“I can’t leave him,” Simone whispered. She looked at Nathalie and then back toward the window, as if Louis were going to come out of it and join them on the balcony. Her hands were balled up into fists.
The voices inside continued. Muffled, unintelligible, and in a normal register. No shouting, nothing to indicate an altercation. Why was Louis still in there?
Nathalie spoke in a firm whisper. “We are going to Christophe, then I’m going Notre-Dame. My mother might still be there. You wait for Louis at the morgue.”
Simone pushed her shoulders against the wall. “I feel like a cat who can’t get out of a tree,” she said quietly as she tugged at her sleeves. “He’s in there with a crazy woman. I don’t know what to do.”
“Trust him. And me. We have to go,” said Nathalie, trying very hard to keep her voice calm. “Now.”
Simone met Nathalie’s gaze and nodded.
They climbed over the window balcony and dropped onto the running balcony below. They hurried along until they reached a tree branch, gripping it for balance as they slid down an awning. Nathalie, being much taller, jumped onto the sidewalk and helped Simone make a soft landing.
“Ready?” Nathalie gave Simone’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Ready.”
They ran as fast as they could.
* * *
Christophe listened to their account, with his customary balance of acumen and concern, and hastily escorted them to the nearby Préfecture de police. Louis’s sly methods of apartment entry aside, the police appreciated the gloves and bottles. Nathalie and Simone were questioned separately, then thanked and dismissed. Louis was in the waiting area.
“Gagnon sent me straight here,” he said, standing up. Simone nearly jumped into his arms for an embrace.
“I was so worried!” said Simone. She buried her face in his shoulder. “I was ready to stand out on that balcony until I knew you were safely outside.”
Louis took her hands in his and kissed them. “Everything is fine. I made polite conversation with her, went upstairs to pretend to check another apartment, and after a few minutes, left.”
Simone embraced him again.
A policeman emerged from one of the rooms. “Louis Carre? The inspector will see you now.”
“I’ll wait for you,” said Simone as she sat on the bench.
“Thank you, Louis,” said Nathalie. “I can’t believe I’m thanking you for this wild adventure, but I am.”
“Louis Carre Detective Agency, at your service.” He winked and followed the official through the door.
Nathalie turned to Simone, who was much more settled now. “I’m going over to Notre-Dame. Thank you, too, for being such an incredible friend.”
Simone blew her a kiss and grinned as Nathalie left.
The cathedral was less than five minutes away, and Nathalie’s quick pace brought her to the entrance in far less than that. She went inside the middle door, the portal of the Last Judgment.
Fading light poured in through the stained glass windows, over the wooden pews and around the colossal stone pillars. The South Rose window, still catching the late-day sun, glimmered in every hue. There was no priest bellowing the Divine Office, no cluster of worshippers following along in their prayer books. Vespers had already finished. Maman was gone.
Gothic arches paraded up the nave of the church on either side toward the altar, where a small choir rehearsed. She heard the voices of men and women, young and old.
Was that the choral group to which Agnès had belonged?
The thought pinched her soul.
Nathalie decided to stay. Coming to Notre-Dame for Mass or to pray wasn’t something she did as often as she meant to, but today she felt drawn to reflection. To calm down. To think and to tend to her spirit.
She lit a candle in one of the vigil alcoves near the back, the Chapel of Saint Charles, because she’d always been struck by the harrowing picture of Saint Paul blinding a false prophet. As she extinguished the match, a short, bald priest ambled up the aisle toward her.
“Abbé,” she addressed him. “I have a question about a saint.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle?” He turned to her with a civil nod.
“Saint Lon…” Nathalie struggled to remember the name. Something unusual and certainly not French. “Longinus. I think that’s it. With the sword.”
“Oh yes! The Roman soldier.” His thin lips stretched into a smile. “He put a lance into the side of Jesus Christ on the Cross, to make sure he was dead. Blood and water poured out; the blood that spilled on him cured his eye disease. He converted to Christianity and, as you know, is honored as a saint.”
Blood.
She shivered. “I see. Thank you, Abbé.”
Nathalie stepped past him and walked down the aisle. She slipped into a pew halfway to the altar and settled onto a kneeler.
She buried her head in her hands and prayed. For the Dark Artist’s victims and their loved ones—for everyone had them at one time, she believed, even if they died alone or, like the second victim, unknown. She prayed for Sébastien and Mathieu and all the policemen who’d stood guard for her. She prayed for Céleste. She prayed for her parents and Aunt Brigitte. For Simone. For the man she’d mistakenly thought was the Dark Artist, weeping for his daughter in Père Lachaise. For Christophe and M. Patenaude and Louis and the hypnotist and his wife and the nun who’d wanted to help her. She prayed for everyone else who’d touched her life these last few months.
She prayed for Agnès, whose lyrical voice she’d never again hear. She thought about their smirks in class and their secrets in the schoolyard. Nathalie would treasure those letters forever but never read them again; it would be too painful, a year from now or fifty years from now. But she’d always keep them close.
After losing herself in prayer for some time, she picked up her head. Placing her chin on her folded hands, she leaned forward on the pew. As the choir finished a hymn, Nathalie heard rustling behind her. She glanced back to see a woman holding a prayer book and donning mourner’s garb—a black hat, black veil, a black dress, and even an old-fashioned mourning brooch—shuffle into the pew and kneel.
Once again Nathalie buried her face in her hands. She wondered who the woman mourned, whose lock of hair was in that brooch. She prayed for both the woman and the person for whom she grieved.
The choir began their next hymn, a quiet piece in a minor key. It was soothing to be contemplative here, in this sanctuary of peace. Nathalie wished she’d thought to come here for solace weeks ago. Why had it taken so much pain for her to seek this comfort?
After a few minutes, she slid back into the pew.
And found herself sitting on something. She reached back and her fingers felt something small, solid, and angular.
A box.
It hadn’t been here before.
Had it?
She’d come in and knelt right away, so she couldn’t be sure.
No, she was sure. This was new.
She peeked behind her. The woman was gone.
Nathalie picked up the box, wooden and masterfully crafted, and lifted the lid. Two jars were inside. She knew these jars. She’d seen them an hour ago.
Both jars had notes inside. One jar was otherwise empty, and the other was full of blood.
She turned around, every sense sharpened. No sign of the woman. Nothing out of the ordinary.
With clumsy, quivering fingers she pried open the lid of the blood jar and took out the note. She put down the jar and unfurled the note, her thumb unraveling the bloodied half. The word impaled her.
Agnès.
Nathalie stifled a cry and rolled the note back up; her fingers trembled so violently she was afraid she’d let go of the bottle. She put the note inside and the lid on, blood smearing on her hand as she tightened the lid.
She took out the empty jar and pulled out the note. Again, one word.
You.
43
Nearly in a trance, Nathalie dropped the note bac
k in and put the small bottle on the pew. It clinked, startling her. Blood rushed through her ears.
She couldn’t hear.
Couldn’t think.
Instinct. That was all she had.
Wild-eyed, she looked in every direction for the woman.
She detected movement in the rear of the church. She turned. A figure in partial shadow scurried between columns.
The woman. Zoe Klampert. Mme. la Tuerie. A malevolent trinity.
Nathalie bolted from the pew. Mme. la Tuerie dashed out the exit before Nathalie made it down the aisle.
“HELP!” she yelled as she ran past some people coming in. “Get her! She—she attacked me!”
They spoke German among themselves and stared at her.
She got outside in time to see the woman run across a bridge to the left. Nathalie began to race after her but lost her footing on a wobbly stone; she tumbled and rose up in almost one motion. Mme. la Tuerie, weaving in and out of the crowd, extended her lead.
“She’s insane!” Nathalie yelled, pointing as she ran. “Woman in black! She attacked me!”
Over and over and over again.
And no one helped, not one.
Everyone either ignored Nathalie or regarded her with alarm.
As if there was something wrong with her for screaming for help.
“What’s she going on about?” someone asked.
“She’s chasing a widow!”
“I bet she’s from the Home for Wayward Girls.”
The words struck her like bullets as she continued the chase. She stopped, crestfallen, when Mme. la Tuerie boarded a steam tram. Not until it turned the corner did Nathalie finally find a policeman.
It was, of course, too late.
* * *
Nathalie called out to the policeman. “A woman on that tram! She attacked me in Notre-Dame!” Gasping for air, she looked over her shoulder, as though the steam tram might derail and return the woman.
The policeman didn’t seem much older than Nathalie. “Attacked you how?”
Nathalie hesitated. She’d said attack to get everyone’s attention. “Not attack. She threatened me. I was praying and when I sat back I found a box with two jars, one with blood and one without and both had notes in them and…”
Her stomach churned. She suddenly felt off balance and steadied herself on the policeman’s shoulder.
“Where are these … jars?”
Nathalie stepped back from him with a scowl. “In the cathedral! Do you think I tucked them away neatly in my pocket before chasing her?”
The policeman’s brow arched upward.
“We can get them later.” Nathalie put her hands on her hips. “That woman in the black dress. We need to go after her! NOW.”
“Mademoiselle, you need to compose yourself.” He held up his palm. “Did you see her place this box?”
“Non. But it couldn’t have been anyone else.”
“Did she touch you in any way or speak to you?”
“Non. Listen, she was the Dark Artist’s lover—and partner!”
The policeman cocked his head. “How do you know that?”
“I do. Never mind how.” She gestured toward the tram route. “We’re wasting time!”
“Mademoiselle, she could be any number of places by now, and I suggest you file a report. We don’t have the manpower, and—”
Flames shot up to Nathalie’s face. “Idiot!”
She stormed away from him and went back to Notre-Dame, entering through one of the side doors. An older man with a formal coat was at the pew, holding the box and inspecting the area. An usher, she guessed.
“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur.”
He turned to her, eyes wide. As if she were an apparition instead of a girl. “I was at the front of the church when you ran after someone. What happened? What—what are these?” He lifted the lid to indicate the jars.
She explained what took place, as absurd as it was. His face was stoic, but under the mask she detected an undulating disquiet. He handed her the box, seemingly grateful to get rid of it, and offered to accompany her to the morgue. She didn’t feel safe going alone—would she ever feel safe again?—and accepted.
They hastened out of Notre-Dame as the bells pealed, and the gentleman walked her to the front door of the morgue. She thanked him, annoyed a few people by lightly pushing them to get inside, and waved frantically at Christophe.
Minutes later they sat in his office and, for the second time in as many hours, she told him what happened. “Here’s the … the box with the bottles.” She pulled it out of her bag and placed it in the center of his desk.
He opened it up and examined the contents, including the notes in both.
“Why would she do this—and why to me? Because of my blood, like the Dark Artist wanted in the Catacombs?” said Nathalie, voice cracking in distress.
“It—it would seem so. But of course I don’t know.” Christophe covered his eyes with his palms. “Nothing about this makes sense. Including how she knew where you were.”
“I assumed she followed Simone and me … and then just me.”
He shook his head. “By the time the police arrived, she’d vacated the apartment. The notebooks, gloves, some of the jars, clothing. Even the photo you mentioned. She couldn’t have done that and followed you. We’re watching the apartment to see if she returns, but this helps explain the lack of chemistry equipment. She likely has another place or is staying with someone.”
“What kind of someone?”
“Family member, friend. The Dark Artist’s killer for all we know.” He let out a sigh. “We simply don’t know enough about her yet.”
“Only enough to know that she’s crazy and revolting and preoccupied with blood.”
“Nathalie, I’ve said this before—too many times this summer, unfortunately—but I’m sorry you’re under such duress.” He pushed the box of jars to the side and patted her hand. “I wish I could take these wicked events away from you.”
Even-tempered, sensible Christophe, who always made her feel safe. Where would she be without him? She thanked him and patted his hand in return. He was a colorful sprout among black, jagged rocks this summer.
He withdrew his hand and smiled. “I’m sure it’s dark by now, or will be soon. Shall I walk you home?”
“It’s more than a walk. It’s an omnibus or tram ride away.” She told him the area in which she lived. “Where do you call home?”
“Also the eleventh arrondissement,” he said.
“I—I can’t believe our paths haven’t crossed before.”
“It’s, uh, somewhat recent.”
“Oh?” And as soon as she uttered it, she regretted it, that little too-inquisitive “oh.”
“The woman I intend to marry, her family lives in that area. It’s a surprise for their return from America next month.”
Nathalie cast her eyes to the floor. “Thank you for the offer, but I do believe I can make my way home well enough. I’ll … hire a carriage.”
He stepped two paces back and stared at her. “Are you … envious?”
She hoped he didn’t see the heat race up her neck and settle into her face.
“Oh, Nathalie,” he said, taking her hand. “I—I wish you didn’t feel that way.”
She couldn’t look him in the eye yet and it was all she could do to avoid running away like a child. But she wasn’t a child. “It matters not, Monsieur Gagnon.” She stood up to her full height, gaze still cast to the side. “I wish you the best in your nuptials.”
“Thank you,” he said. He kissed her hand and let it go, gently. “I think at another time, in other circumstances, I should have liked to know you better. And differently.”
Nathalie looked him in the eye for the first time since this conversation took its turn. “You … you should? I mean, you would have?”
He nodded, the serious expression on his face melting into a smile. His crooked tooth, seldom seen unless he smiled broadly, winked at her.
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“Thank you, Christophe.” She, too, smiled. “I appreciate that. I—I’d still prefer to see my own way home, however. I have too much blood on my hands to want protection anymore, and if it were anything more than that between us … I think it would only break my heart to see you walk away afterward.”
He understood, or so he said, but a shade of disappointment clouded his face. “May I at least pay for your carriage?”
She was about to decline, but his slightly wounded expression touched her. With a polite smile she accepted, sad that he wasn’t hers to have, but utterly elated that the affection was mutual.
He called a carriage for her, paid the driver, and kissed her on the hand before helping her ascend. All the way home she pressed the back of her hand, still tingling from his kiss, against her cheek.
44
The staccato knock at the door the next morning was swift and deliberate; it was a knock that meant serious business. Nathalie, still in her nightgown, peeked out from her bedroom.
“Who’s calling on us so early?” asked Maman, putting down the teapot.
Papa rose up slowly from his chair. His fever had subsided the previous night and his hands were better; he said the fatigue would last for a few more days. “Charity request, maybe,” he said on his way to the door.
“Wait!” Nathalie cried. “What if it’s—” She swallowed. She felt silly putting it into words. Madame la Tuerie. She’d told her parents everything; it had been a late night of conversation and grateful embraces as well as admonishment and promises (not to undertake dangerous feats that were “for the Prefect of Police to handle”). Papa’s reassuring look told her he understood. She cleared her throat and called out, “Who is it?”
“A courier on behalf of Saint-Mathurin Asylum.”
Papa opened the door a crack, then swung it open. “Please come in.”
A slender young man with glasses stepped over the threshold. “My apologies for disturbing you at this early hour. I’m afraid I have some unpleasant news about an accident involving Brigitte Baudin.”
“Oh goodness.” Maman covered her mouth with her balled-up handkerchief.
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