by Kate Mosse
Laboughe pulled an expression of distaste. ‘A termination? ’
‘Possibly, sir. The medical records have been mislaid. Stolen, the staff claim. The clinic did confirm, however, that the expenses were paid by Vernier.’
‘March, you say,’ Laboughe said. ‘So unlikely to be connected with Marguerite Vernier’s murder?’
‘No, sir,’ replied the Inspector, then added, ‘I think it more likely, if indeed Vernier has been the victim of some whispering campaign, that those two things might well be connected.’
Laboughe snorted. ‘Come, Thouron. Slandering a man is hardly the act of a person of honour. But from that to murder?’
‘Quite, Monsieur le Préfet, and in usual circumstances I would agree. But there is one other occurrence that makes me wonder if there has been an escalation of ill-will.’
Laboughe sighed, realising his inspector was not finished. He pulled a black Meerschaum pipe from his pocket, knocked it upon the corner of the desk to loosen the tobacco, then struck a match and drew until the flame took. A muggy, sour smell filled the cramped office.
‘Obviously one cannot be certain that this has any connection with the matter in hand, but Vernier himself was the victim of an assault in the Passage des Panoramas in the early hours of the seventeenth of September Thursday, last.’
‘Morning after the Palais Garnier riot?’
‘You know the place, sir?’
‘Smart arcade of shops and restaurants. The engraver, Stern, also has premises there.’
‘That’s it, sir. Vernier sustained a nasty wound just above the left eye and a good set of bruises. It was reported, again anonymously, to our colleagues in the deuxième arrondissement . They, in turn, informed us of the incident, knowing our interest in the gentleman. When questioned, the nightwatchman of the Passage admitted he had known of the attack - witnessed it, in point of fact - but confessed that Vernier had paid him handsomely to say nothing of it.’
‘Did you pursue the matter?’
‘We did not, sir. Since Vernier, the victim, had chosen not to report the incident, there was little we could do. I only mention it to support the suggestion that perhaps it was an indication.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of an escalation in hostilities,’ Thouron replied patiently.
‘But in that case, Thouron, why is it Marguerite Vernier lying dead on a slab rather than Vernier himself? It makes no sense.’
Prefect Laboughe sat back in his chair, drawing on his pipe. Thouron watched him and waited in silence.
‘Do you believe Du Pont is guilty of the murder, Inspector, yes or no?’
‘I am keeping an open mind, sir, until we have gathered more information.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Laboughe waved his hand impatiently. ‘But your instinct?’
‘In truth, I do not think Du Pont is our man. Of course it seems the most likely explanation. The General was there. We only have his word for it that he arrived to find Marguerite Vernier dead. There were two champagne glasses, but also one whisky tumbler smashed in the grate. But there are too many things that do not seem to fit.’Thouron took a deep breath, floundering for the right words. ‘The tip-off, for one. If, indeed, it was a lovers’ quarrel that got out of hand, who was it that made contact with the papers? Du Pont himself? I hardly think so. The servants had all been dismissed. It can only have been a third party.’
Laboughe nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Also, the timing, if you will, of both son and daughter being out of town and the apartment closed up for the duration. ’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know, sir. Something staged about the whole thing.’
‘You think Du Pont was set up to take the fall?’
‘I think it is something we should consider, sir. If it were him, why would he only postpone the assignation? Surely he would take care to be nowhere in the vicinity?’
Laboughe nodded. ‘I can’t deny that it would be a relief not to have to pursue an army hero through the courts, Thouron, especially one so decorated and distinguished as Du Pont.’ He caught Thouron’s eye. ‘Not that it should influence your decision, Inspector. If you believe him guilty . . .’
‘Of course, sir. I too would be distressed to prosecute a hero of the patrie!’
Laboughe glanced down at the shrill newspaper headlines. ‘On the other hand, Thouron, we must not forget that a woman lies dead.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Our priority must be to locate Vernier and inform him of his mother’s murder. If before he was unwilling to talk to the police about the various incidents with which he has been entangled during this past year, perhaps this tragedy will loosen his tongue.’ He shifted position. The chair creaked under his weight. ‘But no indication of where he is?’
Thouron shook his head. ‘We know he left Paris four days ago, in the company of his sister. A cabman, one of the regulars who work the rue d’Amsterdam, reports picking up a fare in the rue de Berlin, a man and a girl matching the description of the Verniers, and taking them to the Gare Saint-Lazare on Friday last, shortly after nine o’clock in the morning.’>
‘Any sightings of them once they were inside Saint-Lazare? ’
‘None, sir. Trains from Saint-Lazare service the western suburbs - Versailles, Saint-Germain-en-Laye, as well, of course, as the boat trains for Caen. Nothing. But then they could have disembarked at any point and transferred to a branch line. My men are on to it.’
Laboughe was gazing at his pipe. He seemed to be losing interest.
‘And you have the word out with the railway authorities, I presume?’
‘Mainline and branch stations. Notices have been posted throughout the Ile-de-France and we are checking the passenger lists for Channel sailings, just in case they intend to travel further afield.’
The Prefect drew himself heavily to his feet, wheezing at the effort of it. He put his pipe in the pocket of his coat, then picked up his top hat and gloves, and moved towards the door like a ship in full sail.
Thouron also stood.
‘Pay another visit to Du Pont,’ Laboughe said. ‘He is the most obvious candidate in this unfortunate business, although I am inclined to think that your reading of the situation is the correct one.’
Laboughe moved slowly across the room, his cane tapping on the floor, until he reached the door.
‘And Inspector?’
‘Préfet?’
‘Keep me informed. Any developments in this case, I want to hear the facts from you, not from the pages of Le Petit Journal. I am not interested in tittle-tattle, Thouron. Leave such things to the journalistes and writers of fictions. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
CHAPTER 36
DOMAINE DE LA CADE
There was a tiny brass key in the lock of the cabinet. It was stiff and did not want to give, but Léonie rattled at it until eventually it turned. She pulled open the door and lifted out the intriguing volume.
Perching on the polished top step, Léonie opened Les Tarots, folding back the hardback covers, releasing the scent of dust and old paper and antiquity. Inside, was a slim pamphlet, hardly a book at all. No more than eight pages, jagged, as if they had been cut by a knife. The heavy cream paper spoke of an older age - not an antique, but not a recent publication either. The words within were handwritten, in a clear italic hand.
On the first page was repeated her uncle’s name, Jules Lascombe, and the title, Les Tarots, this time with a secondary heading underneath it: Au delà du voile et l’art musicale de tirer les cartes. Beneath that was an illustration, much like a figure of eight, lying flat upon its side, like a skein of thread. At the bottom of the page was a date, presumably when her uncle had written the monograph: 1870.
After my mother fled the Domaine de la Cade and before Isolde arrived.
The frontispiece was protected by a sheet of waxed tissue paper. Léonie lifted it, then gasped involuntarily. The illustration was a black and white engraving of a devil, staring malevolently up from
the page with a lewd and bold stare. His body was hunched, with vulgar twisted shoulders, long arms and claws in place of hands. His head was too large, distorted, suggesting somehow a travesty of the human form.
As Léonie looked closer she saw that set within the creature’s brow were horns, so small as to be almost indistinct. There was an unpleasant suggestion of fur rather than skin. Most disagreeable of all were the two clearly human figures, a man and a woman, chained to the base of the tomb on which the devil was standing.
At the bottom of the engraving was a number in roman numerals: XV.
Léonie looked to the foot of the page. No artist was credited, no information given as to the provenance or origin of the piece. Just a single word, a name, inscribed in careful block capitals beneath: ASMODEUS.
Not wishing to linger longer, Léonie turned to the next page. She was confronted with line after line of introductory explanation of the subject of the book, tightly spaced. She skimmed the text, certain words catching her eye as she read. The promise of devils and Tarot cards and music set her pulse racing with a delightful frisson of horror. Deciding to make herself more comfortable, she descended her wooden tower, jumping down the last few steps, then carried the volume to the table in the centre of the library, and plunged deep into the heart of the story.
Upon the scrubbed flagstones within the sepulchre was the square, painted in black by my very hand earlier that day and which, now, seemed to give a faint glowing light.
At each of the four corners of the square, like compass points, the musical note corresponding therewith. C to the north, A to the west, D to the south and E to the east. Within the square were placed the cards, into which life was to be breathed and through the power of which I would walk in another dimension.
I lit the one lamp on the wall, which cast a pallid white light.
Instantly, it seemed as if the sepulchre was filled with a mist, choking the wholesome air from the atmosphere. The wind too asserted its presence, for to what else could I ascribe the notes that were now murmuring inside the stone chamber, like the sound of a distant pianoforte.
Through the twilight atmosphere, the cards, or so it seemed to me, came to life. The forms, released from their prisons of pigment and paint, took form and shape and walked once more upon the earth.
There was a rushing of air and the sensation that I was not alone. Now I was certain that the sepulchre was full of beings. Spirits, I cannot say they were human. All natural rules were vanquished. The entities were all around. My self and my other selves, both past and yet to come, were equally present. They brushed my shoulders and my neck, skimmed my forehead, surrounded me without ever touching, yet always pressing closer and closer. It seemed to me they flew and swept through the air, so that I was aware always of their fleeting presence. Yet they seemed to have weight and mass. Especially in the air above my head there seemed ceaseless movement, accompanied by a cacophony of whispering and sighing and weeping that caused me to bow my neck as if under a burden.
It became clear to me that they wished to deny me access, although I knew not why. I only knew that I must regain the square or I would be in mortal danger. I took a step towards it, whereupon instantly there descended upon me, a great wind, pushing me back, shrieking and howling, a fearsome melody, if I may call it that, that seemed to be both inside my head and without. The vibrations made me fear the very walls and roof of the sepulchre building would collapse.
I gathered my strength and then launched myself towards the centre of the square, like a drowning man reaches in desperation for the shore. Instantly, a single creature, a devil distinct, yet as invisible as its hellish companions, threw itself upon me. I felt supernatural claws upon my neck and talons on my back, its fishlike breath upon my skin, and yet not a mark was laid upon me.
I drew my arms over my head to protect myself. Perspiration flowed from my brow. My heart began to lose its rhythm and I became aware of a growing incapacity. Breathless, shaking, with every muscle strained to the utmost, I summoned the last vestiges of courage and forced myself forward once more. The music was growing louder. I dug my nails deep into the cracks in the flagstones upon the floor and, by some miracle, succeeded in dragging myself into the square marked out.
Instantly, a terrible silence oppressed the room with the force of a mighty scream, so violent, and bringing with it the stench of Hell and the depths of the sea. I thought my head would split open with the very pressure of it. Babbling wildly, I continued to recite the names upon the cards: Fool, Tower, Strength, Justice, Judgement. Was I calling the spirits of the cards, now made manifest to aid me, or was it they who attempted to prevent me gaining the square? My voice seemed not to be of my making but to issue from somewhere outside of me, low at first, but gradually increasing in volume and intensity, growing in power and filling the sepulchre.
Then, when I believed I could withstand it no longer, something withdrew from within me, from my presence, from beneath my very skin with a scraping noise, like the claws of a wild animal along the surface of my bones. There was a rushing of air. The pressure on my failing heart was relieved.
I fell prostrate to the ground, all but unconscious, I was yet aware that the notes - those same four notes - were fading and the whisperings and sighings of the spirits growing weaker till at last I could hear nothing.
I opened my eyes. The cards were returned to their sleeping state once more. On the walls of the apse, the paintings now were inert. Then a sense of emptiness and peace suddenly came over the sepulchre, and I knew that all was finished. Darkness closed over me. I know not for how long I remained unconscious.
I have notated the music to the best of my ability. The marks on the palms of my hands, stigmata, have not faded.
Léonie let out a low whistle. She turned the page. There was no more.
For a while she sat simply staring at the last lines of the pamphlet. It was an extraordinary tale. The occult interplay of music and place had brought the images upon the cards to life and, if she had understood, summoned those who had passed over to the other side. Au delà du voile - beyond the veil - as the title inscribed upon the wrapper declared.
And written by my uncle.
At this moment, as much as anything, it was astounding to Léonie that there could be an author of such quality within her family and yet it never had been mentioned.
And yet . . .
Léonie paused. In the introduction her uncle claimed it to be true testimony. She sat back in the chair. What did he mean when he wrote of the power to ‘walk in another dimension’? What did he mean when he said ‘my other selves, both past and yet to come’? And had the spirits, once summoned, withdrawn whence they had come?
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Léonie spun round, glancing over her shoulder to left and right, feeling as if there was someone standing behind her. She sent her eyes darting into the shadows of the alcoves either side of the fireplace and the dusty corners behind the tables and curtains. Were there spirits still within the estate? She thought of the figure she had seen crossing the lawns the previous evening.
A premonition? Or something other?
Léonie shook her head, half amused that she was allowing her imagination to be the master of her, and returned her attention to the book. If she took her uncle at his word, and believed the story as fact not fiction, then did the sepulchre stand within the Domaine de la Cade itself? She was inclined to think it did, not least because the musical notes required to summon the spirits - C, D, E, A - corresponded to the letters of the name of the estate: Cade.
And does it still exist?
Léonie dropped her chin into her hand. Her practical self took over. It should be a simple matter to ascertain if there was some manner of structure such as her uncle described within the grounds. It would be in keeping for a country estate of this size to have its own chapel or mausoleum within the park. Her mother had never spoken of such a thing, but then she had said little about the estate. Tante I
solde, also, had not mentioned it, but the matter had not come up during the course of the conversation last evening and, as she herself had admitted, her knowledge of the history of her late husband’s family estate was limited.
If the sepulchre still stands, I shall find it.
A noise in the passageway outside caught Léonie’s attention.
Immediately, she slid the volume into her lap. She did not wish to be found reading such a book. Not out of embarrassment, but because it was her private adventure and she did not wish to share it with anyone. Anatole would tease her.
The footsteps became fainter, then Léonie heard the sound of a door closing beyond the hall. She stood up, wondering if she could take Les Tarots. She did not think her aunt would object to the loan, given that she had invited them to treat the house as their own. And although the book had been locked within a case, Léonie was certain that was as protection against the ravages of dust and time and sunlight, rather than a sense of it being forbidden. Else why should the key have been so obligingly left in the lock?