The Alchemy of Murder

by Carol McCleary

  Jules brushes a piece of hair away from my face. “Nellie…”

  For what seems like forever we lock into each other’s eyes—he, searching for an answer from me, while I battle with desire and morals, and the consequences it will bring.

  “I don’t think you’re ready.”

  Tears start pouring down my cheeks. He was right. “Love makes babies,” echoed in my head. I want to … but I can’t.

  “Nellie … it’s okay.”

  Jules gently puts a pillow under my head and takes the other blanket and covers me and then starts to get up, but I grab his hand, “Please, lie here with me…”

  He gets the other pillow and joins me under the blanket.

  “Hold me.”

  His strong arms embrace me and I nuzzle my cheek into his chest and wrap my arms around him. I can feel his chest rise and fall and hear the beating of his heart. His heart is beating rapidly against mine—what could be more beautiful. We hold each other tight and I feel as if we are melting into one. That’s when I kiss him and look deep into his eyes—consequences be damned.

  58

  I awake in the morning to find Jules gone and a note laying on his pillow, “I’ve gone for a walk to mingle (if that’s possible) with the town folk.—Jules.” I smile and snuggle deeper into the blanket. I’m grateful to Jules for not being here when I awoke. This is all so new to me—I need time alone to think, digest what happened.

  I gave myself to him last night.

  It encompasses so much—I am now a woman. I am no longer a young girl or a virgin. I made love to a man and I’m not married. Oh my … I sit straight up in our floor bed. I really hate it when reality strikes me in the face. I could be pregnant. And my dear mother … what will she think?! But what is surprising me, in all honesty, is that I’m not ashamed.

  “I’m not ashamed,” blurts out of my mouth and I start laughing. “I’m not ashamed.”

  It’s a wonderful relief, nothing like I thought I would experience. I had all these ideas on when it was going to happen and how I would feel. And I must say this scenario never entered my thoughts—especially with a married man. Why don’t I feel guilty and embarrassed and all those horrible things the church says I should feel if I made love out of wedlock? Because my heart tells me otherwise.

  My father was right. He told me always to listen to your heart. You can never go wrong. I take the pocket watch my father gave me and hold it tight. Even though I listened to my heart and feel okay about this, I have a funny feeling when I see Jules … just the thought of seeing him sends a thousand butterflies in my stomach. What I need to do is stop thinking, get up, get dressed, and pay the piper. And pray to God, I don’t act like a fool.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, I FIND the sun desperately trying to brighten up this dreary little village, but too many clouds block its way. I had hoped with the light of day the village would transform into a quaint, charming place. It doesn’t. The place is as bleak as it was on a rainy night.

  As I walk along the dirt path that leads through the village I spot Jules ahead talking to a man plowing a field and my heart takes off. I slow down my pace—way down. What do I say? How do I act? I didn’t think through how I was going to act when I saw him. I’ll just be myself. But my mind starts to act like I’m one of those girls that become silly because a man made love to her. I don’t want to be like that. I’m an intelligent, modern woman—no guilt, no consequence, no commitment. I lift my chin and plow through any of inhibitions and doubts I have toward Jules.

  He’s muttering to himself about something “strange,” and starts when he suddenly realizes I’m there.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. So, what’s strange?” I ask.

  “These people won’t talk about their visitor. They’re not just tight-lipped, but get angry when I persist on asking questions. Even when I tell them I’m willing to pay for information. I offered the innkeeper as much money as he probably makes in a month and all I got in return was a blank stare. He says our room will not be available tonight. Not that we planned on staying, but he didn’t know that.”

  “Maybe he’s expecting someone?”

  “No. My guess is that he doesn’t want us around, not at any price. Nor do the other townspeople. There’s only one thing that would keep a poor man from accepting money.”

  “Sex?” So much for focusing on today’s issues.

  “Fear. I see it in their eyes. They falter at the very mention of their strange guest. One farmer did mention that an ‘agricultural inspector’ had been at the village.”

  “Come again?”

  “I suspect that was Perun’s cover story, that he was doing agricultural experiments for the government. The farmer said they have a ‘cursed field’ that you can’t graze animals on. Something, perhaps some poisonous plant, kills them, but it’s been a village problem for decades.”

  As our steps carry us out of the village, the old woman I saw last night talking to the innkeeper’s son comes toward us. Her head is down and she’s talking to herself—more like arguing, agitated, waving her hands widely about. She’s almost upon us before she realizes we are in her path. She looks up with a start.

  “Madame,” I say, “do you know where we can find the inspector?” It’s a shot in the dark, but it hits bull’s-eye.

  She starts babbling. “My daughter, she’s missing, gone, she’d never leave me. She went with him.”

  “With who?”

  “The inspector. Up there.” She turns and points up at the ruins of the tower.

  “Mannette!”

  The shout comes from behind us. The innkeeper and two of the village men have come up from behind us. One is holding a sledgehammer. None of them look pleasant.

  “Come, Madame Courtoise,” the innkeeper says in a curt tone, “your daughter is waiting for you.”

  “Oh dear God, you’ve found her!” The poor crazy old thing rushes by us.

  I put my hand out to stop her and Jules grabs it. “They’re lying,” I whisper.

  “Forget it. Let’s take a look at the tower.” He pulls me away.

  “They’re lying to that woman. Something terrible has happened to her daughter. Why are they lying to her?”

  Jules keeps a firm grip on my arm as he starts to lead me up the hill. “Something terrible has happened here and there are a hundred frightened people who don’t want their secrets exposed. When we get back to Paris we will report the matter to the authorities. But until then, let’s make sure we get back in one piece.”

  He has a point. I go along like a lamb—a scared one. We won’t be able to get away from the village until the coach returns.

  Hundreds of years ago the tower was a protective battlement for a medieval knight who ruled the land. It wouldn’t have seen the wars of nations, it is too small for that, but of the petty fighting between knights and barons and the murderous raids of maundering bands. I just hope it hasn’t been stained by the blood of the old woman’s daughter at the hands of Perun.

  Once atop the hill, the ruin is larger than it appears below. The tower itself has crumbled to half its original size, but there are also lower walls still standing, almost completely covered by ivy and brush.

  “I think there’s a room down there.” Jules is on his hands and knees looking down a gaping hole.

  “Over here, there’s a stairway,” I say.

  Stone steps erupted by roots and vines lead down. In the not too distant past vegetation had been cleared.

  Once below we enter a small, damp room—no bigger than the bedroom at the inn, but much darker. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling. Rats scramble into holes at our approach. It’s as quiet as a crypt. Without light, we cannot see into the dark corners.

  “He hung lanterns,” Jules says, pointing out soot stains. “And he had this area for a workbench.” The workbench, a long and fairly wide stone ledge, is bare. “These stains were no doubt caused by chemicals.”

  More of the room comes into focu
s as our eyes adjust to the dark. Jules carefully examines every detail. It won’t surprise me if he pulls out a magnifying glass and crawls in the dirt looking for clues like a consulting detective. I admit I am more of an idea person than one occupied with details. I look to the overall situation for inspiration, not soot and cobwebs.

  “Odd,” Jules says.

  “What?”

  “This dirt.” He indicates the dirt near the workbench that is darker than the dirt on the rest of the floor. “It doesn’t belong here. There’s even some grass mixed in. He must have dug it somewhere in the fields and brought it here to examine. And see this buildup on the floor against the workbench. It appears he worked with the dirt, even shifted some of it with a screen because it’s a fine powder. Why would Perun be interested in dirt from the fields? Is it possible that the man who stayed here was actually an agriculture inspector and not Perun?”

  “No.” I shiver. “The man who worked in this place is the slasher. He killed that poor woman’s daughter.”

  “Female intuition?”

  “Not at all. As I told you, I once had the misfortune to see for myself what the man does to women in a laboratory. Look here.” I push a mound of ashes with my shoe. “Something was burned here.”

  Jules squats and examines the fire debris. “He burned a piece of crate.” He holds up a piece that didn’t completely burn.

  “It’s got Chinese writing on it,” I say. “I saw a crate with Chinese writing on it in Doctor Dubois’ hospital lab. It wouldn’t be the same crate, but one Dubois sent months ago.”

  “It didn’t necessarily come from Dubois.”

  “No, of course not, people involved in this investigation probably get crates from China everyday.”

  He clears his throat, probably unable to come up with a proper retort. “Let’s take a look at that cursed field the farmer told me about.” He wraps the charred piece of wood in a handkerchief and puts it in his inside pocket.

  From the top of the hill, I see something that causes me to stop and catch my breath.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Over there … in that field … there’s an open grave.”

  He follows my gaze. “That’s the one they called cursed. Let’s take a look.”

  Sure, why not. I’m used to open graves. I almost blurt out that bit of frightened sarcasm, but hold my tongue.

  The villagers have fenced off the cursed field with a thorny hedge and we enter through a crude wooden gate. Jules walks smartly. I, on the other hand, hang back as we approach the grave. Dirt has been piled up along one side. Jules stops at the edge and stares down.

  “It’s a grave all right.” He looks back at me. “But not what you think. Come here.”

  I do a double take when I look in. “A cow?”

  “Yes, a long dead one, mostly just hide and bone left, which means it’s been dead a lot longer than a few months ago. It may have been dug up months ago, but it was buried years ago.”

  “Why would someone dig up a dead cow?”

  “I don’t know.” He squats down. “Give me your handkerchief.”

  I do so. “What are you doing?”

  “Whoever dug up the cow took samples of the hide. You can tell pieces have been cut off. And we also know he took dirt samples.” He looks up at me. “I’m afraid I’ll need your coin purse to put some dirt in.”

  “You can have it, but only if you promise not to try and convince me that the man who dug up this cow was an agricultural inspector. I don’t know why Perun would do such a thing, but the hairs on the back of my neck are screaming that we have discovered a major clue.”

  “When your short hairs reveal why a dead cow is a clue to a man who slashes women, please let me know.”

  * * *

  AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE is awaiting us when reach the bottom of the hill. The innkeeper, his son, and his two friends have been joined by three other village men. One looks like a blacksmith—stout with thick, bulging arms. Their dark expressions suggest more of a lynch mob than a reception committee.

  “Stay behind me,” Jules voice is stern.

  “The cavalry has come.”

  Jules looks at me puzzled.

  I nod my head toward the bridge. Coming into the village is the carriage to take us back to the train station.

  * * *

  RETRACING OUR RIDE across the countryside, I find myself once again unable to keep from asking a question that had been puzzling me since I met Jules.

  “Jules … is Count Artigas the person you came to Paris to kill?”

  He stiffens beside me and his cane begins a cadence on the carriage floor that tells me my question has hit a sore spot. “That issue is none of your business. I regret ever having made the remark. Had I known your inability to let a matter drop…”

  My mother always said you get more from a person with honey than vinegar, so I squeeze his arm and speak softly. “We’re conducting an investigation. Don’t you think it’s unfair to withhold information from me?”

  I realize it’s the wrong approach the moment I open my mouth. The last time I made the same point he compared my degree of candor to peeling an onion. I brace myself for an explosion.

  “You’re right,” he says.

  “I am?”

  “You deserve an answer. And you already know part of it—Artigas is the man I swore to kill. I knew the man only by reputation, but I had seen his handiwork a year ago when I took my sailing yacht on a Mediterranean cruise. We sailed along the coast of North Africa, dropping anchor in Tangiers and Algiers before setting a course for Tunis. We hit a blow off the coast and put into the cove of a small market town not realizing that the town had just hours before been the scene of a power struggle between rival tribal leaders. Coming ashore in our tender, we found the terrible consequence of the tribal dispute. Men, women, and children, dead in the streets.”

  “How ghastly.”

  “Worse than you can imagine because these people did not die from bullets. Some were killed from the shrapnel but most had suffered painfully from poisonous gas the shells contained.”

  “Poisonous gas in an artillery shell?”

  “Upon impact, the shells put out a deadly gas of carbolic acid that fried a person’s lungs. The people killed by the explosions were the lucky ones. The unlucky had breathed in the gas and they would die slowly, some over the years, as their lungs gave them less and less air.”

  “Artigas was the monster who sold them the shells?”

  “His company manufactured a weapon of war that not only killed combatants, but was certain to spread death over a large area and kill the innocent.”

  “That’s horrible. What maniac thought up such a terrible weapon?”

  “They took it from one of my books. And used the idea to kill people.”

  59

  We spoke little on the return trip and arrive back at Gare Saint-Lazare in the late afternoon. Both of us are tired. My feelings about Jules weigh heavily on my mind and I suspect that he is not completely indisposed to thinking about me. I dare not probe anymore about the incident in North Africa. It’s his personal demon.

  One thing I’m certain about: neither one of us wants to admit or acknowledge that things have changed between us. For now it is easier to set aside our feelings and concentrate on what brought us together—catching Perun. But as we stand at the train station waiting for a fiacre, there is an awkward silence between us.

  “Nellie…” Jules, for once, breaks the silence. He looks stressed. “I owe you an apology. I know I haven’t addressed last night—”

  “Right now we have to stop this devil before he strikes again.”

  I must have said the correct thing because Jules smiles—just a “thank you” kind-of smile.

  “Mademoiselle Brown, have I told you what I like about you?”

  I laugh. “As a matter of fact you have.”

  “Well, I stand corrected and I want to make it up to you. Since I have a running bath, why don’t
you come to my hotel and freshen up. Afterward, we’ll go to Pasteur with our findings.”

  “That’s a very tempting offer, but I need fresh clothes.”

  “Are you sure? I can have your clothes cleaned.”

  “Thank you, but I think it best I go to my place.” I was lying, but I needed time alone … to think.

  “All right. But after we see Doctor Pasteur, I insist on taking you to dinner.”

  “That, I won’t refuse. But, don’t you think we should meet with Oscar before dinner? We can have drinks at the Rat Mort. He can give us a report of his activities as a consulting detective and who knows, maybe he’s discovered something.”

  “A meeting with your friend will only give me indigestion and destroy any chance of enjoying dinner. Please think twice about your idea.”

  A fiacre pulls up and Jules insists I take it. I squeeze his hand after he helps me in and he squeezes it back. “See you at Pasteur’s in three hours.”

  “All right.” And I wave my assent as my fiacre pulls away from the curb.

  * * *

  AS I COME trudging up Le Passage, I find Oscar sitting on a stone bench in front of the apartment building. I’m too tired to deal with energy-charged witticisms. And I’m in desperate need to order a bath and just soak. He spots me and gains his feet.

  “Nellie!” He looks grave. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”

  “Sorry. The train was late. What’s the matter, Oscar? You look like you lost your best friend.” I don’t know why I said that, but from the shocked look on Oscar’s face I realize something close to it happened.

  “You heard.” His tone and look changes to drama—a woman relating that her lover died in battle.

  “Heard what?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Luc.”

  “Doctor Dubois is dead?”

  “Yes…”

  “But … how?”

  “Black Fever.”