The Death of Me

by M. J. Tjia

  “Well…” he exhales. “I did think your appearance a little, shall we say, womanly, but I never suspected…” He blinks. “What is this jest you talk of?”

  I pretend to laugh, tossing the hat onto a side-table. “Oh, just a wager I had with Lord Hatterleigh. I bet that I could enter his gentleman’s club undetected by him or the club’s staff.”

  I take a seat and gesture for him to follow suit. “I was so successful, I was in and out of the place before anyone had a chance to notice me.”

  I listen to the air whistle from his nostrils five times as he considers me. “I’m not sure if I believe you, Comtesse.”

  My heart skitters, but I force a smile to lift my lips. I watch as he draws his pipe from his vest pocket. Tamping the tobacco with his thumb, he reaches into his other pocket for matches.

  “I do not get your meaning, Inspector?”

  As he lights his pipe, I notice his fingernails are dirty, ragged.

  “You first came to our attention when you left the debtors’ prison in Clichy, Comtesse.” He puffs on his pipe and peers at me through the smoke. “I had a man follow you home, where he discovered your identity.”

  “Why would you have me followed when I was simply visiting an old friend?” I ask, flipping open a walnut box on the side-table to take out a cigarette.

  “Ah. You must mean Somerscale. You say he is merely a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, he is. And I hope you’re not insinuating there was more to it than that,” I say, indignant. If I act like I believe his line of questioning is to do with sexual transgressions, he might be thrown off the scent. “I really have no idea why you would waste your time in following me.”

  “I am not convinced it has been a waste of time, Comtesse,” he says. “We have had our eye on Somerscale and his kind. We – the Parisian authorities – like to be sure of what is afoot in this great city. We spy upon the spies, especially when they are Englishmen. This type of monitoring is absolutely necessary. It is what the masterful Fouche called high policing.” He casts his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, as though he’s speaking of his god. He’s standing a few metres away, and yet towers over me. I’m at a disadvantage, but feel that I would appear unnecessarily agitated should I take to my feet too.

  “Well, this ‘high policing’ of yours has been a waste of time in this instance,” I say, voice flippant. “You have uncovered nothing more than a mere visit of courtesy between two people who are not much more than acquaintances.”

  “And yet, it proved fruitful when you were followed to a certain establishment in Bocages des Anges.”

  My hand hesitates on its way to my mouth. I then draw on my cigarette, the paper crackling as the ash recedes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He pulls a pair of spectacles from his upper coat pocket and places them on his nose, before withdrawing a notebook from his inside pocket. Using the thumb of his free hand to leaf through the pages, he pauses to read, “Comtesse Chancey – purple hat and fur tippet, exchanged striped gown for yellow – exits Hotel Chevalier in the company of one unknown gentleman, short, slight of stature, grey overcoat. Time, eleven o’clock, evening.”

  I stub my cigarette out into a crystal ashtray. “I don’t own a yellow gown. Check if you please.”

  “Purple hat? Fur tippet?” His lips lift in a quizzical smile, like he knows he’s caught me out.

  “Well, of course. I have any number of purple hats.” I shrug, taking a deep, exasperated breath. “I have one made of purple felt, and two straws with purple ribbon. I even have a very smart riding bonnet with a bunch of lavender. Take your pick, sir.”

  Purple hat. An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. Before I can dwell on my thoughts, though, Mercier takes a seat opposite me and slaps his infernal notebook shut. “By the time you arrived at the Dernier Livre, I was on hand to take over from my colleague. During this period, not much after midnight, it was with my own eyes I noted a man shove something into your partner’s pocket.” His eyes narrow as he puff-puff-puffs on his pipe, his gaze trained on my trousers. When he finally speaks again, his words reach me through a cloud of smoke. “I see. I see. Tell me, why were you dressed as a gentleman last night at the Dernier Livre? It was you with the woman in yellow? Yes? This is a habit of yours, is it, dressing up as a gentleman?”

  It’s my turn to blink. My mind races as I push myself up from the armchair and make my way to the side board. “Actually, it is. I like to enjoy the pleasures of the small hours, and it is often only in the guise of a man that I can experience it to the full.” I pour myself a finger of whisky. “But I still don’t understand this interest of yours in what I got up to last night; what my proclivities might be.” I sip my drink. The whisky’s burning trail through my chest is welcome. “I can’t answer for some scoundrel slipping something into my pocket. Here, check them if you must,” I say, drawing out my empty coat pockets. I maintain an irritated scowl on my face, which, hopefully, covers my alarm. I’m not even sure what the penalty might be if I’ve been caught dealing with a spy. And what of this murdered woman?

  My hand quivers so that I have to put the tumbler down. “This body you found? You thought it was me, because of the hat and tippet.”

  “That is correct, Comtesse. When her body was shown to me, I was sure it was you.” His expression is grave. “Now I wonder – in fact, I am sure – it is the body of the woman in the yellow gown that was with you last night. The woman we thought was you.”

  My hand finds my mouth, pinching my lips together. “How can you be sure?”

  He shrugs. “I will need you to come identify her. That is the only way we can know.”

  I press my eyes shut for several moments. Violette. “She was visiting her son… You found her in Montmartre, you say?”

  “That is where her body was found. You know where she was going?”

  I shake my head, ashamed. I knew hardly anything of the girl. “A friend of mine, Sabine, recommended her to me. I will give you her directions.”

  Mercier nods as he scrawls the scant particulars I can give him into his notebook.

  “Where is she now?” I ask.

  He taps his pipe out into the ashtray. “Her body is being kept at a surgeon’s place of work near the prefecture.” He looks me up and down. “You will escort me there now?”

  “I will change. Please wait a few moments.”

  Closing the boudoir door behind me, I shed my male attire. I hear Mercier give instructions to his men in the next room, and I know I should be hurrying, but I stare at my pale face in the mirror. Please don’t let it be Violette.

  Her skin has lost the shades of life. Her lips, once rosy, are the colour of paste, and a smear of mud sullies her right cheek. Dark shadows cloud her half-closed eyes.

  “Yes. That’s her.” I shake my head in disbelief as the surgeon pulls the sheet back up over Violette’s face. “How’d she die?” I turn to Mercier.

  “A powerful knock to the back of the head,” he says, still staring at the shrouded figure. “The back of her skull…” He tuts. “You are lucky she lies face up, Comtesse.”

  I grimace. “Did anyone see who assaulted her?”

  “No. A young couple came across her body and brought it to the police’s attention.”

  On a bench lies my battered purple hat. The tippet lies not far away, damp and straggly. My jaw loosens and my blood seems to peak and surge.

  “Was she robbed?” I ask, thinking of the extra coins I’d given her.

  “She didn’t have a purse on her.”

  My eyes find his. “I know that when she left me, she certainly had money. She was going to give some to her mother, and I gave her extra for the carriage ride.” I glance back at the shrouded figure. She must have decided to save the coins and walk instead. It’s exactly what I would’ve done in those grim days in Liverpool. Maybe it was nothing more than a violent thief who stole her life, but Mercier voices my concerns when he says, “I do wonder if, rather
than a mere robbery, the aim of this heinous act was in fact to attack you, Comtesse Heloise Chancey. Maybe the murderer mistook her for you, just as we did.”

  It’s like a chill slap to have my fears reinforced. “That’s ridiculous,” I say. “Why would anyone want to harm me?”

  I follow him into the corridor. His words are clipped, serious, as he says in an undertone, “Comtesse, I am not sure what you have done, but I would wager that you are in danger. This man who put something in your pocket last night—”

  “What? What of him?”

  “He belongs to a terrible band of crooks, bent upon heinous acts. They call themselves the Red Brethren. Have you not heard of the bombing of the police station in your own London? Or when someone tried to shoot our own Minister of Finance, here in Paris? The crimes are all related. I am sure of it.”

  “Who was this man? Describe him for me,” I say, thinking back to the tavern the night before. Was it the older man, heavily covered, alone at his table? Or the tavern keeper and his enticing daughter? The American? His friend?

  “Tallish man with a red kerchief tied around his neck. His facial hair was as black as coal. Long hair.”

  My eyes widen.

  “You remember him!”

  I nod slowly. “I think I do. He stood at the end of the bar?” I lie. I can’t remember him at all from the night before, but I remember him from that crypt. “When was Violette murdered? Do you know?”

  He pulls his watch from his vest. “The doctor thinks she was only newly dead when she was found. That means no longer than three hours ago.”

  My gaze takes in the blistered paint on the walls, the tiny fissures that peel away from the cornice. I’m almost certain that the bearded fellow in the crypt had expired by then, so he couldn’t have murdered Violette. Perhaps the same person tailed and killed both the bearded fellow and my maid.

  I shake my head. My thoughts are still a little muddled and I will need to think on this. I say to Mercier, “I’m positive you must be mistaken. I know nothing of this gang you speak of. There is absolutely no reason for them to wish me harm.”

  As I turn to leave, the Inspector grasps my wrist. “I know you lie, Comtesse. And these people who you are associated with are dangerous, deadly even. Look at what they have done to your maid. I would suggest you walk away now. Leave Paris.”

  I stare at him for a few seconds before I pull my arm free. I want to answer him with something jaunty, defiant, but words fail me. I nod briefly and walk back out onto the street.

  When I arrive back to our suite, Hatterleigh is seated in the drawing room with his ghastly brother-in-law, Cyril Breeden. Despite being the younger sibling of Lady Hatterleigh, he’s never shown any sign of disinclination towards my company. The opposite, in fact. Too many times to mention, I’ve had to avoid his drunken embraces, like we were the leads in a terrible farce. If Cyril were not male and was not of such superior lineage, he could quite comfortably be referred to as a whore.

  “It’s about time you arrived home,” Hatterleigh says as I enter, his voice merry. “Come along. We have a festive evening prepared, haven’t we, Cyril?”

  I don’t feel up to banter. My mind is still awhirl. I consider claiming a headache, but I can see Hatterleigh is in a mood to tease me into whatever revelry he has planned. I lower myself onto the arm of his chair, and take a sip of his brandy.

  “Well, you must tell me what we will do so I can dress accordingly.”

  “We’re to take in the early show at the Cirque Napoléon, have supper in the Boulevard des Italiens, and then we thought we might search out… Whose ball is it again, Cyril?”

  “The de Ferrières masquerade ball?”

  “That’s the one!” Hatterleigh pulls out his watch and glances at the time. “Why don’t you change your gown, Heloise. Take your time. We don’t have to be at the Cirque Napoléon for another hour. And ferret out your mask for the ball. If you forgot to bring one, send your girl out for one.”

  He means Violette. If only I could call for her.

  I hold my carriage well as I sail into the boudoir, but behind the closed door, I slump onto my dresser stool, and sink my face into my hands.

  I think of a tawdry bedroom in Waterloo not two years past. Of the golden girl’s pallid skin. The blood that was as thick as treacle. Sorrow wrings my insides so that I feel like doubling over. Please do not let me be responsible for another death. If only I hadn’t involved Violette. If only I hadn’t given her that damned purple hat.

  Copious glasses of champagne can’t lift my spirits. In fact, with each act – the pretty, dancing pony with a ballerina upon its back, the tightrope walker in his spangled costume, and even when a performing goose lands in Hatterleigh’s lap – I sink further into my gloomy thoughts.

  Finally, I can’t stand it anymore, and I take my leave of Hatterleigh and ghastly Cyril at La Maison Dorée, ostensibly to change my jewelled slippers for a more comfortable pair of dancing shoes. I shake my head as I think of our evening so far. La Maison Dorée is one of my favourite restaurants and, as usual, we were given a private room in which to dine, with gilded mouldings and elegant furnishing, but Cyril’s new ladybird, Bluette, had almost spoilt the atmosphere with her lashings of face paint and dockside swearing. Even I know how to rein it in in such a place.

  As I leave the restaurant, one of the waiters runs ahead to fetch our carriage. I step close to the road, pulling my fur more snugly around my shoulders against the evening chill. Opening my beaded purse, I’m just taking out a cigarette when I hear a man call out, and someone close by gasps. A buggy careers around the corner. Its two harnessed horses bear down upon me. I catch a whiff of their hot breath, a flash of quivering muscle. I can see the alarm in the horse’s eye, which is a mirror of mine, when I’m yanked out of the way. Thundering hooves mount the pavement as the buggy’s wheel scrapes inches from where I lie on the ground, before bobbing back down onto the road. At speed, the buggy continues upon its way, disappearing around the next bend.

  The waiter runs back to me, helps me to my feet. The heel of my right hand bleeds, and my forearm aches from where it jarred against the cobblestones.

  “Madman,” the waiter mutters, peering after the long-gone buggy. “Madman. Mon dieu. He could have killed you, Comtesse.”

  I crouch in the armchair, shivering, despite the warmth from the fire I’ve had the valet make up for me. I’m not sure how long I’ve been seated here. Hours maybe.

  It was only in the cab back to the suite that it occurred to me to wonder who had hauled me out of the way of the speeding buggy. Was it just a bystander, or – I search my memory of those frightful moments – did I see someone familiar? Hear something? And who drove the buggy? All I can come up with is a shadow, a flash of a greatcoat. I shake my head again. It’s difficult to remember anything besides the horses’ pounding hooves, their hot breaths. The waiter was correct. I was nearly killed.

  I have been puzzling over this since I arrived home. Was it an accident, or was somebody actually trying to kill me?

  I think Mercier is right. It’s time to leave Paris.

  Uncurling my legs, I stand. My arm still aches, but the graze on my palm has ceased to bleed. My fingers are stiff with cold as I gather my clothing, jewellery and toiletries and shove them into my portmanteaus and trunks. Amah and Abigail will sort out my things when I arrive back home in Mayfair.

  I’m so preoccupied with my packing, I don’t realise Hatterleigh’s returned until I smell the whisky on his breath as he stands behind me. I yelp.

  “Bloody hell, Giles, you scared the wits out of me,” I say, picking up the petticoat I’ve dropped.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asks. “We waited and waited for you. I had to leave Cyril to kick his heels at a tavern in Saint Germain.”

  “Well, that should suit Bluette, at any rate,” I say, my voice sour.

  Hatterleigh takes the velvet jewellery pouch I’m about to drop into a portmanteau from my hands. “He
loise, what are you doing? Why are you packing?”

  I sweep the rest of my accoutrements from the dresser into a leather case. “I have had word from London. From Bundle, in fact.” I fabricate the story as I speak. “Amah is very ill. The doctor’s not sure what might be the matter with her.”

  “You’re going back because your maid is sick?” he asks.

  I stare across at him. I could kick myself. I should have made up an imaginary aunt or some such. Instead, I have to persevere with my tale. “I’m very fond of Amah, I’ll have you know,” I say, indignant. “We are not all so cavalier with the well-being of our servants as you might be, Giles.” But, despite a quick frown, he won’t be drawn down this path.

  “But this is madness, Heloise. I will ask my doctor to wait upon her. He’s the very best in London. He’ll have her right as rain in no time. You must remember that we are to go into the countryside the day after next, to that chateau I told you of.”

  I pause in packing away my brushes. The chateau is far away from town. I might just be safe there.

  But then I imagine the rambling mansion, its many wings, devoid of people except for me, Hatterleigh and a few servants; its lonely position amongst sprawling formal gardens, orchards of apple trees and fields of grass. I’d be an even easier target there. A tremor of fear shudders through me. No. I will be far safer amongst the crowds of London.

  “I’m sorry, Giles, but I must return as soon as possible.” I stare up at Hatterleigh, at his nose, ruddy from drinking too much whisky, at his kind eyes. I feel a prick of alarm. What if I have put him in danger as well? Perhaps it would be best, safest, if we were both to return to London, together.

  Lifting his hand in both of mine, I kiss it. “Come, Giles. Join me. I’ve had enough of Paris anyway. And you’d soon be bored at a fusty old chateau, admit it.” I grin up at him, and watch his face soften.