Sepulchre

by Kate Mosse

  The engine let out an explosion of steam and clatter. Léonie stepped nervously back and Denarnaud climbed aboard.

  ‘Again, I must thank you for your courtesy,’ Anatole repeated.

  Denarnaud leaned out. The two men exchanged cards, then shook hands as the steam swamped the platform.

  Anatole stood back from the edge. ‘Seemed a nice enough fellow.’

  Léonie’s eyes flashed with temper. ‘You insisted we should keep our plans private,’ she objected, ‘and yet—’

  Anatole cut in. ‘Just being friendly.’

  The station clock on the tower began to strike the hour.

  ‘It seems that we are still, after all, in France,’ said Anatole, then glanced at her. ‘Is something the matter? Is it something I have done? Or not done?’

  Léonie sighed. ‘I am cross and I am hot. It was dull having no one to talk to. And you left me quite at the mercies of that disagreeable man.’

  ‘Oh, Denarnaud wasn’t so bad,’ he objected, squeezing her hand. ‘But I ask your forgiveness anyway for the heinous crime of falling asleep!’

  Léonie pulled a face.

  ‘Come, petite. You will feel more yourself when we have had something to eat and drink.’

  CHAPTER 20

  The full force of the sun hit them the instant they were out of the shadow of the station building. Brown clouds of grit and dust blew into their faces, agitated by the swirling wind that seemed to come from all directions at once. Léonie fumbled with the clasp of her new parasol.

  As he made arrangements with the porter for their luggage, she took in their surroundings. She had never travelled this far south before. Indeed, her visits beyond the outskirts of Paris had been only as far as Chartres or childhood picnics on the banks of the Marne. This was a different France. Léonie recognised some road signs and advertising posters for aperitifs, for wax polish and cough linctus, but it was not a world she knew.

  The concourse gave directly on to a small and busy street lined with spreading lime trees. Dark women with broad weatherbeaten faces, waggoners and railway workers, unkempt children with bare legs and dirty feet. A man in the short jacket of a workman, no waistcoat, with a loaf of bread tucked beneath his arm. Another, dressed in the black suit and with the clipped short hair of a schoolteacher. A dogcart rumbled past, stacked high with charcoal logs and kindling. She had the sensation she had stepped into a scene from Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffmann, where the old ways held sway and time all but stood still.

  ‘Apparently there’s a passable restaurant on the Avenue de Limoux,’ said Anatole, reappearing at her side with a copy of a local newspaper, La Dépêche de Toulouse, tucked under his arm. ‘There’s also a telegraph office, a telephone, as well a poste restante. In Rennes-les-Bains, too, it seems, so we’re not completely cut off from civilisation.’ He pulled a box of wax Vestas from his pocket, took a cigarette from his case and tapped it on the lid to tighten the tobacco. ‘But I fear there’s no such luxury as a carriage.’ He struck a match. ‘Or, at least, not this late in the year and on a Sunday. ’

  The Grand Café Guilhem was on the far side of the bridge. A handful of marble-topped tables with wrought-iron legs and wooden straight-backed chairs with wicker seats were set outside in the shade of a large awning that ran the length of the restaurant. Geraniums in terracotta holders and terrace trees in large wooden planters with metal hoops, the size of casks of beer, gave additional privacy to the diners.

  ‘Hardly the Café Paillard,’ said Léonie, ‘but it will do.’

  Anatole smiled fondly. ‘I doubt if there will be private rooms, but the public terrace looks acceptable. Yes?’

  They were shown to a pleasantly situated table. Anatole ordered for them both and fell into easy conversation with the patron. Léonie allowed her attention to wander. Lines of plantane with their variegated bark, Napoleon’s marching trees, gave shade to the street. She was surprised to see that not only the Avenue de Limoux but also the other streets around had been surfaced rather than left as nature intended. She presumed this was because of the popularity of the nearby thermal spas and the high volume of voitures publiques and private carriages that went to and fro in the height of the season.

  Anatole shook out his napkin and laid it across his lap.

  The waiter arrived promptly with a tray of drinks - a jug of water, a large glass of cold beer for Anatole and a pichet of the local vin de table. It was followed shortly afterwards by the food. A luncheon of bread, hard-boiled eggs, a galatine of cured meats, salt pork, a couple of centimes’ worth of local cheese and a slice of chicken pie carved and embedded in aspic, plain but satisfying.

  ‘Not at all bad,’ said Anatole. ‘In fact, surprisingly good.’

  Léonie excused herself between courses. When she returned some ten minutes later, it was to find Anatole had fallen into conversation with their fellow diners on an adjacent table. An older gentleman, dressed in the formal attire of a banker or lawyer, with a high black top hat, and a dark suit, starched collar and necktie despite the heat. And opposite him, a younger man with straw-coloured hair and bushy moustache.

  ‘Dr Gabignaud, Maître Fromilhague,’ he said, ‘may I present my sister, Léonie.’

  Both men half rose to their feet and lifted their hats.

  ‘Gabignaud was telling me of his work in Rennes-les-Bains, ’ Anatole explained, as Léonie sat back down at the table. ‘You were saying you have been apprenticed to Dr Courrent for three years?’

  Gabignaud nodded. ‘Indeed. Three years. Our baths in Rennes-les-Bains are not only the oldest in the region, but we also are lucky enough to have several different types of water, so can treat a wider range of symptoms and pathologies than any other equivalent thermal establishment. The group of thermal waters includes the source du Bain Fort, at fifty-two degrees, the—’

  ‘They don’t need every detail, Gabignaud,’ growled Fromilhague.

  The doctor reddened. ‘Yes, quite. Well. I have been fortunate enough to be invited to visit similar establishments elsewhere,’ he continued. ‘I have had the honour to spend some weeks studying under Dr Privat in Lamalou-les-Bains. ’

  ‘I am not familiar with Lamalou.’

  ‘You amaze me, Mademoiselle Vernier. It’s a charming spa town, also Roman in origin, just to the north of Béziers.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Although it is rather a sombre place of course. In medical circles it is best known for its treatment of ataxics.’

  Maître Fromilhague brought his hand down with a bang on the table, making the coffee cups and Léonie jump. ‘Gabignaud, you are forgetting yourself!’

  The young doctor turned scarlet. ‘Forgive me, Mademoiselle Vernier. I did not intend to cause any offence.’

  Puzzled, Léonie fixed Maître Fromilhague with a cold look. ‘Rest assured, Dr Gabignaud, I have taken none.’

  She glanced at Anatole, who was attempting not to laugh.

  ‘Nevertheless, Gabignaud, it might not be an appropriate conversation for mixed company.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ gabbled the doctor. ‘My interest as a medical man often leads me to forget that such matters are not—’

  ‘You are visiting Rennes-les-Bains for the spa?’ asked Fromilhague with ponderous courtesy.

  Anatole shook his head. ‘We are to stay with our aunt at her estate just outside of the town. At the Domaine de la Cade.’

  Léonie saw surprise flare in the doctor’s eyes.

  Or concern?

  ‘Your aunt?’ Gabignaud said. Léonie watched him closely.

  ‘To be precise, our late uncle’s wife,’ Anatole replied, clearly also noticing the hesitation in Gabignaud’s manner. ‘Jules Lascombe was our M’man’s half-brother. We have not yet had the pleasure of making our aunt’s acquaintance.’

  ‘Is there something the matter, Dr Gabignaud?’ enquired Léonie.

  ‘No, no. Not in the slightest. Forgive me, I . . . I was not aware Lascombe was fortunate enough to have such close relations. He lived a qui
et life and did not mention . . . To be frank, Mademoiselle Vernier, we were all taken by surprise when he took the decision to marry, and so late in life. Lascombe seemed a confirmed bachelor. And to take a wife to such a house, with such an ill reputation, well . . .’

  Léonie’s attention sharpened. ‘An ill reputation?’

  But Anatole had moved to a different question. ‘You knew Lascombe, Gabignaud?’

  ‘Not well, but we were acquainted. They summered here, I believe, in the first years of their marriage. Madame Lascombe, preferring life in town, was often away from the Domaine for some months at a time.’

  ‘You were not Lascombe’s personal physician?’

  Gabignaud shook his head. ‘I did not have that honour, no. He had his own man in Toulouse. He had been in poor health for many years, although his decline was more sudden than expected, brought on by the fearsome cold at the beginning of the year. When it was clear that he would not recover, your aunt returned to the Domaine de la Cade at the beginning of January. Lascombe died days afterwards. Of course, there were rumours that he died as a result of—’

  ‘Gabignaud!’ interrupted Fromilhague. ‘Hold your tongue!’

  The young doctor again flushed.

  Fromilhague signalled his continuing displeasure by summoning the waiter, then insisting on relating precisely what they had eaten, to confirm the bill, making further conversation between the two tables impossible.

  Anatole left a generous tip. Fromilhague threw a note on to the table, and stood up. ‘Mademoiselle Vernier, Vernier,’ he said brusquely, raising his hat. ‘Gabignaud. We have matters to attend to.’

  To Léonie’s astonishment, the doctor followed without a word.

  ‘Why may Lamalou not be spoken of?’ Léonie demanded, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘And why does Dr Gabignaud permit Maître Fromilhague to bully him so?’

  Anatole grinned. ‘Lamalou is notorious as the place where the latest medical advancements in the treatment of syphilis - ataxia - are being pioneered,’ he replied. ‘As for his manner, I would imagine Gabignaud needs the Maître’s sponsorship. In such a small town, it is the difference between a successful and a failing practice.’ He gave a brief laugh. ‘But Lamalou-les-Bains! I ask you!’

  Léonie thought. ‘But why ever was Dr Gabignaud so surprised when I told him we were to be staying at the Domaine de la Cade? And what did he mean by the house having an ill reputation?’

  ‘Gabignaud talks too much and Fromilhague disapproves of gossip. That’s all there is to it.’

  Léonie shook her head. ‘No, it was more than that,’ she objected. ‘Maître Fromilhague was determined not to permit him to speak.’

  Anatole shrugged. ‘Fromilhague has the choleric complexion of a man who is frequently aggravated. He merely dislikes Gabignaud prattling on like a woman!’

  Léonie poked out her tongue at this slight. ‘Beast!’

  Anatole wiped his moustache, dropped his napkin to the table, then pushed back his chair and stood up.

  ‘Alors, on y va. We have some time to spare. Let us acquaint ourselves with the modest delights of Couiza.’

  CHAPTER 21

  PARIS

  Hundreds of miles to the north, Paris was becalmed. After the bustle of a busy morning of commerce, the afternoon air was choked with dust and the smells of rotten fruit and vegetables. The ostlers, the traders of the 8th arrondissement had gone. The milk carts, the barrows and the beggars had moved on, leaving behind the detritus, the dregs of another day.

  The apartment of the Vernier family in the rue de Berlin was silent in the blue light of the fading afternoon. The furniture was shrouded in white dustsheets. The long windows of the drawing room that overlooked the street were closed. The curtains of yellow chintz had been drawn. The floral wallpaper, once of good quality, looked faded where the daily passage of the sun had stripped the colour away. Particles of dust hung suspended above the few sticks of furniture left uncovered.

  On the table, forgotten roses in a glass bowl hung their heads, almost without scent. There was another smell, barely discernible, a sour smell that did not belong. A hint of the souk, Turkish tobacco, and a stranger aroma this far inland, that of the sea, carried in upon the grey clothes of the man who stood silently between the two windows in front of the fireplace, obscuring the porcelain face of the Sèvres clock on the mantel.

  He was of strong and powerful build, with broad shoulders and a high forehead, the body of an adventurer rather than an aesthete. Dark clipped eyebrows sat above sharp blue eyes with pupils as black as coal.

  Marguerite was sitting upright on one of the mahogany dining chairs. Her rose-coloured negligée, tied at the neck with a yellow silk bow, lay draped across perfect white shoulders. The material fell, exquisitely, over the yellow cushioned seat and the fabric arms of the chair, as if for an artist’s still life. It was only the alarm in her eyes that told a different story. That, and the fact that her arms were pulled awkwardly behind her, bound tightly by picture wire.

  A second man, his shaved scalp covered in an angry rash of spots and blisters, stood on guard behind the chair, waiting for his master’s instructions.

  ‘So where is he?’ he said in a cold voice.

  Marguerite looked at him. She remembered the flush of attraction that had come over her in his presence before and hated him for it. Of all the men she had known, only one other, her husband Leo Vernier, had possessed the power to stir her emotions so instantly, and in such a way.

  ‘You were at the restaurant,’ she said. ‘Chez Voisin.’

  He ignored her. ‘Where is Vernier?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Marguerite again. ‘I give you my word. He keeps his own hours. Often he is gone for days without a word.’

  ‘Your son, yes. But your daughter does not come and go as she pleases unchaperoned. She keeps regular hours. And yet she too is absent.’

  ‘She is with friends.’

  ‘Is Vernier with her?’

  ‘I . . .’

  He sent his cold eyes sweeping over the sheets and empty cupboards.

  ‘How long is the apartment to be empty?’ he said.

  ‘Some four weeks. Indeed, I am expecting General Du Pont,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice level. ‘At any moment he will be here to collect me, and—’

  The words were lost in her scream, as the manservant grabbed her by the hair and jerked back her head.

  ‘No!’

  The tip of the knife pressed cold against her skin.

  ‘If you leave now,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, ‘I will say nothing, I give you my word. Leave me, go.’

  The man stroked the side of her face with the back of his gloved hand.

  ‘Marguerite, no one will come. The piano downstairs is silent. The neighbours upstairs are in the country for the weekend. And as for your maid and cook, I watched them leave. They too believe that you have already departed with Du Pont.’

  Fear flashed in her eyes as she realised how well-informed he was.

  Victor Constant pulled up a chair, so close that Marguerite could feel his breath upon her face. Beneath the neat moustache, she could see full lips, red in his pale face. It was the face of a predator, a wolf. And a blemish, too. Behind his left ear, a small swelling.

  ‘My friend . . .’

  ‘The esteemed General is already in receipt of a note postponing your liaison until half past eight this evening.’ He glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘Some five hours and more away. So, you see, we have no need to hurry. And what he discovers when he does arrive is entirely up to you. Alive, dead. It matters little to me.’

  ‘No!’

  The point of his knife was now pressing beneath her eye.

  ‘I fear, chère Marguerite, that you would fare ill in the world without your looks.’

  ‘What is it you want? Money? Does Anatole owe you money? I can settle his debts.’

  He laughed. ‘If only it were that simple. Besides, yo
ur financial situation is, shall we say, perilous. And generous as I am certain your lover can be, I do not think General Du Pont would pay to keep your son from the bankruptcy courts.’

  With the lightest of touches, Constant pressed the tip of the blade a little harder against her pale skin, his head shaking slightly as if in regret for what he was obliged to do. ‘In any case, it is not a question of money. Vernier has taken something that belongs to me.’

  Marguerite heard the change in his voice and began to struggle. She tried to pull her arms free, but succeeded only in causing her bonds to tighten. The wire cut sharply, slicing into the skin of her bare wrists. Blood began to drip, bead by red bead, on to the blue carpet.