by C H Chelser
“That can wait.” Mercedes brushed past the housekeeper, determined to find out if the conclusions she had drawn from the servant’s stutters were correct. She hurried down the stairs, but coming around the bend halfway down, she froze.
The landing at the bottom of the stairwell was only as deep and as wide as the front door to the street. It barely accommodated more than one man at a time, but now four men squirmed past each other in the tiny space. Caught between the half-opened door and the wall, Eric instructed his manservant François and two shop assistants to ‘hoist it up’ so the door could be opened properly. The three men argued among themselves about the best way to execute that order. Their broad backs obscured the source of their deliberation, but when they shifted position, Mercedes saw the legs of a fifth man sprawled on the bottom steps. From this distance she couldn’t tell if he was as dead as Gagnon’s distress had suggested, but the lack of pained moans as they hauled him out of the door’s path was far from promising. Eric opened the door all the way and the men lowered the body back onto the floor. They weren’t gentle about it, yet the man made no sound.
“Who is it?” she called down.
Eric’s head snapped up, face red and shocked. “François, escort madame to the shop via the other stairs. This is no place for a lady!”
“Eric, who?” she insisted.
“Monsieur Fabron?” a rough voice inquired. Over François’ shoulders, Mercedes could just make out a man in a severe coat appearing by the doorway. “Inspecteur Dupont, police. You sent for us with regards to a homicide?”
“Yes, yes, I did. I— One moment, monsieur l’inspecteur. François! Madame Fabron does not need to see this.”
“Please, madame,” the manservant implored. “You cannot go down this way.”
“Homicide? Are you sure?” she asked, loud enough for Eric to hear.
The manservant grimaced. “That is what Monsieur Fabron fears, madame,” he whispered. “But the man reeks of drink, so he may just as well have fallen down the stairs by accident.”
A plausible explanation, in more ways than one. Eric was prone to think the worst, but François didn’t share this tendency to exaggerate.
“A drunk, you say? Who?”
“One of the students, madame.”
“Ah.” Half a dozen young if nameless faces came to mind. She tried to match one of the faces to the black shoes and grey pantaloons she had glimpsed. To no avail, since youngsters with money all tended to dress alike. But whoever the victim was, his death was a pity regardless.
She allowed François to shepherd her back up the steps. On the first-floor landing, she dislodged her crinoline from the narrow stairwell with an impatient tug.
“François, tell Monsieur Fabron I will see to the shops for as long as he is engaged in this matter.” She glared at the half-open door to the flat. “Never mind breakfast, Gagnon, but do make sure that when the corpse has been removed, you thoroughly clean any stains on the carpet and the woodwork.”
“Yes, madame,” answered the elderly housekeeper from behind the door. François, too, bowed briefly before going back to his master.
Mercedes descended the back stairs to the workshop. The moment her shoes clipped on the stone floor, the huddle of seamstresses around Yvette’s desk looked up like a flock of frightened geese and scurried back to their own workstations. To the world they appeared to go about their work, but stolen glances at her and between themselves spoke of their preoccupation.
“Indeed, ladies,” Mercedes said, raising her voice. “There has been an unfortunate accident in the building, and yes, a man has lost his life. The police have arrived to investigate and to take away the body. However, this does not and should not affect your work. There is no saucy story here. Nothing that needs discussing. So I expect every one of you to keep her mind on the tasks at hand. Is that clear?”
A murmur of acknowledgement replied. The sideway glances didn’t stop, but it wasn’t fair to ask her people to brush over a such shocking event, even if it had nothing to do with them.
She held a similar speech for her sales assistants, and then for Eric’s staff. The two male assistants she had seen hauling the body looked a bit pale but otherwise as immaculate as ever. She expected they would counter her claim of an accident with first-hand details, but neither spoke up. Perhaps the poor student’s death was indeed nothing more than a stroke of bad luck.
She knew of a way to find out, she realised while she opened the shops for business. However, here and now was neither the time nor the place for that endeavour.
A small crowd had gathered in the street outside. People pointed and craned their heads to see what was going on. Parisians were curious by nature and death was common entertainment in this city where a visit to the morgue constituted a pleasant day out. Of course, the public preferred to steer clear of those who had died of illness, but a chance to get a close look at bloody accidents, suicides or crime victims was never spurned.
Almost half an hour passed before the doorbell tinkled for the first time and two ladies, who Mercedes had seen hovering among the crowd outside for some time, came in.
“...seemed completely unscathed,” the first finished as she entered.
“It is often hard to tell,” her friend said. “Hair like that can hide a lot.”
“Could be, could be.”
They were interrupted when Nicole greeted them and asked how she could be of assistance.
“A new winter dress,” the first lady said before turning back to her friend. “Still, you do not think it is that strange disease, do you? The one the newspapers have been on about?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know. Do you think?”
Behind the counter, Mercedes pretended to be busy preparing a fresh list of sales receipts as she listened in on the conversation. Outside, the people showed no sign of dispersing. She wished the police would hurry up and clear away the body. It attracted all together the wrong kind of attention.
The first lady nodded gravely. “Not a mark on them, either, they say. They just drop dead like flies. Or like this fellow.”
“I thought I heard that policeman say the poor boy fell.”
“Ah, but,” the first lady waggled her eyebrows, “did he die before or after he fell?”
“Well, it is possible...” The friend peered nervously at the scene outside the window.
Just then Nicole approached the first lady with the book containing the new designs for the winter season.
“Will this take long, do you think?” the friend asked.
The first lady thought for a moment and then gave Nicole a fake smile. “No, thank you, my dear. I have changed my mind. I will come back another time.” They were out in a heartbeat, the door slowly falling shut behind them.
Nicole gave Mercedes a helpless shrug. Any fool could tell the girl was scared, too. As was the rest of the staff.
“Old wives nattering, nothing more,” Mercedes scoffed. She looked every one of her girls in the eyes. “Never mistake gossip for truth, ladies. No good comes of it.”
But the truth was a mystery to her as much as to them. She only knew what little François had divulged, and while the manservant was a careful man, his calculated guess was still a guess.
She regarded the terse faces of her assistants. She regarded the whispering crowd outside, now retreating in alarm rather than disinterest. She regarded the shop floor, void of customers. Eric’s side would not be faring any better, in all likelihood.
This was not good for business. Not good at all. Rumours had too often proven to be a tried and tested recipe for bankruptcy, not to mention that they were harder to kill than men. They would only die when the public lost interest, but by then the damage would be done. How to kill an immortal force? Denying rumours only fed them, so the only reliable solution would be to starve them instead. Not impossible, but to succeed she needed to know with irrefutable certainty how their student tenant had died.
Therefore, inopportune place and
time notwithstanding, she would ask him.
Without moving from the shop counter, Mercedes willed her senses to extend like vapour escaping a boiling kettle. She had no name to call the student, but a wordless thought condensing ‘the soul of the one whose body lies yonder’ into a single notion should suffice. Ghosts could tell when they were called upon.
Except this time she got no answer.
She tried again. When still no reply came, she extended her call to ‘anyone who knows what happened’. A risky gamble, sending an open invitation that addressed all kinds. It would reach some who might prove dangerous, but Anne had once explained that only the helpful ones would respond. Mercedes prayed Anne was right, because the last thing she wanted was for last night’s terrifying presence to return.
Yet again she met only silence. She turned her back to the shop to hide her puzzlement and began to straighten the rolls of fabric on the nearest shelf as a diversion. While her hands worked, she mouthed: “Where are you?”
heisdead
She paused to decipher the short, jumbled reply. “I know he is dead,” she mouthed. “That is why I need to find him. I need to ask him how he died.”
heisdeadandgone
She pulled an askew roll back in place. “Who are—?” Before she finished the thought, the young British soldier appeared next to her. “Ah, you.” She couldn’t help but smile. “Slowly, remember,” she chided kindly.
The soldier came closer, as if he wanted to whisper in her ear. He is dead. The one you seek, he is dead.
Mercedes wanted to repeat she was aware of that, but the soldier pressed on.
Not just dead. Truly dead. Gone! Ceased to exist!
She less heard the words than sensed what he meant by them. A dreadful feeling came over her. When she focused on the unfortunate student again, all she got was a void. A void where his soul should have been.
Her hands gripped the shelf for support. “...how?”
Devoured.
The dread around her solidified, but it wasn’t hers. When she resisted the soldier’s terror, the ghost disappeared. The echo of his fear drained away in its wake, but the shock it had caused persisted. Twice Mercedes repeated his last word, hoping she had somehow misunderstood. She hadn’t. Every other interpretation of the young soldier’s thoughts felt flawed, incorrect.
‘Devoured.’ The word as well as its intention left little to the imagination. Shock grew into a fear of her own, but she pushed it aside. She had no time to entertain such thoughts. What she did have, however, was an answer to her question.
She tore herself away from the shelves and paced over to the shop window, where two of her girls spied on the scene outside under the guise of adjusting the dresses on display. Through the glass panes, Mercedes saw how the remaining onlookers made way for the undertaker’s coach.
“About time,” she said. “The sooner this show is over, the better. Now come away from the window. There is real work to be done.”
The girls obeyed, if hesitantly. The youngest gave her a frightened look. “Aren’t you afraid, Madame Fabron? After someone died in your own house?”
Mercedes mustered all her courage to keep an aloof front. “Why should I be? I know how to climb the stairs without breaking my neck.” She paced back to the counter, but heard none of the bustling she should be hearing. When she turned, three pairs of scared eyes gazed back at her.
“Well? Even on quiet days there is enough to be done, so get to it.”
“But madame, those ladies who were in just now said—”
“I know what they said, Giselle,” Mercedes interjected, “and as I told you before, that was nothing but idle gossip. The man fell to his death. Whether he cracked his skull or died of drink before he keeled over, I cannot say, but I am absolutely certain he did not die of some mysterious ailment.” She paused to study their apprehensive faces. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, madame,” they chorused meekly.
“Good. Now go about your chores. Once the hearse has left, the customers will return.”
Or so she hoped. Beneath the edge of the counter, the knuckles of her fists turned white. With luck the rumour mill would run dry before the week was out and their clientele would return as she had promised. If their luck ran out first... Well, such was the risk of owning a business. Should it come to that, Eric and she would have to find a way to survive another entrepreneurial dry spell. It wouldn’t be their first.
“Madame Fabron?”
She looked up at Nicole, who in turn nodded at the shop door. On the other side, hand on the doorknob, was a man in a long, dirty beige coat. The silhouette recalled images of a much darker vision and Mercedes tensed, although rationale immediately dismissed the thought as faulty. This fellow was much shorter than the other and, more importantly, alive.
The faithful doorbell tinkled as the man stepped inside. He removed his hat and surveyed the shop with exaggerated deliberation, although he was evidently not a customer.
“Good day, mesdames. I was informed I could find Madame Fabron here?”
His solemn tone more practised than natural. Mercedes put up a cool front. “I am she. With whom do I have the pleasure, monsieur?”
“Oh!” Forced formality gone, the man delved a hand into one of his coat pockets and retrieved an object the size of his hand. He strode over to the counter to show it. It was made of glass with inked paper in between: a police badge.
“Inspecteur Baudoin, Serge Baudoin of the police,” he offered.
In the few steps he had needed to reach the counter, Mercedes had taken stock of the open gaze and matching smile above a cheap, mismatched but impeccably clean attire. A young dog, inexperienced but very keen to do a good job. She flashed him a brief smile.
“In that case good morning, monsieur l’inspecteur. What can I do for you?”
“Well, eh, I am assisting Inspecteur Dupont with the investigations surrounding the dea—I mean the, well, unhappy event next door. I was wondering if you would mind if I asked a few questions?”
“That depends on who you ask, monsieur. My staff are not involved, but I can spare you a moment.”
His face lit up before he remembered himself. “Much appreciated, madame. Can we, ehm... Here?”
She suppressed an exasperated chuckle at his expense. “No, monsieur, but there is an office in the back which would be more suitable. Please follow me.”
Mercedes led the policeman through the passage to the workshop. A stranger’s presence in the workshop caused another stir among the seamstresses, which Mercedes quieted with a stern glare and a few words to the seniors. A mistress did not owe her personnel an explanation, but this second irregularity today would aggravate the women’s unease if she gave none. She wouldn’t risk that. The day’s production was already in jeopardy as it was.
To her relief the small office was vacant. Likely Eric was still busy dealing with his own share of this morning’s aftermath. She showed the young inspector in and made sure to not close the door completely. Despite two chairs by the wall and a third behind Eric’s desk, Mercedes remained standing. In the interest of keeping this interview as short as possible, she didn’t offer the policeman a seat, either.
“Well then, monsieur l’inspecteur, you said you have questions for me?”
“Eh, yes, I...” He trailed off and fumbled with a piece of paper he drew from one of his many pockets. “Forgive me, this is still a bit new to me.”
Mercedes bit the inside of her cheek to keep from commenting, and waited while the young inspector went over what she presumed were his notes. He put the paper away again and cleared his throat.
“Madame, what can you tell me about the events today?”
His studied manner of speech was both laughable and endearing. The lines on his face told Mercedes he couldn’t be much younger than herself, but for all his bumbling, he might as well have been a child.
“Very little, monsieur. I believe our housekeeper discovered the body this morning, bu
t by the time I got there, my husband had taken charge of the scene. He will be able to tell you more.”
“Indeed, indeed. But you see, it is our policy to ask different witnesses the same questions to check if they are all telling the same story.” He stiffened and blushed. “That way we can, ehm, collect as many details as possible, because no one remembers everything?”
She suspected the real answer lay closer to checking which witness was lying, but she gave him a maternal smile regardless.
“Of course, monsieur, but I did not see the body for myself and I have no idea who the man was, other than that he was one of our tenants who occupy the top floors. In fact, I doubt I would have remembered his name even if I had recognised him.”
“Oh. Oh, right.” He visibly recalculated what to ask next. “Do you have any idea what caused his death?”
Now it was Mercedes who stiffened. The simple question should be answered with an equally simple ‘no’, but it was difficult to pretend she didn’t know what she now knew.
“I cannot recall hearing anything strange last night,” she said before her hesitation became suspicious. “Not the sound of someone falling down the stairs, nor other footsteps nor a scuffle. When I went to take a look this morning, I was told he had been drinking and most likely fell to his death in a state of drunkenness.”
“I see.” The young inspector frowned as he stared at the floor. Then he took a deep breath. “Can you really not remember anything else, madame? Anything at all?”
Mercedes told herself to be firm. What she knew could not be shared, and what she could share was of no help to the police. The other inspector would get more useful information from Eric and François. Yet she imagined that, eager to please and be useful, the young man had asked his superior to conduct an interview of his own. Acting on such assumptions was often unwise, but the glint in his eyes seemed sincere. Eric had that glint sometimes, too. It got to her without fail.
“There is one other thing.” she began. His downcast mood melted like snow in spring. “However, it may be nothing but rumour and I do not like to rely on hearsay.”