The Devourer

by C H Chelser

  Mindful to skip those steps that tended to creak, she tiptoed down and slunk out the main entrance without breaking stealth.

  Rue de Richelieu was bustling with people at this hour. Mercedes hurried across and up the street, meandering through the crowd, all but running until she had passed the Fontaine Molière. Panting lightly, she searched for a fiacre, but saw no horses among the hats. Perhaps for the best. It would be easier to disappear among the many pedestrians. Rue du Croissant was not too far, anyway.

  She exchanged the larger streets for alleyways at the first opportunity. Should anyone have noticed her departure, she hoped these narrow paths and her plain dress would suffice to throw them off her track. Her legs wanted to break into a run, but she restrained herself. She couldn’t afford to draw attention to herself, not while still in this quartier, where people knew her by face if not by name.

  She kept her gaze on the ground, glancing up only to verify the names on the enamelled street signs as she darted from one cobbled crossroads to another. No one addressed her, no one shouted after her, but by the time she entered the police station in rue du Croissant, her palms and brow were clammy with perspiration.

  When Mercedes pushed against the barred door of the main entrance, it turned only with great difficulty. The windows, all grilled in this city where civil uprising was a frequent and popular pastime, let in a murky, yellowish light.

  At the desk nearest the entrance sat a sergent-de-ville. The middle-aged man glanced up at her. His brow rose a bit further.

  “Is Inspecteur Baudoin in?” Mercedes inquired, breathless. “It is absolutely imperative that I speak with him as soon as possible.”

  The bushy brow furrowed into a stern frown. “He’s not,” the sergeant said as he took note of her unkempt hair, marred face and worn skirts. “What did you want to see him for?”

  The utter lack of respect in the man’s voice and manners stung, but Mercedes could neither blame nor correct him. Either involved giving the sergeant her name and right now she valued discretion more than her dignity.

  “I’m afraid the matter is personal, monsieur,” she said, emphasising the formal address that he denied her. “If the inspector is not available at present, I will wait.”

  “He’s on his rounds now.” The sergeant pulled a dented watch from his vest pocket. “Might be a while before he returns.”

  Mercedes chewed her lip as she glanced at the door, both fearing and willing it to open. Her fretting fingers ripped the worn lace of her cuff. She stopped abruptly and smoothed a few wrinkles of her bodice.

  “Go and wait outside if you must,” the sergeant spat when she showed no intent of leaving.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Outside with you, I said. This is a police station, not a public house.”

  “What? How dare you—!”

  Mercedes’ retort was silenced by a metal grunt. The grated door swung open with some effort and admitted a man of considerable stature. She cringed, gaze fixed on the tiled floor. Her hands instinctively curled into fists in anticipation of Eric’s outrage.

  Behind the desk, the sergent-de-ville coughed hoarsely. “Good afternoon, monsieur l’inspecteur. Seems you have a visitor.”

  Only now Mercedes dared to look up. As she did, the man took off his top hat and revealed a much friendlier countenance than that of her husband.

  “Madame Fabron? Why, I— I mean, to what do I, eh, we owe this pleasure? Are you here on account of my letter to you the other day?”

  “No. I’m afraid…” She shot a fleeting glance at the sergeant, who was very busy pretending that he wasn’t listening in. “I’m afraid the situation with the loose floorboards has escalated.”

  Baudoin looked puzzled for a moment, but then his posture stiffened, his jaw set and shoulders squared as he nodded with professional curtness. Like this, he reminded her of M’sieur. Such severity didn’t befit the inspector’s youth or the lightness he emitted by nature, but after what Jean had confessed earlier, the likeness didn’t surprise her.

  “Please step this way, madame.”

  He led her into the adjacent room, a dusky space with three desks crammed together. At one of them sat another policeman, engrossed in writing a report of some kind by the light of an oil lamp. At a few hushed words from the young inspector, the man announced that he was going to stretch his legs for a few minutes.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again, madame,” Inspecteur Baudoin said as soon as they were alone. “I was of a mind to write to you again.”

  “That is very kind of you, but—”

  He blushed fiercely. “Not for anything untoward, I assure you! Only to inform you about further inquiries I made regarding your request. Please, sit down so that we may talk in peace.”

  Mercedes declined with a nervous gesture, pacing to the nearest window. How long before Amélie’s absence became suspicious? How long until Gagnon or François, or even Eric noticed that her manteau was gone – and she with it?

  The bells of Paris tolled the hour. Four o’clock.

  “Your letter was ill-advised, monsieur,” she said as she peered through the bars of the window. “However, your aid would be most welcome. I came here, praying your offer was sincere.”

  The young man’s rigid stance no longer matched his expression, which fluctuated between eagerness and bashful prudence. “My apologies, madame.” Evidently he realised, perhaps only now, his carelessness in sending a letter to a woman with so jealous a husband.

  She hadn’t the heart to chide him. Her predicament was not his fault. How could it be? Even Eric was only partially responsible, what with the true culprit having covered her tracks so well.

  “I was too harsh just now, monsieur. Your letter did no harm, and your observations concerning those victims proved enlightening. It pains me that I have no time to discuss them at present, but my domestic situation has become dire.”

  “Do you wish to report the recent assault?” His eyes darkened. “Or has there been another incident since?”

  She scoffed a laugh. “What accusations could I make when the law gives a husband the right to discipline his wife?”

  “What is legal is not always just,” said Baudoin sourly, “nor is the law infalli—No, that is not for a policeman to decide.”

  “The inability to speak of something does not diminish its validity, monsieur.”

  The inspector’s besotted eyes lit up. “I meant every word I wrote, madame. Please tell me, how can I help?”

  “May I entrust a secret to you?”

  “Anything, anything at all.”

  She smiled sweetly and felt dirty for doing so.

  “My husband’s outbursts, monsieur, stem from jealousy, but also from grief. Grief for his children who never had a chance to live. He now fears nothing more than losing me or the shops. To him, his business is the only child that survived, and he will protect it at all costs. Even from me.”

  “A wicked priority,” the inspector snorted.

  “Not nearly as wicked, I’m afraid, as his sister. The shops have suffered serious misfortune of late and she has advised him that to save his business, he must rid himself of me. At once and by any means.”

  Youth and infatuation faded into shock. “Has he tried to–? Madame, if the beatings you sustained were an attempted murder, then—”

  “Eric wishes me well. I still believe that. No, when I fled the house, it was to escape a more insidious plot against me.”

  She hesitated. How much she could reveal without losing the dear inspector’s benefit of the doubt? In biting her already raw lip she caught herself exaggerating her nervousness to cultivate his sympathy and shuddered to find that it worked. He came closer, leaning in as if to protect her.

  “What plot, madame? How have they hurt you?”

  The tears clinging to her lashes were genuine.

  “My husband’s sister is to blame. That vile woman convinced Eric that I deliberately caused the deaths of our children.”

>   “Infanticide?” he whispered in a low voice.

  “So she claims. As such, I have no doubt that my husband will make the same accusation when he turns to the police to report his supposedly hysterical wife missing.”

  The inspector turned away. Only a fraction, but Mercedes knew that she had said too much. His composed façade buckled under conflicting thoughts.

  “If you are an alleged criminal, I cannot help you. I would protect you, I swear, but I would betray my oath to the law if I harboured you while you stand accused of such crimes.”

  Mercedes closed her eyes, thinking of how deeply M’sieur would approve of this sentiment.

  “I do not ask you for a safe harbour, monsieur l’inspecteur. I only wish to inform you where I will go to hide from my husband.” She stepped a fraction closer. “Rue Gervais Laurent, number three. The shop in the cellar.”

  “On the Cité?”

  “Yes,” she said, louder. “There, now the authorities know where I am and my husband can no longer brand me a fugitive. But I do beseech you, monsieur, should he speak with you, do not tell him where I have gone.”

  The inspector’s brow twitched. His hesitation made her frantic heart skip a beat, but finally he nodded.

  “My lips are sealed, madame. Neither your husband nor his sister will get any pertinent information from me.” His fingers brushed her forearm before he cleared his throat to collect himself. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Thank you, monsieur. Thank you.” She let the back of her hand briefly touch his. “May I ask one last favour of you?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Can you please show me out through a side door? With all haste?”

  The boyish smile he gave her befitted him better than his previous grim expression. With a few gestures, he led her to a narrow passage at the far end of the room. Mercedes prepared to bid him farewell, but instead of seeing her out, he escorted her to the main street, hailed a fiacre for her and kept a lookout for undesired persons while he helped her board the carriage. All in a mere handful of minutes.

  He flashed his officer’s badge to the driver as he relayed the address. “One more witness to confirm the police know your whereabouts,” he said through the carriage window. “I will send word of any news that reaches me.”

  The crack of the driver’s whip drowned out her goodbyes, but the inspector waved at her as the carriage pulled out and mingled with the rest of the city’s traffic.

  The streets around the marché des innocents were crowded. Some merchants had begun to pack up for the day, whereas others still served throngs of customers. Among the patrons, pickpockets sneaked around for their own style of shopping, whereas mangy street urchins ran between the stalls and openly snatched an apple or a morsel of cheese in the passing. Towering over all this rose the still-incomplete steel frames of the new pavilions.

  Caught up in the melee of this anthill, the carriage made but slow progress. Mercedes kept away from the window. A silly precaution, but it soothed her anxiety about being recognised by chance. At the police station, she had regretted not bothering with a hat. Small wonder the sergent-de-ville had assumed her to be a poor wench. But then Eric would be looking for his wife, not for a bedraggled woman wearing nothing to cover her messy hair.

  At last the carriage picked up speed again. The horses trotted through the maze of streets towards the river. Marginally more at ease now, Mercedes took the stowed-away scissors from her reticule and carefully cut the new stitches in the hem of her manteau. Just a few nicks were sufficient to release one Louis d’or from the folds of the seam.

  The rattling of the wheels changed as they drove onto the Pont Notre Dame. Glancing outside, Mercedes noticed that a little further downstream, the scaffolding on either side of the Pont-au-Change now extended into the river, ready to commence the demolition of the old bridge in earnest.

  Arriving on the Cité, the carriage came to a rocky halt at the mouth of rue Gervais Laurent. Mercedes clambered out and pressed the Louis d’or into the driver’s waiting hand. The man smirked at the golden coin and grumbled about not carrying sufficient change. With neither time nor desire to argue, Mercedes accepted what few coins he did give her, the difference being the price of her haste.

  People looked up and muttered curses as she pushed past them down the narrow alley. She slowed. Her dress lacked riches and lustre, but her manteau was not that of a labourer’s wife. This alone made her more memorable than she could afford, especially since Carmen might have the wits to steer Eric in this direction. So she kept her head down and took more care not to jostle any elbows or baskets as she meandered towards Anne’s faded green basement door.

  At the doorstep, she cast a wary glance left and right for good measure before plunging down the rusty handle. The door burst open and she stumbled hurriedly down the narrow stone steps, while simultaneously attempting to close the door and work its lock.

  “Welkome, madame,” Madame Esmeralda’s sultry tones began, but they were cut off by a startled screech of wooden chair legs grating over worn bricks. “Mercedes?”

  “Are you alone?” Mercedes blurted. “It is urgent, Anne. Please, are you alone?”

  Anne strode over, her jewellery jingling as she ushered Mercedes into the cellar, slipped out a hand to flip the door sign, and then locked the door shut with two impressive bolts.

  “Thank you,” Mercedes breathed.

  Slender yet strong hands gripped her shoulders. “Who is after you, my dear?”

  “At this moment, I pray no one is, but he will come looking for me sooner rather than later.”

  Anne’s mouth became a thin, grim line. “Eric?”

  “He and his sister, Carmen Talbert. They…” Fear clawed its way up her throat. “Oh God, Anne. She knows. Carmen knew all along about the powder and what it does.” Her white fingers raked through her hair and tore at her hairline. “It was she who alerted the police to the deaths of my babies. She, not Eric! He never suspected a thing, I’m certain, but she wants me out of the way. Unless I go willingly to the asylum she selected, she will tell Eric everything!”

  “Then it’s a good thing you came.” Comforting touches explored the healing bruise on her face before slowly pulling her into a tender embrace. “Oh my dear, my dear love. I have been so, so worried about you.”

  A shell of warmth enveloped her. She buried herself into it. Warm, soothing hands stroked her back, and gentle kisses fluttered through her hair. Tears of anxiety, held back too long, fell silently. She rested her head in the soft crook of Anne’s neck as her friend hummed a lullaby. Mercedes cherished its soft vibrations against her forehead.

  Here she was safe, as her younger self had always dreamt she might be if only her mother would stop scolding her. How different a woman was Anne. Like the angel that Jean insisted he was not, Anne grew hope and security like crops in the field and readily shared her harvest with whoever needed it.

  Like a mother should.

  As should she.

  Mercedes wanted nothing more than to stay as she was, a sheltered child in her mother’s arms. But what of those who depended on her? She, the Mother Bear prophesised to protect the Child. It no longer mattered whether she believed herself able to fulfil that role. Who else was there to take her place?

  She pulled Anne closer once more before detaching herself from their embrace. From her reticule, she retrieved the deck of cards.

  “Were they of use to you, my dear?”

  “Indispensable, once I understood how. Only, Eric found them when I was incapacitated. Hence the explosive situation I find myself in.”

  “Incapacitated how? The powder I gave you?”

  “Oh, that worked like a charm. No, he happened on an open spread when I was, well…” She felt her face burn. “I was not occupying my body.”

  Anne’s expression became unreadable. “You went out? As in, exited your corporeal shape?”

  “Rest assured, I was still tied to it all the while. Either way, I
had no choice.”

  “Didn’t you now?” Anne frowned. “This has to do with that dark soul you wished to summon, doesn’t it?”

  Mercedes hung her head, feeling the reprimand behind the words. “One does not summon such an entity, I learned, but yes, he responded. A lot has happened since.” She untied the deck and spread out the cards. “Do you remember the reading with the Snake?”

  Selecting the Snake, the Man and the Sun from the heap of cards to signify the main players, she explained to Anne all that had transpired since their last proper meeting. Anne listened intently, asking only but the most pertinent questions.

  By the time Mercedes reached her conclusion, the older woman had sunk onto the nearest chair. “That is quite a lot to take in.”

  “I would not believe it if I had not been there myself, but I cannot risk abandoning my daughter’s soul. I cannot – will not! – fail her again.”

  “You never did, my dear. You never did.”

  Mercedes shifted uneasily. “Danielle may not agree with you.”

  “My dear, you can’t—”

  “Even if she does, Anne, my path is already determined. Carmen’s scheming has cost me everything still worth living for.”

  “You are quick to say so,” Anne said, dejected, “but I see that the possible outcomes are limited.” She leaned heavily on the table as she pushed herself to her feet. “You could run, of course. Leave the city and take to the road.”

  “Would you go with me?” Mercedes countered.

  “If only I could.”

  “Then how would I live? I have neither the aptitude for bohemian life nor sufficient attachment to life in general to survive the hardships of poverty.”

  “I…” Anne drew a ragged breath and shook her head. “I’m sorry, my love. I tried to help you mend, but your wounds proved to be beyond my healing skills.”

  Mercedes took her friend’s ringed hands in her own.