Jane Fairfax 3 - Jane Vows Vengeance

by Michael Thomas Ford

  “As you may know,” Daniel said, “the Jews have had a home in Paris for centuries. But life has not always been easy for us. Several times we have been expelled, and often we have been the target of persecution.”

  As Daniel spoke he knelt down and picked up one of the smooth, flat rocks that formed the floor. Jane was surprised to see that underneath it was a piece of wood into which was set a metal ring.

  “In 1940 the Germans invaded France,” Daniel said. “I was seven years old at the time. My father, who like myself was a butcher, knew that the worst was yet to come. He gathered together the men of the community and told them that we needed to be prepared.”

  He took hold of the metal ring and lifted. A section of the floor came up, and Jane saw that it was a kind of trap door. The square of wood was perhaps three feet by three feet, and pieces of stone had been affixed to it so that when it lay flat it was indistinguishable from the rest of the floor. Beneath it was a set of steps.

  “It took nearly two years to complete what you are about to see,” Daniel told them. “By then we knew what was happening to our people. We knew as well that eventually the Nazis would come for us. They did so in July of 1942, in what we refer to as the Rafle du Vel’ d’Hiv. This roundup conducted by French police resulted in the arrest of more than thirteen thousand Jews, almost all of whom were sent to Auschwitz to be exterminated.”

  He indicated the steps. “Please,” he said to Sam Wax, who was standing closest to him.

  Sam descended into the hole. She was followed by Suzu, then Orsino and the rest. Jane followed Lucy and Walter; Chumsley and Daniel brought up the rear. The steps went down about twelve feet and ended in a room only a bit larger than the one above it. The walls there were of stone, and the air was decidedly cooler.

  “I’m sure you are all familiar with the story of Anne Frank and her hiding place,” Daniel said. “There were such hiding places all across Europe. This is one of them. But it is more than that, as you will see in a moment.”

  He passed through a narrow archway, and once again the group followed him. This time Jane found herself in a narrow corridor that went on for a short way before once more opening into a room. Unlike the earlier stone-walled room, this one had walls covered in white plaster. The vaulted ceiling was made of bricks cleverly fitted together and similarly whitewashed. In the center of the dome was painted a red Star of David amidst a sea of smaller six-pointed stars.

  “It’s a synagogue,” Ben said, his voice a whisper.

  Daniel nodded. “Yes,” he said. “A place for us to worship in safety.”

  Something was written on one of the walls in Hebrew. Jane, pointing to is, asked Ben what it said.

  “Da lifnei mi attah ome,” he said. “ ‘Know before whom you stand.’ It reminds us that we are always in the presence of God.”

  Jane understood now why Chumsley had brought them to the unassuming boucherie. No, it wasn’t an example of exquisite architecture, but it was even more beautiful for its simplicity and meaning. The grandest cathedral could not best it, because it had been built purely out of love. Jane imagined people gathered there, asking God for mercy in the face of what must have seemed like certain death. She couldn’t imagine having that kind of faith.

  She remembered 1942 all too well, if not fondly. She’d spent it in various cities across Europe, doing what she could to help the war effort. When Daniel had mentioned Auschwitz her mind had flashed back to a time spent liberating the victims of the camps. Not just the Jews, but all those who were being murdered by Hitler’s army: Gypsies, dissidents, the men with the pink triangles, the old and the sick and the feebleminded. The undead had been particularly suited to rescue work, although most of Jane’s kind preferred to stay out of what they considered a human conflict. Those who did choose to get involved, like Jane, were generally those who remembered their own mortality.

  Long-buried memories came back to her. She closed her eyes, afraid of being overwhelmed. She felt Walter’s arms go around her and heard his voice in her ear. “It’s hard to imagine what they went through, isn’t it?”

  Jane nodded. She wished she could tell him that she did know. She wished she could tell him that even in the midst of all that darkness there had been beacons of light, and that hope never really died as long as there was one person who believed that things would get better. But she couldn’t tell him any of that, because he didn’t know who she really was.

  She opened her eyes. The others were walking around the room as much as they could, examining the walls and the symbols painted on them, talking in hushed voices. Daniel stood in the midst of them, watching her. There was a look of sadness on his face, and Jane wondered what he was thinking about. His family, she thought. Of course, he’s thinking about his family.

  Miriam came and drew Walter away to show him something. Even she seemed to be awed by the hidden synagogue and its story. She hadn’t so much as glared at Jane since they’d entered the room. Jane couldn’t help but wonder if Miriam would have become a hunter if she’d known about the vampires’ role in rescuing so many people during the war. Of course, there were just as many of us on the other side, she reminded herself. And Miriam probably wouldn’t believe it anyway.

  Daniel walked toward Jane. He stopped in front of her and looked into her eyes. “It is you,” he said. “I thought at first you merely looked like her, but no.”

  Jane didn’t know what to say. Who did Daniel think she was? Before she could ask his hands went to the left cuff of his shirt. He unbuttoned it and rolled it back, revealing his forearm. The ink was faded now, but the numbers tattooed there were still visible.

  “You don’t remember me,” Daniel said. “I should not be surprised. It was many years ago, and I was a boy. But you have not changed.”

  He must have been one of the ones we saved, Jane thought. But she couldn’t acknowledge that, not here and not now.

  “It’s all right,” said Daniel, taking her hand. “I understand. Well, not everything, but enough. There were stories.”

  Jane didn’t know what to say. Did Daniel know what she was? What stories had been told about her and the others? She wanted to know, but she couldn’t ask.

  Chumsley came over to them. “Do you know Jane?” he asked his friend.

  Daniel laughed. “Why would an ugly old man like me know such a beautiful young woman?” he said. “No, I was just telling her that she reminds me of someone who was a good friend to my family many years ago.”

  “Ah,” Chumsley said. To Jane he added, “I’ve seen him use this trick before. Never trust a Frenchman!”

  Jane laughed along with Daniel. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said as Chumsley went to speak to Enid, who was standing with her arms crossed, a look of irritation on her face.

  Daniel was still holding Jane’s hands. She felt his hands shake a little as he pressed hers tightly. “The Lord bless you and keep you,” he whispered. “The Lord make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.”

  He looked into her eyes. “My father said that prayer to me every night,” he told her. “After he was gone I said it to myself. And now I say it to you.”

  “Thank you,” Jane said. She hesitated a moment before asking, “You’re not afraid of me?”

  Daniel smiled. “Why would I be afraid of one of God’s angels?” he replied.

  “I’m not an angel,” Jane said sadly. “Far from it. And God doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “You saved a little boy from death,” said Daniel. “To me you are an angel, whatever else you may be. As for God, well, he has something to do with everything. He’s very busy that way.”

  He kissed Jane on both cheeks, then announced, “If you will follow me back upstairs, I will show you why my grandmother’s chopped liver was the talk of the Pletzl.”

  The group filed back into the passageway. Jane lingered, wanting to spend a moment in the synagogue when it wasn’t so crowded.
Finally it was just her and Walter in there.

  “It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?” Walter said.

  “It is,” Jane agreed. “I think it’s the most beautiful place we’ve seen yet.”

  She looked up at the Star of David hanging above her head. Was Daniel right? Did God have anything to do with what she was? She was searching for Crispin’s Needle because she’d been told it might restore her soul to her, but what if she’d never had a soul to begin with? What if she really was just a body kept alive by an accident of biology? She didn’t even know if she believed in God, and if she couldn’t believe that much, then how could she believe that a relic might make her human again?

  She thought about Daniel as a boy, surrounded by death and evil. Yet still he’d believed that God would send someone to save him. And whom did he send? Jane thought. Me. Not an angel. Me. And she had saved him, as well as many others. Maybe God had something to do with it, maybe not. She had her doubts.

  But if you are up there, and you can hear me, she thought, I could use a little help.

  Monday: Paris

  “YOU’D THINK THAT WE’D BE SAFE FROM ST. PATRICK’S DAY CELEBRATIONS in Paris,” Lucy said as she and Jane exited the Métro and made their way through a crowd of revelers wearing green.

  “When it comes to needing an excuse to drink beer, everyone is Irish,” Jane joked.

  She looked at the piece of paper in her hand, glanced at the plaque on the nearest house, and headed north, away from the raucous celebration.

  “That’s better,” Lucy said as the noise died down and they found themselves in a quiet street of old homes that, while still beautiful, had their grandest days behind them.

  Extricating themselves from the rest of the group had been relatively easy, although it had required some lying on Jane’s part. The others were taking a day trip outside of the city to see what Enid assured them was the most exquisite little winery in the Champagne region, with a visit to the cathedral at Reims on the return. Jane had invented a weekend literary festival to which she and Lucy were to go in order to connect with some French publishers. She’d made it sound very boring (which in all likelihood it would have been, had it been real), and although both Walter and Ben were disappointed that the ladies wouldn’t be joining them, the promise of a dinner out that evening lessened the blow.

  Another check of the map the front desk clerk at the hotel had given to her caused Jane to make a left turn onto Rue des Roses Cent-Feuilles. Halfway down, another street intersected this one. Inscribed on a tablet and affixed to the wall of the first house whose front faced the new street was Rue des Violettes.

  “This is it,” Jane said. “We need to find number thirty-seven.”

  Not two minutes later Jane and Lucy were looking up at the windows of what had once been the home of Eloise Babineaux. Constructed in the Second Empire style, the house was lovely, a four-story brick lady of a certain age who, like many of her kind, had managed to retain an air of sophistication despite the inevitable effects of time. The glass in her windows was clear and bright, her lines elegant, and her mansard roof charmingly patinaed. Here and there the faces of stonework ladies looked down upon those coming to visit.

  According to Clare Marlowe, the current owner of the house was one Ninon Grosvenor. That’s all Jane knew about the woman as she rang the bell and waited for someone to answer.

  The woman who opened the door was tall, thin, and absolutely stunning. Her skin was deep brown, her eyes golden brown, and her hair fell in thick dreadlocks halfway down her back. She was dressed in a simple red shift, and the nails of her bare feet were painted the same color. She was young, and when she spoke her voice was rich and smooth.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Appointment?” Jane said. “No, we don’t. We were hoping to speak to Ninon Grosvenor. Clare Marlowe sent us. Well, she didn’t send us so much as she just gave us the address.”

  The young woman cocked her head. “And what business do you have with Ninon?” she asked.

  Jane suddenly found herself at a loss for words. She hadn’t really thought this far ahead. She’d assumed that she would just tell Ninon Grosvenor why she was there when she met her, but now it all sounded so strange that she wondered how she could ever have thought she could do that. But the young woman was waiting for an answer.

  “It’s about the stained-glass window in the chapel,” she said, deciding that it was best to be direct. “The one with the heart being pierced by a needle.”

  She expected the young woman to say something, but all she did was raise one eyebrow.

  “I—we think we understand what the window represents,” Jane continued “And we think we might have some information about it.”

  The young woman looked at Jane for some time, then at Lucy. “Information?” she said. “What kind of information?”

  Jane hesitated. “That’s a little difficult to explain,” she said. “It’s a bit complicated, and I’m afraid it all sounds slightly silly, but we think that—perhaps—the window is a clue to solving a great mystery.”

  “A mystery?” said the young woman. “What kind of mystery?”

  Jane looked at Lucy, unsure if what to say next.

  “Vampires,” Lucy said. “It’s about vampires. We think the window is a clue to finding something that might be able to help a vampire get her—or his—soul back.”

  Jane held her breath. She couldn’t believe Lucy had just blurted out everything. Now, surely, the young woman would think them completely mad and tell them to go away. Then they might never discover if the secret to finding Crispin’s Needle was in Eloise Babineaux’s house.

  “You should have said so in the first place,” the young woman said, holding the door open. “Come in.”

  Jane entered quickly before the woman could change her mind. Lucy followed. When they were inside, the woman said, “I am Ninon Grosvenor. Welcome to my house. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier, but you cannot be too careful.”

  “That’s true,” Lucy said. “One of my mother’s neighbors was robbed by men pretending to be with the electric company.”

  Ninon laughed. “Oh, I’m not worried about burglars,” she said. “It’s reporters I am always on the lookout for.”

  “Reporters?” Jane said. “Why would reporters be bothering you?”

  Ninon looked at her. “You don’t know who I am?” she asked.

  Jane, embarrassed, said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I probably should, shouldn’t I? You do look familiar. Are you a singer?”

  Ninon laughed again. “No,” she said. “I thought perhaps Clare would have told you. I am a courtesan.”

  “Courtesan?” Lucy said. “Didn’t they go out of fashion, like, a hundred years ago?”

  Ninon shook her head. “They just started calling us hookers,” she said. “But of course that’s not what we were then and not what I am now. Come with me.”

  She led them up a sweeping staircase to the next floor, where they entered a beautifully appointed sitting room. It was decorated in modern furnishings that somehow blended perfectly with the age of the house. Ninon indicated a Charlotte Perriand sofa upholstered in pink leather.

  “Please,” she said. “Sit.”

  Ninon herself sat down in an unusual armchair that looked very much like a hollowed-out football floating in the air. It too was upholstered in leather, although it was red.

  “Is that a Fasanello?” Lucy asked, admiring it.

  Ninon nodded. “My aunt was a collector of modern furniture,” she said, running her fingers over the chair’s curved arm. “I inherited it along with this house.”

  “Eloise Babineaux was your aunt?” Jane asked.

  Ninon shook her head. “My aunt’s name was Isobel Marchand,” she said. “Eloise Babineaux was our relative going back many generations. Although this house did belong to Eloise at one time.”

  “Clare said that Eloise was a courtesan,” Lucy said.

  “That’s right,�
�� said Ninon. “The women in our family have been for centuries. Of course, things have changed a great deal since Eloise’s time. Now there is great interest in my gentlemen friends on the part of the press. I have to be very discreet.”

  “Understandable,” Jane said. “It must be very … interesting.”

  “It is,” said Ninon. “People assume that men come to me for sex. Some do, of course. It would be ridiculous for me to deny that. But mostly they just want me to listen. This seems to be something that many wives and girlfriends don’t wish to do. I, however, am a very good listener.”

  As she spoke she picked up a cigarette case from a table beside the chair. Opening it, she removed a cigarette and lit it using a small gold lighter shaped like a skull embedded with crystals. The flame emerged from the skull’s mouth. Ninon inhaled and blew out three perfect smoke rings.

  “So,” she said. “You have come to talk to me about the vampire needle.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Jane asked.

  Ninon nodded. “I remember my aunt calling it something else, but I’ve forgotten what it was,” she said.

  “Crispin’s Needle,” said Jane. “What else did your aunt tell you about it?”

  More smoke rings emerged from Ninon’s mouth and floated toward the ceiling. “She said that Eloise Babineaux believed that it was a tool for the killing of vampires.”

  Jane didn’t contradict her. Then Ninon looked at Lucy. “But you said that it does the opposite,” she said.

  Lucy glanced at Jane, clearly not sure how to respond.

  “That’s right,” Jane said as Ninon’s gaze returned to her. “From what we understand, it was believed that Crispin’s Needle could restore a vampire’s human soul.”

  Ninon tapped her cigarette on the edge of an ashtray. The end glowed brightly as she took another drag. “I had not heard that,” she said.

  Jane couldn’t read the woman at all. Did she think Jane and Lucy were mad? Did she know more than she was telling them? It was impossible to say.