One Thing More

by Anne Perry

  There was no facility for the requirements of nature upstairs.

  Down. If Georges was in her room she would have to try to convince Menou he was a lover she had hidden there. He might believe it—maybe? There was a bitter laughter in that—a joke on her!

  She was going down the stairs. Menou was behind her. She could not stop; she was committed now. She found she could hardly breathe. She was leading Menou straight to Georges.

  At least there was a private cupboard for the use of nature in Bernave’s rooms. It would not make a liar of her. She crossed the hall and stopped at the door. She turned to face Menou.

  ‘If you would give me a few moment’s privacy, Citizen. You may search me when I come out. I shall not be carrying a knife, I promise you. I have no more idea where it is than you do.’

  He nodded. ‘I hope that is true, Citizeness. It would give me no pleasure to catch you protecting Citizen St Felix ... or Citizeness Destez.’

  She forced herself to smile at him, then turned and opened Bernave’s door.

  She went in and closed it behind her before she even looked up. She did not see Georges at first. He was standing in the shadows near the bookcase. He was looking towards her, his face set, white, eyes wide and almost black.

  She went across to him immediately.

  ‘Menou is outside the door,’ she whispered. ‘I have come to answer nature. When he searches the room here there is nowhere to hide. Our only chance is to be bold.’ She ignored his horror, the rigidity of his body. ‘Bernave mended his own books when they were old and torn,’ she hurried on, softly, standing only a few inches from him. ‘Break the spines of a few, damage them—quickly. You will find his tools for repairing them in the second drawer of the desk.’

  Instinctively she gestured towards it. ‘It’s not locked. When we come, you are the book repairer. I sent for you so we can sell his books for the best price. Keep working. If you can find his magnifying spectacles, wear them. They will at least cover your eyes a bit.’ She searched his face to see if he understood. It was too late to matter whether he agreed or not.

  He nodded, staring back at her, then suddenly realised that Menou could open the door any instant, and he moved to the desk and pulled out the drawer.

  Célie went to the cupboard and relieved herself, then came out again. Georges had the tools out on the desktop and the spectacles on his nose.

  ‘Break a few of these books,’ she whispered. ‘Not too many!’ Then she went to the door again.

  Menou was outside.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said graciously.

  ‘I’m sorry, Citizeness,’ he apologised, and made a careful and deliberate search of her person. He seemed pleased when he found nothing.

  She looked him directly in the eye. ‘Do you wish to search my room now?’

  ‘When I have completed the Lacostes,’ yes, I do.’

  He followed her back upstairs, finished the Lacostes’ rooms, and then hers, and discovered no knife. At last they came to Bernave’s door again.

  ‘It must be here,’ he said with a frown. ‘Our man has nerve, I’ll say that for him! Or woman? Kill Bernave, then hide the blade in his own rooms!’ He opened the door and stopped abruptly.

  Georges looked up from the desk. The spectacles reflected the light from the lamp he had lit and made him look different. The books were spread around him and the knife, glue, paper and fabric were at his elbow.

  ‘Who are you?’ Menou demanded, startled.

  ‘Good day, Citizen,’ Georges replied. ‘I am Citizen Abbas, bookbinder and repairer. The Citizeness asked me to mend the last of these books so they could be sold for a fair price. I understand the owner is recently deceased and his heirs have no wish to keep them.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Menou looked puzzled. ‘I didn’t see you come in!’

  ‘Nor I you,’ Georges answered. ‘You must have been here when I arrived. I charge by the book, not by the hour, but I came about twenty minutes ago, I should imagine.’

  ‘I see. Are there many books damaged?’ Menou was still dubious. ‘I’m surprised Bernave allowed them to be. My impression of him was he was a careful man who loved his books.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Georges agreed. ‘But when one is a collector one purchases books in all conditions, and then has them repaired.’

  Books were something Menou had never possessed.

  ‘Yes ... I suppose so,’ he conceded. ‘Well, I am sorry to disturb you, Citizen, but I require to search this room.’

  ‘Of course.’ Georges lowered his head.

  ‘Including that desk!’

  Georges stood up obediently, moving away. Menou began opening the drawers and going through them methodically, but there was a frown on his face, and he was obviously considering something profoundly.

  Célie did not look at Georges. The silence permeated the air. Her heart was pounding and the sweat covered her body even though she was shivering.

  ‘Where do you live, Citizen Abbas?’ Menou asked without looking round. ‘Do you have a shop?’

  Georges barely hesitated. ‘Rue des Augustins. I used to have a shop, but I cannot afford it these days. I work for other people.’

  Menou finished searching the desk and went over to the bookshelves.

  The invention was dangerous. If Menou were to question any of his men he would know Georges had not come twenty minutes ago. If he had been here before Menou arrived, Célie would have mentioned it. If Menou were to speak to anyone in the household, even Amandine, they would not know to substantiate Célie’s story. She must divert his attention, before he had time to become more suspicious. What would do that? What would Menou care about more than who Georges was and why he was there?

  The knife. But she had no idea where it was—if it was here at all.

  She must say something—now!

  ‘Citizen Menou—I have been thinking a great deal about what has happened.’

  ‘Naturally.’ He did not look up.

  ‘About the messages Citizen Bernave asked me to carry for him.’

  He kept taking books out of the shelf and piling them on the floor, so he could search behind them. Did he imagine she had hidden the knife there just now?

  ‘Yes,’ she said a little too loudly. ‘Yes.’ She must be decisive, not frightened. ‘If Citizen St Felix killed him he must have had a very compelling reason. He was not a fool, and he never appeared to any of us to be even the least bit violent. He was provoked often enough, but he never lost his temper.’

  This time Menou did turn. ‘What are you saying, Citizeness?’

  She had to go on now, and the idea was forming in her mind. It was a high risk, but above anything, more important than St Felix’s reputation or Bernave’s, was her awareness of Georges sitting a few feet from her, his head bent over the books again, trying to look as if he were busy mending them. His fingers were unused to such work.

  She breathed in deeply. ‘I am saying that the only thing I can imagine moving Citizen St Felix to such an act would be if he discovered that Bernave was not the revolutionary he claimed to be, working for the Commune, but a double spy—actually working for the royalists.’

  This time she certainly had Menou’s attention. His body had stiffened and his breathing changed.

  ‘Why would you think that?’ he asked, frowning at her.

  ‘He always sent St Felix to Marat and the Commune, but he went to the royalists himself,’ she replied, inventing frantically as she went, desperately conscious of Georges listening to her with amazement, his hands frozen on the paper. ‘He didn’t trust anyone else with their names,’ she went on. ‘He didn’t even write them down.’ He had, but she was sure she had destroyed any that were not matters of public knowledge. ‘Find out if any good came of the information he gave the Commune, Citizen Menou!’ she urged him. ‘Were any plots ever foiled, anyone arrested? Perhaps Citizen St Felix realised he was being used? He was an ardent republican. He loved the principles of the revolution.
’ Her voice was gathering conviction. ‘He loved liberty and brotherhood. He would have killed anyone rather than allow some royalist plot to reinstate the King, or the Comte d’Artois.’ She made her expression keener, more alight. There was nothing to lose now; everything was in this desperate throw. She dared not look towards Georges. He was moving his hands again, stretching fabric, smoothing paper, gently placing the glue.

  Menou was watching her intently, his search for the knife forgotten.

  ‘If the King were restored to the throne,’ she went on, ‘we would lose all we have gained. We could never trust him. He has proved that in the past—over and over again. He listens to whoever spoke to him last.’

  Menou said nothing for several seconds.

  Georges continued mending the book, his head bent, his fingers slow and careful. Perhaps unintentionally doing nothing that would make a sound.

  Very deliberately Célie walked to the desk and opened the drawers with the money. She was so close to Georges her sleeve touched his shoulder. She could sense the warmth of him, the smell of his skin. The money was still where she had seen it before. She took a Louis and a handful of sous and turned to him. ‘Thank you, Citizen Abbas, for what you have done. I think it would be more suitable if you were to come back another time. Perhaps when we have a buyer in mind we shall have the rest repaired. Good day to you.’

  Georges glanced at the money.

  ‘That was the amount we agreed, wasn’t it?’ she asked, swallowing awkwardly.

  ‘Yes, and thank you.’ He folded the glue, knives and papers away in Bernave’s case and rose to his feet. ‘You know where to reach me.’

  ‘Of course. Good day, Citizen.’ She must not be too urgent. Menou must not hear anything different in her voice.

  ‘Good day.’ He hesitated.

  She did not say anything. Please God he thought to take the case with him!

  He looked at her for a second longer, then picked up the case and went to the door and out, closing it gently behind him.

  She must not listen as if she dreaded hearing the Guard stopping him, asking him who he was. She must assume he would just walk out and be free. Anything else was beyond bearing. She must concentrate on Menou as if that were all that mattered.

  ‘It would explain a great deal,’ she said with only the slightest tremor. Perhaps Menou would not hear it, as it was very slight.

  ‘It would not explain why he did not merely tell someone, instead of murdering him,’ Menou said sharply.

  ‘Yes, it would,’ she rejoined. ‘If Bernave went to the guillotine as a traitor, this house would be forfeit, and we should all be out on the street. St Felix would not have done that to us, particularly to Marie-Jeanne and the children. He was not that sort of man. That would be a crime to him.’

  He regarded her steadily, his eyes thoughtful.

  She waited.

  ‘You know, Citizeness, I think you are possibly right,’ he said at length. ‘That would explain much. But I wish St Felix had not run. Perhaps if he had told us his reasons ...’ His voice trailed off, realising the impossibility of such mercy. ‘No, I suppose not. The house would still have been forfeit. And one cannot rely on verdicts of justice these days.’ He flushed slightly, as if he knew he should not have committed himself to such an opinion, not aloud.

  ‘I can understand being afraid,’ she agreed softly. ‘I think we all are, if we are honest. These are very uncertain times.’

  ‘I haven’t found the knife,’ he pointed out.

  ‘I know. But if Amandine helped him, is that so great a sin?’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t really matter so much. Life is not always tidy, and I should not let my vanity assume I can find everything. Thank you for your help, Citizeness Laurent.’

  ‘You are welcome, Citizen Menou.’

  She opened the door and held it for him while he went out, then with trembling legs and dry mouth, dizzy with relief, she went after him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  CÉLIE FOLLOWED MENOU INTO the kitchen where the rest of the family were about to begin a late meal. Each one stared at Menou as he came in, the question in their eyes.

  ‘No,’ he said abruptly. ‘I did not find the knife. I don’t know what he did with it.’

  ‘Does it matter now?’ Monsieur Lacoste asked, breaking his bread on to his plate. There was only that for the meal, together with a couple of onions and a little cheese. Amandine was too shattered by grief and dismay to have cooked anything, and even Marie-Jeanne could not collect her emotions sufficiently to care about it. She sat at the table now with her two elder children on either side of her, and the baby asleep in what had once been the wood-basket and now, lined with a blanket, served as an excellent crib.

  Menou’s answer was prevented by a knock on the back door. He strode over and yanked it open. A middle-aged man stood on the step. He was not very tall, a little heavy-set. His white hair was ragged about his face and his skin was very pale. He had a long nose and faded blue eyes. His clothes were well cut, and had once been good, but time and constant wear had reduced them to a threadbare state.

  Everyone turned to stare at him, especially Virginie, her eyes growing wider and wider.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the man said politely to Menou. ‘Is Citizeness Laurent at home?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Menou demanded a trifle abruptly.

  A ghost of humour passed across the man’s face and vanished. ‘Citizen Lejeune, but she may not know my name. Is it permitted to speak with her?’

  Menou hesitated. He had no reason to deny it, and perhaps not any authority, now that St Felix was dead, but he was suspicious.

  Célie had no idea who the man was or what he could want of her, but she did not wish to leave him standing in the rain. He looked tired and there were lines of strain in his face, as if he were ill. She moved forward, beside Menou.

  ‘Come in, Citizen,’ she invited him. ‘At least stand inside in the warm while Citizen Menou considers.’

  ‘Thank you, Citizeness,’ he accepted, stepping past Menou with a determination that surprised Célie. He had seemed so diffident, so willing to be denied. He was dressed as if he had once been a merchant or lawyer, but had fallen on hard times and was reduced to begging. However, there was a dignity about him which marked him out from most men, even here in the kitchen waiting for a National Guardsman to grant, or refuse, him permission to speak to a laundress. He must surely have been a gentleman once, perhaps even an aristocrat. Maybe he had been a friend of Bernave’s, but the name Lejeune meant nothing to her. She could not recall having heard it before.

  ‘I am Citizeness Laurent,’ she said to him. ‘You look cold. May we offer you something? We have only bread and onion and a little hot coffee.’

  ‘Thank you, Citizeness.’ He inclined his head and she noticed again how pale he was. ‘I offer you all my condolences on the death of Citizen Bernave,’ he went on. ‘I was most sorry to hear of it by chance in the street.’

  Virginie was still staring at him, her eyes wide, her lips parted.

  ‘What is it you want with Citizeness Laurent?’ Menou asked sharply. ‘There has been another death in this household and this is not the time to trouble them over unimportant things.’

  ‘Another death?’ Lejeune said softly, his voice lifting with surprise. ‘I am sorry to hear it. I grieve for you.’

  Virginie leaned a little closer to her mother.

  Fernand glanced at her, then at Lejeune.

  Célie went to the stove to pour a cup of coffee for Lejeune. It was weak, with little flavour or colour, but at least it was hot. She brought it back and gave it to him.

  He took it with a smile, warming his hands on it. She noticed they were blue with cold. He turned back to Menou.

  ‘Citizen Bernave requested the services of a tailor to alter a coat for a gentleman who is to leave Paris shortly ... to change his style of life ...’

  ‘You asked to speak with Citizeness Laurent,�
�� Menou pointed out.

  ‘And you said you knew Bernave was dead!’ Fernand added.

  ‘Citizeness Laurent is the laundress, is she not?’ Lejeune asked mildly. ‘I imagined she would be in charge of such things.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Menou conceded. ‘But you said it was Bernave who asked for it, and he cannot need it now.’

  Fernand was also staring at the man, his eyes narrow, puzzled.

  ‘It was not for himself,’ Lejeune said steadily, obviously uncomfortable, but refusing to back away. ‘I wished to know if the gentleman was still requiring the alteration.’ His face was very white and he looked exhausted, as if he might have walked for miles in the cold, and eaten little.

  Perhaps he needed the work. Célie felt a rush of pity for him. If Bernave had offered him the job, she should see that wish honoured. The poor soul looked as if he were close to desperation. But how could she accept on Bernave’s behalf? She had no idea what he was talking about, or who the man was who wished a coat altered. She tried to remember if there had been any note of it among Bernave’s papers. But why should there be if it were merely a service for a friend?

  ‘What was the gentleman’s name?’ she asked.

  Menou looked at her, then at Lejeune, waiting.

  Lejeune hesitated. He seemed curiously undecided.

  ‘What was his name?’ Fernand repeated more sharply. ‘There may be something in Citizen Bernave’s papers, if we look.’

  Lejeune’s hands clasped the cup so tightly his knuckles shone white.

  ‘I have looked through the papers,’ Madame Lacoste interrupted, moving a step forward. ‘It must have been a private arrangement, a kindness for a friend. There is no note of having a coat altered, or who it might be for. But I dare say the gentleman will turn up and ask.’ She looked at Lejeune. ‘Perhaps in view of Citizen Bernave’s death he is leaving a decent space of time before coming.’

  ‘I ... I thought the matter was of some ... urgency,’ Lejeune said haltingly. ‘Possibly I misunderstood.’ He looked at Célie as if imploring her to help, but she had no idea how to. She had no money even to offer him any other task. She sewed her own clothes; it was part of her job. And no one else in the house could afford a tailor, or had need for one.