Duval and the Italian Opera Singer

by Michele McGrath

  “Are you sure I can’t get a woman to help you?” I asked after I kissed her.

  “We can’t afford it,” she replied. She is by far the more practical of the two of us, so she is the one who manages what little money we have. “Don’t fuss, Alain. I’ve been busy and I should rest more but I did not.”

  At that moment, Aimée came running into the room screaming,

  “Papa! Papa!”

  It was not until she was in bed and all the chores were done that I was able to sit down with my wife and talk about the case. I usually do so because she often has insights and ideas which are helpful. I gave her an edited version of the story. Specifically, I did not mention the fact that Marco might be the Emperor’s child. She realised that I was concealing something from her but she did not press me further. She has always been discreet, which is why I trust her implicitly.

  “That poor girl,” she murmured when I finished.

  “A foolish girl.”

  “We are all foolish when we are young,” she said with a sigh.

  “Even you?”

  “Especially me. If the Revolution had not closed all the convents, I might have been a Reverend Mother by now.” She caught my expression and laughed. “Instead of a happy wife and mother.”

  I grinned. “That’s better. I can’t imagine you as a nun.”

  “If you find the two of them, bring them here, Alain. Sofia’s house is known to the people who abducted her. If I can’t manage, I will ask someone else to take them and tell no one about it.”

  “Thank you, I will, if I can.”

  I left home the next morning while it was still dark. The sky did not lighten until we had left Paris behind. Lefebvre was cold and not inclined to talk. I was not comfortable either; I hoped our journey would be worth the effort. We reached Malmaison when the sun had just risen and the birds were singing. The house shone white in the sunlight and servants were flitting around. We rode round to the stables. Lefebvre, playing the part of my groom, took the horses away to be baited. He intended to fall into conversation with the grooms and ostlers. I on the other hand, strutted up to the coach house, playing the part of an imperial flunkey. I asked for the head coachman, Jamet. He was a friendly soul but shrewd for all his good humour. I produced the letter that Cassot gave to me.

  “Yes, Monsieur, I wrote that note to Mercier in May. What of it?”

  “Nothing in itself. I just wanted to prove that it was your handwriting. Did you write to him again this week asking him to remove the imperial arms from a carriage’s doors and then to paint it back the following day?”

  “Of course I didn’t! Who says I did? What madness is this?”

  “Mercier has a letter in his possession that looks like the same handwriting as this one. I will read it to you.”

  I read Jamet the words that I had written in my notebook. He was open mouthed when I had finished.

  “I never wrote that letter, Monsieur, on my oath I did not! Why would I order such a stupid thing? Monsieur de Lavalette gave me no such orders.”

  “Calm yourself, Jamet, if you please. I said that the two letters looked alike but neither Mercier nor I are experts on handwriting. There is a man in the Ministry of Police who can prove your innocence if it becomes necessary. As to why the orders were given, we believe that the vehicle was used to carry out a crime.”

  “Mon Dieu! And you accuse me of such an outrage?”

  He was almost purple in the face and I didn’t think he was that good an actor. If he was, he should have been on the stage not working with horses.

  “No I do not,” I replied. “I believe the letter to be forged. Help me to see if the carriage in question is in your coach house. If it is not, then I will have to search elsewhere.”

  “And if it is?”

  “We must find out who had access to it at the relevant time. Are there any other examples of your handwriting and also Monsieur de Lavalette’s?”

  His eyes opened wider and his colour had receded a little.

  “All the correspondence regarding the coaches is kept here in this office which is not locked. Any of the staff would be able to look at it if they picked a time when I wasn’t here.”

  “That’s helpful. Would you show me the carriages now?”

  “Come with me.”

  “Have any of them recently returned from the coach maker’s?” I asked as we walked across to the coach house.

  “One came back yesterday.”

  “What was wrong with it?”

  “A spring had broken.”

  “Which is it?” I looked around as we entered the large double doors.

  “This one.” He pointed. The carriage stood at the end of the line and a beam of sunlight made it glint. I went over to the panels. The imperial insignia flashed clear and bright. I ran my hands over the panel. Towards the rim, there was a slight indentation where new paint had stopped near to the edge. It was a good job and no one would have noticed the difference if they had not been specifically looking for it. The paint had been well matched but it was not quite the same shade as the rest if the coach.

  “This panel has been repainted,” I told Jamet.

  “Has it?” he put on a pair of spectacles and bent closer to inspect the woodwork. Then he straightened up and said, “You’re right but I gave no orders for repainting. Only the spring was faulty. It needed replacing and balancing. That is a skilled job, Monsieur.”

  “Who did you send the carriage to, Jamet?”

  “Boyer Brothers. We usually send our coaches there.”

  “Not to Mercier’s?”

  “We use them occasionally, if Boyer’s is too busy and we need the job completed quickly.”

  “I have been to Boyer’s. They have no record of an imperial coach being repainted. I did not ask whether one had had a spring mended. That must be checked later on. Mercier’s repainted a carriage twice in the last two days — this carriage. Who took it to Paris?”

  “A groom, called Ogier. I usually send two men, but this time I did not want to put the broken spring under more pressure than necessary in case the coach was damaged further.”

  “May I speak to Ogier?”

  “Unfortunately not. His mother is dying and sent for him, so I had to give him permission to leave. He will be back once her funeral is over.”

  “Where does his mother live?”

  “Nanterre, not far away.” I nodded, making a note to go there once our business here was complete.

  “Did you give Ogier money to pay for the work?” I asked and Jamet’s face was a picture. Surprise and dismay quickly followed each other.

  “Of course not, Monsieur. Boyer’s presents their bills quarterly and I hand them to the Empress’s treasurer. We never settle bills immediately for cash. Who says we have done so?”

  “Monsieur Mercier.”

  “I haven’t sent anything to him for months,” Jamet spluttered. “That letter you showed me is probably from the last occasion I did so.”

  “The broken spring; is it now fixed to your satisfaction?”

  Jamet went to the front of the vehicle and looked underneath. It was a few moments before he returned. “They have made a good job of the repair; I will say that for them.” He straightened up. “What crime was this carriage used for?”

  “I am sorry but I can’t tell you at this time. Perhaps later if I am authorised to do so. I would like to look inside it if I may.” Jamet nodded. “Has it been cleaned since it was returned to you?”

  “Not yet.”

  I climbed into the carriage, which was an extremely luxurious affair. The interior had been lined with a pale cream silk and the squabs on the benches were thick and soft. A journey in this vehicle would be a pleasure, even over rough roads. I ran my fingers around the cushions, probing into the corners. Then I knelt on the floor and felt under the seats. Nothing. Disappointed, I got out. I picked up the papers that I had left on the box and unrolled the picture of Didier.

  “Do you recogn
ise him, Monsieur?”

  “I have seen him.”

  “Where?”

  “Here. He came once or twice accompanying one of the Empress’s guests.”

  “Who?”

  “Her coiffeur, Duplan. He cuts and styles the Empress’s hair regularly. He also teaches her maid the latest fashions from Paris, so she can arrange her mistress’s hair when he is not able to be present. This man accompanies him sometimes.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “That I cannot tell you, Monsieur. He might be a friend or an upper servant, I’m not sure.”

  I remembered Duplan’s name. He had been with the Empress when she had tried on her crown in the workshop where it was made before her coronation. Shortly afterwards that crown had been stolen and Lefebvre, Fournier and I had the unenviable task of finding it before the ceremony began. Thank God we succeeded.

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Jamet scratched his head. “Some days ago now. Last week perhaps?”

  “He is not here today?”

  “I have not seen him, Monsieur.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No, but the first lady of the wardrobe, Madame de Lavalette, might be able to tell you.”

  I did not gasp but here was the name again — Lavalette. Coincidence? I thought not.

  “Is she in the château?”

  “By chance, yes. The Empress arrives tomorrow, so Madame de Lavalette came early to make sure that the house is ready to receive her.”

  “Could I speak to her?”

  “I will ask. Come with me, please.”

  Jamet lead me to a side door and left me in a tiled corridor while he went to find the Empress’s niece. He was not gone long. He returned and led me into a salon in which a long table was being set for dinner. A lady in a pale blue silk dress, laced high, was busily arranging flowers in one of the crystal vases. She turned as I came into the room, put down her scissors and walked forward.

  “You wanted to see me, Monsieur..?”

  I bowed to her. “Duval, Comtesse. I am employed at the Ministry of Police.”

  “And what does an agent from the Ministry of Police want with me?”

  I was watching her closely. Most people are a little apprehensive when one of us asks to speak with them but she was not. Her voice was politely enquiring and her hand did not shake.

  “Merely to ask you if you recognise a man who apparently calls at the château from time to time. I have his picture here.” I unrolled the scroll and held it up for her to see.

  “Of course I know him. That is Monsieur Evrard.”

  Evrard, not Didier then. I was rather surprised that she admitted knowing him but, on the other hand, the admission disarmed me, which might have been her intention.

  “What can you tell me about him, Madame?”

  “Only that he works as a hairdresser with Monsieur Duplan. He comes here or to the Tuileries or Saint-Cloud whenever the court is in residence. He cuts and dresses the other ladies’ hair while Duplan attends to the Empress.”

  “How would you describe Monsieur Evrard, Madame?”

  “A pleasant man. Nice manners but then he would have to, wouldn’t he in such a profession?”

  “Indeed. Can you tell me where to find him?”

  She shrugged. “No, but Duplan would know. Neither of them call here unless the Empress is in residence and an arrangement has been made. At the moment she is at the Tuileries, so I would seek Evrard in Paris if I were you. What is this all about?”

  “He has some information that would be very useful to us, Madame. The matter is quite urgent, so pray forgive me if I leave you now. Thank you. You have been most helpful.”

  “Always a pleasure to help the Police.” I thought she murmured, but I might have been mistaken.

  I bowed to her and one of the servants led me out of the house.

  Chapter 7

  I went across to the stables to look for Lefebvre. He was tacking up our horses.

  “Is everything ready for us to leave, Jean?”

  “Certainly, Monsieur,” he replied with a bow, playing his part.

  We mounted and trotted off down the drive. Once we were out of earshot of the château, I asked him if he had found out any information from the grooms.

  “That carriage I saw you looking at was late back from the coach makers. It should have been returned two days ago but it only arrived this morning. They said that, for such a relatively small job, it had taken a long time.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A few grumbles, the usual stuff. Some gossip about who’s sleeping with whom, that sort of thing.”

  “Did any of them mention a Madame de Lavalette or a hairdresser called Evrard?”

  “Madame de Lavalette is the Empress’s chief lady-in-waiting as well as the Empress’s niece. She’s often here with the Empress, or when she is about to visit. The Comtesse looks after the Wardrobe and things like that. No one mentioned anyone named Evrard. Why?”

  “Evrard is the man in the picture who abducted Carla and Marco. He called himself Didier on that occasion.”

  “And he’s a hairdresser you say?”

  “Works for Duplan, whose most famous client is the Empress herself.”

  “Well, it’s said that women often tell their secrets to their hairdressers. Perhaps the Empress is no exception.”

  “And maybe she isn’t. Don’t jump to conclusions. She may not be involved at all. Someone may be working on her behalf, without her knowledge.”

  “That’s unlikely, I’d say. Could this Madame de Lavalette be implicated?”

  “She didn’t react when I showed her Evrard’s picture and she identified him straight away. If she’s guilty, then she’s a good actress. I agree her name has been mentioned twice now, but we’ve still no real proof of anything.”

  At the next crossroads I stopped.

  “What next?” Lefebvre asked.

  “There are two new leads at least. Evrard and the groom Ogier, whose mother is supposed to be sick in Nanterre.”

  “Then I’ll leave the hairdresser to you, Soldier. I’ll go and talk to the groom.”

  We parted after we had arranged to meet at the Rose when we had both returned to Paris.

  I arrived back in the early afternoon and went first to Mercier’s to ask about the broken spring. Mercier confirmed that they had mended the spring as well as doing the paintwork. Then he scratched his head and asked me to come into the office with him. He told me he had remembered something after I left. He retrieved the order with Jamet’s signature and reread it.

  “Just as I thought,” he murmured, as if to himself. “There is no mention of the spring in this letter. I must talk to my foreman.”

  We found the man, Bouchier, in the yard. When we asked him about the spring he said,

  “But yes, Patron, of course I fixed it. No point in painting a broken carriage. I put it into the work book as normal.” He thumbed through a much bedraggled ledger and showed me. Sure enough, there were three items listed against Jamet’s name. One was for the spring and another for painting. Both appeared on the same day. The repainting had been added on the following day.

  “Bouchier has to enter all the jobs we complete,” Mercier explained, “so the bills can be made out appropriately. Broken springs occur all the time, of course, due to the state of the roads.”

  “You had no authorisation to fix the spring,” I objected and they both stared at me.

  “Usually we are sent an authorisation but we would certainly mend a spring even if we had not, Monsieur. We would be doing less than our job if we returned a broken carriage. Jamet is a reasonable man and perhaps the spring broke on the way to us. He will eventually pay me for the work, never fear.”

  So that is how it had happened. The note ordering the painting would likely be prepared in advance so the writer would not have been able to detail any other work needed. He would not know which of the carriages would be sent to the
coach makers next. Jamet obviously had a reputation as fair and was known to cooperate with both Mercier’s and probably Boyer’s as well. The writer had counted on that fact and the ruse succeeded.

  I thanked Mercier and left, taking a hackney to the hairdresser’s. Duplan has a shop where he and his assistants receive wealthy women on one floor and manufacture wigs on the next. The place was swarming with many workers on duty. I made my way into the perfumed atmosphere and asked for Monsieur Duplan.

  “I’ll ask Monsieur. Please give me your name and state your business. Monsieur Duplan is extremely busy as you may imagine.”

  “Tell him about this,” I said, showing him Fouché’s authorisation. “I think you will find that he’ll be able to see me. I need only a little of his time.”

  While I was waiting, I glanced around me. Groups of women sat chattering together. One or two of them looked me up and down and made me quite uncomfortable. Several had their heads swathed in turbans; others wore hats pulled down low on their foreheads. Long curtains enclosed the back of the premises and from there I could hear voices sounding and the click of scissors. No doubt these other women would, in time, pass behind those curtains for their own needs to be attended. One glance had told me that these were the wives and daughters of merchants or tradesmen. They were comfortable, rather than rich, and did not belong to the same circles in society as the Empress and her friends. They would not be able to afford a home visit from the great Duplan himself.

  Duplan did not keep me as long as I expected. Even a favourite of the Empress was wary of insulting the Minister of Police. Maybe he just wanted to get me away from his premises as quickly as possible. His assistant reappeared and invited me to come upstairs with him. As I climbed up, I saw shelves with all types of wigs displayed. There were elaborate ones in the style of the former royal court, those with which a bald man might simply wish to cover his head and others of different colours and shapes. I was shown into a large room with windows overlooking the street. The place was both workroom and office, because there were scissors, hairpieces and pins on one table, papers and pens on another. Between them and beside the fireplace were some wing chairs. Duplan was small, simply dressed but with an elegance of clothes and manner which spoke of his assurance and self confidence. He was sitting at the work table and did not rise to greet me, so I sat down on a wing chair without waiting for his permission. His eyebrows flew upwards and he opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and closed it again.