Other Tales: Stories from The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy

by Marsha Altman

  “Of course.”

  The marquis looked sad, even vulnerable. “My wife died – was killed – in our former home in the west. She was in the gardens – she did so love to work with the soil – when some passing soldiers of General Bonaparte attacked her. They violated her, abused her, and left her to die. When we found her, it was too late.” He rested his head on his hand. “After that, I was in a mood of perpetual despair. I was not, I admit, the best gentleman. This was how I was when I arrived, and I was not entirely ... polite with the servants I did succeed in finding. But over time, I have healed – or so I hope. But I did not want old stories of my gloom to spread to my fiancée unnecessarily.” He looked up desperately at Audley.

  “Of course, my Lord. Thank you for the information, and it will be kept in confidence.” Audley stood up. “I think perhaps the best way to express your regained senses is to keep an eye out for your former servants. I wouldn’t want any more of them to end up like Mrs. Bernard.”

  The marquis nodded, “Of course, Inspector.”

  “Then I will be off and trouble you no more today. Thank you for your time, my Lord,” he said, bowing. He left satisfied that his threat had been perfectly understood.

  ~~~

  His appetite finally returned – and with a vengeance – and he consumed his meal at the Verrat enthusiastically. One of his first acts in town had been to befriend the barkeep, Anton, and the server, Camille. When Camille approached him to clear away his plate of well-picked-at chicken bones, he asked, “Do you know of the gypsies who supposedly live in the woods?”

  “Yes, sir. But…” She paused. “I don’t believe they’re gypsies, Inspector.”

  “No?”

  “Gypsies move around, don’t they? And they put on their shows and do their little tricks. I’ve seen their wagons pass through here. But these people seem to live out there, never coming out of the woods.”

  “Never?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  He did not open his notebook, but his hand instinctively fell on it. “How long have they been there?”

  “A few years. Not much longer. I don’t think they’re gypsies, Inspector. I think they’re ruffians. You know, ex-soldiers and refugees – the bad sort.”

  Like Simon Roux. “Where is their camp, exactly?”

  “Way out, deep in the woods.” She gave him a look of concern. “Inspector, if you’re thinking of looking for them, you shouldn’t. It’s dangerous.”

  “So they’re violent?”

  “I’ve never heard anything, but why else would they be living out there, building fires so high we can see the smoke from here?”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me of this?”

  “Did you ask?”

  It was the kind of answer that made him want to slap either the person asking or himself. In this case, it was the latter, for he would never truly consider hitting a woman. “I would prefer to know, for the record, if there are any violent people living in the woods when someone is found murdered just outside them.”

  “Oh, no one’s seen them come out this far. You’re safe for a mile or so in.” She leaned over. “I am serious, Inspector. If you die because of some bandits, I doubt they’ll send another inspector that’s half as cute as you and we’ll all suffer for it.”

  He smiled at her flattery. “I will take all the necessary precautions.”

  “Good to hear, Inspector.”

  Taking his satchel and book, he headed upstairs. Audley had no serious designs on Camille, but he was not going to discourage her to be friendly with him if it would lead to information not otherwise granted. It did not pass the professional line – he had forgotten her flirtatious comment (not the first she had made) by the time he removed his coat and vest and laid down to sleep for a short time. He would need to be rested for the evening’s planned activity.

  ~~~

  Among his things that stayed in a locked trunk beneath the bed in his room at the inn was a rifle. This particular evening, he took this along with his normal pistol. He had no intention to use it on anyone, but animals could not be discounted, and it would hardly look good if the young inspector from Paris was knocked off by a bear. Or a wolf.

  Lantern lit, he donned a wide-brimmed hat and set out, taking only the precaution to leave a note on his bed stand, lest he not return. It was nearing midnight now, and the full moon lit most of his path on the road until he came to the spot where the cross for Simon Roux had been planted in the ground. It had fallen over, knocked over, by a passing animal or the wind, and no one was caring for it. He picked it up and was about to force it back into the soil when he noticed writing on the back. Not writing – more like scribbles. Holding the cross close to his lantern, he tried to make out the characters. He realized that while they were unidentifiable, they were not scribbles. This had been done with a careful hand.

  It looked something like a lowercase “t” and an uppercase “R”, but in the wrong order, and bizarrely done. Some kind of ancient script? None that he recognized. I’ve paid my respects to Simon Roux, he thought, and broke off the part of the cross that was marked and stuffed it into his satchel.

  He could, as Camille had described, see the smoke of the fires, from somewhere deep in the woods. Using his compass, he determined the direction. South. With that, he blew out his lantern and entered the woods. The moon provided enough light, even through the trees, as his eyes adjusted. He treaded silently except for the occasional crunch of a branch or leaf pile. He passed several small streams running through various parts of the woods –there was a larger river somewhere, probably coming down from the mountains.

  Audley did not realize how nervous he was until the silence was broken by a howl. He jumped, then tried to reason himself out of it. It was the deep woods. It was night. There were bound to be things that howled at night. Not necessarily werewolves. There was no good reason for his breathing to be so heavy, or for him to wait so long against a tree for it to steady again. And then, another howl. Damn it, he would get nowhere with this!

  He focused on the compass, squinting to see its directional indicator. South. He focused on south, and continued for a while, until he could smell smoke and hear laughter in the distance. So, the rumors were true. He squinted in the distance, but saw no wagons or horses. He saw tents and shacks. The voices were almost entirely male. This was no gypsy camp, as Camille had warned him. It was, however, a camp of very likely suspects, especially if Simon Roux had crossed them somehow.

  How to approach them? Should he do it at all, or just observe? The second option seemed safer, but he had not yet decided when a blunt force rammed against the back of his head and everything went dark.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was like waking from a deep sleep. Actually, it was precisely that, aside from a slight bruise on the back of his head that, reaching back, he quickly discovered. Sighing, he lowered his dizzy head again against the soft grass and took in the rest of his surroundings.

  The sky above him signaled the beginnings of daylight. He had been unconscious – or first unconscious and then plain asleep - for hours. The spot was not the one where he had been struck, he was fairly sure. In fact, it looked familiar. He slowly sat up on his elbows, less dizzy this time, and found himself on the edge of the woods again – exactly the place that he had entered it. The place that Simon Roux died.

  There had been something resting on his chest. He picked up the piece of wooden cross that had been in his bag. The strange symbol was still there, but when he flipped it over, there was a new, more recognizable print in French.

  Be more careful next time.

  Unintentionally, he found himself smiling.

  Audley stood up, and did a quick survey of his items. His satchel was still at his side, over one shoulder. His rifle was lying on the ground next to him. He checked it – still loaded. His pistol was still in his belt, safety on. My notes! He scrambled through his bag and retrieved the notebook. It was intact and unaltered
, as far as he could tell. Whether someone had been through it, he knew not.

  He looked back at the woods. He had not been dragged, but carried, because there were no marks in the dirt to indicate otherwise. Like Simon Roux’s body had been carried. There were also no footprints aside from his old ones from last night. How had someone carried him and left no prints? Had they used the road?

  He checked the woods one final time, this time kneeling by a trickle of a stream to wash his face. He had no intention of going back to town quite yet, not while he had business in the area. The girls’ seminary, he realized, was not far. Nor was Mrs. Bernard’s house. As the sun came up, he rested on a fallen tree and ate some brown bread he had brought along in his satchel, and took a swig from his flask. With any luck, there were no search parties looking for him; perhaps they just thought him sleeping in, or had not even noticed his absence yet. Though he certainly looked a bit scruffy this morning, after spending a night sleeping in the woods, he doubted the Headmaster would think any less of him than he already did.

  Walking along the road, he felt almost himself again by the time he came up to Mrs. Bernard’s house. The door was hanging open, the house empty, the body at the mortician’s. He stepped inside, only to find the same mess he had seen the day before. It had not yet been looted for what few valuable items she might have owned.

  Why had she been killed? To silence her, or only to bring more attention to the mysterious ‘wolf’? Or both? What did she know about the marquis that was so dangerous, or had he just overacted?

  Still, the inspector was fairly sure it had not been the marquis himself or any of his immediate servants who had committed this gruesome crime or its predecessor. He would never lower himself to that, and his servants were too soft. A hired killer, then? The same one who had rescued him last night? Or one of the bandits in the woods?

  He sat down on her stool and sighed. Maybe this had nothing at all to do with the marquis. Maybe one of the bandits had killed Roux for whatever reason, and someone who didn’t like the marquis had spread the ridiculous rumor and stolen the coat to connect him to the crime. But that did not explain Mrs. Bernard’s death, obviously done by another person trying to imitate the first. No, there was a connection. He had to discover it – and then, even worse, he had to prove it in a court of law.

  Audley quickly searched the place, but found nothing to point him in any direction. Someone had entered, there had been a struggle, and then he’d slit her throat. That was the whole of the crime here as far as he could tell. There were some francs still in the drawer, so it was not a robbery. She’d still had her gold wedding ring on, too, he remembered, which would have been taken by someone looking to rob her. A man so cruel as to slash her throat would have no scruples about taking her ring if robbery was his intent.

  Audley was getting nowhere. He already knew there were two killers – he just hadn’t told anyone, (other than the coroner), intending to draw at least one of them out. He had to move on.

  It had reached a reasonable hour when he approached the school. A flash of red against the green of the foliage drew his instant attention, even if it was hidden beneath a white bonnet. “Miss Bingley?”

  It was indeed. Miss Bingley was on the side of the grounds, picking wild flowers and putting them in a basket so very daintily, as if she were putting on a show. “Hello, Inspector Audley,” she said without looking up.

  “Forgive my intrusion – do you have lessons today?”

  She finally stopped her activity and stood up to face him. “I have been excused for this morning.”

  “To pick flowers?”

  “It is a proper womanly thing to do, is it not?” she said serenely. “Why, some day I might use this invaluable skill to collect enough for a table setting for my husband’s grand table.”

  “It is a very ... uhm, womanly activity,” he admitted, “but how were you excused from your lessons?”

  “I passed.”

  “You passed?”

  “Mrs. Halliburton said she had nothing else to teach me.”

  “What was she teaching?”

  “For these few weeks, proper posture.”

  “What, as in balancing a book on your head?”

  “Precisely,” she said with a satisfied smirk.

  “So I assume you are capable of balancing a book on your head?”

  She put down her basket and approached him. “Hand me one.”

  Willing to go along with her, he opened his bag. He had his notebook, but he would not put that in someone else’s hands. The only other option was what he was currently reading, a small book with a hard cover. “Here.”

  Miss Bingley took it with a curtsey, which reminded him to bow belatedly as she opened to the first page with curiosity. “My Travels in the East by Brian Maddox. I didn’t know it had been exported.”

  “I hear it sold quite well in England. You are familiar with it?”

  “I have a copy back at home, but I’ve not read it through yet.”

  “The same. I mean, I’ve not finished it yet either.”

  She closed the cover. “I promised you a display.”

  “I never said a display – ” But she had already removed her bonnet. Her hair was unnaturally short, seemingly self-cut, as it was uneven in some places. She placed the book very carefully on her head, holding her arms out to steady herself. Slowly she stepped towards him, the book wavering only slightly on her head

  “Very well, enough of this,” she said, and stepped back a few steps in normal posture, the book staying where it was. She then suddenly swung her body around, ducked so that the book had to drop to catch up with her, and then stood back up with enough force to toss the book forward. As it sailed through the air, she spun around several times, hopped over a stone, and landed just in time to catch the book back on her head as it landed – all on one foot.

  Audley found himself clapping as she turned back around towards him, walked casually over, took the book off her head, and handed it to him. “So, as I said, she told me she had nothing more to teach me about posture. Manners and propriety are another thing, but until the curriculum advances, I am free for this hour.”

  He took the book back. “Are you perchance intending a career as a circus performer?”

  “Only if no man in England will have me and my vast inheritance,” she said. After a pause that was surprisingly comfortable, she continued, “But I am keeping you from your business with the headmaster.”

  “My business is not with the headmaster,” he said. “It is with some of the students, yourself included.”

  “Then shall we take a turn about the grounds? That is an English custom for women and men who wish to speak. Apparently we can only do it while walking.”

  He smiled as they began to walk. “You are very critical of your own culture.”

  “You are quite observant,” she said. “Perhaps you should use these skills of perception in your work and you will get farther.”

  He stopped in his place, more serious now. “How do you know what skills I am using and what I am not?”

  “I know you are not asking the right questions, or you would already have your answers. You hear a ‘no’ or a ‘yes,’ and just write in your book something like, ‘She’s lying – I wonder why?’ instead of simply asking.”

  How does she know that? “Interrogation is a very careful art.”

  “Are you so careful with all of your suspects back in Paris?”

  He had to counter, “Are you considering yourself a suspect?”

  “In what, I don’t know, but I care not at all for the marquis, and neither does Heather Littlefield, but she’s too scared to say anything. If there is a plot against the marquis, does not thinking ill of him make me a suspect?”

  He felt blinded – but not by the sun, for his hat was protecting him from its rays, but not from the brightness of this young woman. She had replaced her bonnet as they were talking. “Miss Bingley, why don’t you care for the m
arquis?”

  “Again, wrong question. And you’re the famous inspector?” she said, with a half-smile. That smirk! It was driving him mad. “Opinions are formed by events and knowledge. Try again.”

  Audley sighed. “What do you know about the marquis?”

  Their casual stroll now stopped abruptly, and her body language changed. She stood straight and serious as she answered, “He beats his servants and rapes some of the maids. His previous wife, who was penniless, died under suspicious circumstances on her own grounds. Now he is engaged to a young woman from England whom he had not met before her arrival here, for the express purpose of meeting him with only the shallow excuse of being in seminary. This woman, aside from her natural attributes of being young and beautiful, is to come into a grand inheritance that will, by English law, become entirely his the moment they are married. Oh, and he changed all of his servants before we arrived, so anyone who might have known anything about his past – how he treated his wife, the circumstances of her death, how he treated his servants – is suddenly gone in time for the arrival of his new bride. The only one who did stick around ends up dead as soon as an authority figure starts asking questions. Now, Inspector Audley, tell me what part of that isn’t suspicious?”

  He stood there stunned into speechlessness, and she giggled a very girlish giggle. Was she serious or was she not? She seemed to flip back and forth at will. He could not comprehend it. “How do you know all this?”

  “The very first time we visited the manor, it was for tea. In England of course we wouldn’t be allowed to visit a gentleman’s house without a wife or a sister inviting us, but here we are in France. We sat there and the maid named Sophie served us. When she approached the marquis, I noticed her hands were shaking and one of them had several nails broken. When we were invited back for dinner the next week, I spoke to her while the marquis spoke privately with Heather for the first time, and after a bout of hysteria, she confessed everything to me – rumors and things that had actually happened to her.”

  “Why – why didn’t you report this?”

  “And to whom was I supposed to report this? The constable, who is paid by the marquis? The headmaster, who will not let one negative piece of news come from his school, even if it was unrelated to the school itself? Mrs. Robinson’s has a reputation to maintain, after all. Just like no one knows about Simon Roux.”