones, gracefully slender, share their bed with knuckly, knobbly pieces of bone, more yellow in colour. I’m in an ossuary. I drop the lid down again. The sandstone walls are lined with shelf after shelf of boxes. There must be the remains of hundreds of people in here. Thousands, even. The room seems to diminish in size, presses in against me.
A moan – soft, almost imagined – comes to me from the back of the crypt. Stepping forward, blade brandished, I try to stay to the left to allow for whatever light that spills through the doorway. A moan again, guttural almost. My heart whooshes so loudly in my ears, I wonder if I’ll hear another. I edge my way to the furthest corner and, squatting, I poke at the dark bundle that lies along the wall under the lowest shelf. The man’s eyes are bright in the darkness as he stares at me, and his breaths rasp. His mouth moves, but no words come out. I grab his coat by the shoulders and, digging my nails and fingers in, try my best to pull his heft out from under the shelf. It takes me two goes before I’ve moved him five inches. He’s clearly spent, can’t help me at all.
Bringing my hands back to myself, I notice they’re damp, from something that’s thicker than rainwater, that has a metallic whiff. A dark smudge smears my shirt cuff.