In fact, the marquis had everything to lose by me coming here. Or perhaps the marquis had assumed Audley would do what a regular constable did, which was ignore the wealthy and find someone to hang for the crime and then leave, job well done. Certainly, Audley had no real business investigating the marquis’s affairs with his servants and his fiancée – unless they were connected to the wolf. But he could not make the connection.
The only thing he was fairly certain of – with no way to prove it – was that the marquis had hired someone to kill Mrs. Bernard and make it seem like it was the wolf, as he had now officially dubbed Roux’s killer. He had decided that as soon as Miss Bingley had told him about Sophie. Miss Bingley – he needed her as his assistant. She would be much more helpful than an ancient mortician who believed in fairy tales and a constable he doubted he could trust. Unless she had an angle, too.
Yes, she did – she had stated it. She was out to protect Lady Littlefield from the marquis. She had gone above and beyond the call to point Audley in the direction of Sophie, whom she clearly associated with Lady Littlefield. What were their names? He had to look them up. Heather Littlefield and Georgiana Bingley. Maybe his mind was still rattled from the previous night and the drink he was mindlessly ingesting now to deal with his headache.
It was all connected – he just didn’t know how. He put all of the names on a blank sheet and tried to connect them, but could not draw enough lines. There were too many degrees between Roux and the marquis, the two principle characters.
Maybe Miss Bingley knew – Miss Georgiana Bingley. Looking back on their conversation, she was so clearly holding back more information, as she had done in every previous encounter with him. Other people did it because they were scared (Lady Littlefield) or because they did not wish to implicate themselves (the marquis). She had no motive that he could see. If he’d been sharper that morning, maybe he could have gotten it from her. He tried to recall everything she had said, down to the last detail. (“I have a copy back at home, but I’ve not read it through yet.”)
What book? Oh yes. He scrambled for the last item from his bag, the book he had been intending to read while in transit but had not been able to find the time. He opened My Travels in the East by Brian Maddox. It seemed to him from the first few pages a standard travelogue, but it was a bestseller in England and was all the rage in Paris, to the point where even his mother in Normandy had sent him a copy. The man had apparently been an Austrian prince, then run off with his bride, traveling through Russia and then somewhere in the Japans or Cathay before returning to England. It was a wild story, but the press had substantiated it. Audley flipped to the biography. Mr. Maddox lives outside London with his wife, Princess Nadezhda Maddox. There was an address to write to him, a box in London.
As he read, the sky darkened, his eyelids grew heavy, and the fluttering of the candlelight became hypnotic. He could barely concentrate on the words as Mr. Maddox described his first contact with his future father-in-law, Count Vladimir, over a game of cards. Audley instead started mindlessly pushing through the pages, almost ready to close the book. And then almost at the end, he stopped.
He’d stopped on a page of a script he had never seen before. The letters – described by Maddox to be basic Japanese script – were more like whole drawings to themselves in their complexity. It must take the Japanese a long time to write even the shortest note.
He realized that he needed to correct his own thought. He had seen these letters before. He sorted through the rest of the contents of his satchel in a flurry. There was a leftover roll of bread, an extra case of bullets for his pistol, his flask, and most importantly, the broken cross from Simon Roux’s death site.
Be more careful next time, it said to him. He flipped it over, looking at the letters on the other side that had been so unfamiliar to him, and compared them to the ones in the book. Either it was a strange coincidence, or someone had written a message on the back of the cross – in Japanese.
Audley abandoned thoughts of sleep and drew a new sheet of paper from his tablet. Dear Mr. Brian Maddox, he began.
Robert Audley did not end up settling down for the night until some time later, when he had written and sealed the long letter, and had woken a courier to have it posted to England immediately. Only after that task was completed could he find any rest.
~~~
“Did you see the paper this morning, Inspector?”
Those were never words an inspector wanted to hear, especially first thing in the morning, before he had any wine or a chance to hear anything himself. “No, I’ve not.”
Anton, the barkeep and owner, passed him the town’s paper, which was barely more than a pamphlet on paper so flimsy it would hold up maybe a week. Only the very official-looking lettering at the top gave it any authority. It had only one story.
THE MARQUIS DE MARET BELIEVED TO BE WEREWOLF!
Audley cursed under his breath. This would cause more trouble for him than anything else. If anything, it would further obscure the actual wolf-man, who Audley believed thoroughly to have no lycanthropic tendencies. The article, short and poorly-spelled, explained that howls had been heard on the night of the full moon (true) and that the marquis had been spotted the next morning with mysterious injuries (also true). Well, he could not attack them for the veracity of their comments. It went on to speculate all kinds of nefarious deeds he could have committed, omitting any direct reference to the two murders (neither of which had occurred on the full moon) but certainly implying something in that direction. “Who publishes this?”
“A man named Gerard. He has a press in his house. He does it for the town’s amusement. Makes quite a few francs doing it, too.”
“I take it he is not known for his journalistic integrity?”
Anton, who had probably never been outside the town in his life, did not understand the concept.
“I mean, does he always print wild rumors?”
“What else would he have to print?”
Audley sighed, finished his breakfast, and headed out. He intended to speak with Gerard, who might well be getting in over his head. He did not get very far in this quest, as he was approached by one of the marquis’s men immediately upon leaving the tavern. He resignedly gave the man a tip of his hat. “I assume His Lordship would like to speak with me?”
Ten minutes and one coach ride later, he was sitting in the study of the Marquis de Maret, having the very same one-page paper with its one story waved in his face. “Do you know about this?” Audley noticed that the marquis now ungloved hands had several broken nails.
“It was the first thing I heard of today,” Audley said. “I have also heard it is printed by a man with a press and nothing better to do than print town gossip.”
The marquis seemed to calm, walking back around his desk. “This is true. This is not the first article he has written about me.”
“And the others?”
“I know the difference between mindlessly jabbing at the returned nobility and actual protest,” the marquis said, crumpling up the paper and tossing it in a bin. “I am not concerned about Monsieur Gerard. I am concerned about his sources.”
“Surely you do not think I am one of them?”
“No. Despite our disagreements, I know you to be above this,” the marquis said, and Audley bowed in thanks. After a pause, the marquis continued, on a seemingly unrelated note. “I have dismissed Sophie.”
“What?” Audley answered as calmly as he could.
“I did not leave my own apartments yesterday, except to speak with you, so this information must have been leaked by one of the servants.”
“And you assume it was her? So you think she has special reason to hold something against you?”
The marquis frowned but did not fall into such an obvious trap. He instead played with the pen on his desk. “I had to make an example. You will take comfort in the fact that she was happy enough to leave.”
Audley gave a noncommittal murmur. He wo
uld make no confession, either.
“Putting this business aside,” the marquis said, “I wonder if I could ask you a favor?”
Audley looked at him curiously. “My Lord?”
“My fiancée is joining me for a brunch and she is bringing her companion. I would like to speak with Lady Littlefield privately, but propriety does not allow it except under special circumstances. Would you join us and make conversation with Miss Bingley?”
Audley surprised himself by the speed and ease of his own answer, “I would be honored, my Lord.” He added, “But, I would recommend, if your purpose is a quiet moment with your intended bride, that we take a walk around your gardens, as is the English custom. That is considered very proper.”
The marquis smiled. It was an unnerving experience. “I will cede to your authority on the matter and agree, Inspector.”
~~~
The ladies arrived soon after that. Inspector Audley had been offered considerable resources to clean up beforehand, all of which he took advantage of, short of borrowing the marquis’s clothing. It was nice to be perfectly-shaven and combed by an attendant, something he usually only enjoyed while at home in Valognes. He emerged a cleaner, fresher Robert Audley, and it put him in a rather good mood for the appearance of Lady Littlefield and Miss Bingley.
“Welcome, welcome! My darling,” the marquis said, kissing the hand of his betrothed. “Miss Bingley. It has been recommended to me that we first go for a walk in my gardens, if you ladies are not too hungry.” He spoke to them in his relatively fluent but strongly accented English.
Both ladies agreed with perfect smiles. They certainly knew how to act. They are in a school for manners, and had probably been taught from birth how to be polite, Audley reminded himself. As they stepped outside on the beautiful spring morning, the marquis took his betrothed’s arm and went ahead. Audley and Miss Bingley did not touch, but hung back and walked side-by-side, keeping both pace and distance.
“So how did you get dragged into this, Inspector Audley?”
He kept his smile as he said, “If he is going to talk to her, he will do it within my sight. This seemed the best arrangement.” He noted her quiet smile of approval. He had actually done something right in her eyes. “Have you read the papers this morning?”
“Our school does not provide the local paper for us.”
“It was only one article. Apparently, the marquis is a werewolf. Did you know that?”
Miss Bingley did not look overly surprised, but this news about the paper did seem new information to her. “A werewolf, if you believe in such nonsense, is only a wolf one night a month, correct?”
“That is the legend, I believe.”
“That would imply the marquis, as a werewolf, is but a humble man the rest of the month. That I cannot agree on, so I do not find myself in agreement with the local papers.”
“Very well.” He decided to turn to news she would surely want to know – if she didn’t already. “Miss Sophie has been dismissed for starting the werewolf rumor.”
Miss Bingley stopped in her tracks. “What?”
“Just what I said. The marquis told me but half an hour ago.”
“What did he do with her?”
“He said he dismissed her. Where she goes is her own volition.”
He had not before seen such conviction in Miss Bingley’s eyes as she grabbed his hand – which startled him, “Find her.”
“I don’t have any – ”
“Find her. Promise me you will find her and make sure she is safe.” She tightened her grip. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Thank you.” She released him, and in a moment regained her calm and coy demeanor. “Now, come,” Miss Bingley said, continuing on their path and giving him a small smile. “We have strayed away too long from meaningless conversation.”
“Yes,” he said, his heart racing for some reason. “I have, I fear, addled your feminine mind.”
She swatted him, barely brushing against the fabric of his coat. “So, Inspector Audley ... I realize I do not even know your Christian name.”
“Robert.”
“And where are you from, Inspector Robert Audley?”
“Valognes, in Normandy. I grew up there. It’s quite lovely.”
“Is it on the sea?”
They were both keeping an eye on the marquis and Lady Littlefield, who were ahead of them some distance but appeared to be simply walking and talking. “No, but we have a manor – more of a castle, really.”
“Oh,” she said. “Your mother’s family?”
“No. It was a noble estate before the revolution, and the family never reappeared, so the place was put up for a very reasonable auction, and my father purchased it. As far as we know, they followed the rest of their family, who moved centuries ago, to England. But the manor often feels like it’s still theirs; many of their things are still around.”
“So now they are a good English family?”
“Yes,” he said. “I forget the name ... ah, yes. D’Arcy.”
“No!”
He paused in his step, turning to her, surprised by the surprise on her face. “It is true.”
“You are serious – the Darcys?”
“You know of them?”
She recovered and began to walk again. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy is my uncle.”
“Really?” He himself could not believe the connection. “Do you know him well?”
“He lives but three miles from me, in Derbyshire. His wife is my mother’s sister.”
“What a coincidence,” he said, and meant it. “I vaguely recall a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Darcy – but I was very young. Maybe five or six.”
“I know they made a journey at some point – but I was also very young. It was after my brother and sister were born, but before he went to Austria – Oh, I must have been only two or three.”
“When were you born?”
“1805.”
He raised his eyebrows. “1801.” He had no idea they were so close in age. She was a tiny, fragile-looking woman and he was a hardened inspector for the Parisian authorities. She was nearly a head shorter than him.
“You look older. You have a certain wisdom about you. I suppose that’s why you’re the famed inspector.”
“I’m a famed inspector, if that is true, because I solve cases.”
“Then solve this one,” she said, her voice oddly pleading. “For Heather.”
“You are not concerned with the dead, Miss Bingley?”
She answered without hesitation, “I am more concerned about the living.”
~~~
The brunch was a more casual meal than supper, especially because it was only the four of them, and with not nearly the same number of courses. The marquis seemed to be in an uncommonly good mood, or at least was attempting to look like he was in front of Lady Littlefield – if so, he was doing it very well. He ignored Miss Bingley almost completely, as seemed to be his habit, and she drew no attention to herself. When he discovered the marquis was willing enough to let the inspector ask Lady Littlefield casual questions about her studies, Audley seized his chance to get to know her better. “So, what are you studying at Mrs. Robinson’s?”
“Languages, painting, drawing, all of that,” she said, perfectly pleasantly. “Some manners, but it is just a formality. And, of course, religion.”
These girls were not girls. They were in their late teens, and had been sent to France for further education for whatever the reason. For Lady Littlefield, it was to marry the marquis. For Miss Bingley? He considered discipline. She was certainly good at making herself a handful. He wondered what she could be like to her parents when she wanted to be. But the point stood – they were English ladies raised in the right circles and had nothing to learn in the way of being pleasing company and proper women. He smiled amiably. “Your French is extremely proficient. What other languages do they teach?”
“Italian. And for those who master that, La
tin. Georgiana is in the top of the Latin class,” Littlefield said, to which Miss Bingley just gave an appreciative nod, but said nothing.
“Do you find France favorable? At least, what you have seen of it, Lady Littlefield?”
“Very much so,” Lady Littlefield said, unconsciously shooting a nervous glance to the marquis and then quickly turning it back. The marquis did not notice; Audley did. Miss Bingley had taken on, as usual, the appearance of a wall of silence and obliviousness, as she quietly ate her luncheon meats. “This is my first time outside of England though, so I’ve little to compare it to.”
Their little chatter continued for the whole of the meal, and while it was convenient that the marquis was so willing to let Audley question his fiancée, if very informally, Audley found it frustrating that Miss Bingley offered almost nothing to the conversation and gave monosyllabic answers when addressed directly. The marquis didn’t seem bothered, and maybe that was for the best.
The meal finished, they saw the ladies off into their carriage to return to the school grounds. Once the carriage disappeared down the road, the marquis immediately turned to Audley with a more serious expression, “I want to sponsor a wolf hunt.”
Audley shrugged, as if to say, ‘And?’, not knowing where the marquis was heading with the sudden introduction of this topic.
“I would like you to head it, Inspector Audley. As part of your investigation.”
“I did not come here to engage in sport,” Audley countered. “Nor do I think it would do anything to forward my investigations.”
“I think it would.”
“How so? We both know the killer is perfectly human.”
“Oh yes. I know,” the marquis said with odd determination. Audley frowned; the man was hiding something. Well, more than he was usually hiding. “But I wish to draw him out.”
“So the purpose of the hunt would be...perhaps a man who kills people will be sympathetic to the creature he is associated with by rumor and the press?”
“I am referring to a man who dresses as a wolf, in case you’d forgotten.”
Audley glanced at the marquis intensely. “Those are nothing more than rumors – unless you tell me otherwise.” When the marquis didn’t contradict, he went on, “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” Still, no response, but no dismissal. He hazarded another speculation. “You fought him?”
Other Tales: Stories from The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 6