A portly woman emerged, a smile on her face as she wiped her hands dry on a threadbare apron. “Ooh, a Templar knight! To what do we owe the honor?”
Marcus bowed deeply, giving the woman a thrill, he was certain, and a story to tell her friends for years to come. “Ma’am, we’re sorry to disturb you, but we are seeking information on a woman whom we believe lived upstairs. Melanie Girard.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Melanie? What business could Templar knights possibly have with a woman like that?” She elbowed him. “Looking to break some vows, are we?”
It took a moment for Marcus to understand why Simon was snickering, and his cheeks flushed once he did. “No, ma’am, nothing untoward, I assure you. Unfortunately, I have some bad news. Miss Girard is dead, murdered last night, and we are trying to determine why.”
The woman gasped, taking a step back as a hand flew to her mouth. “Husband! Melanie is dead!”
“What?” The fishmonger rushed inside, his eyes wide. “What did you say? Did you say Melanie is dead?”
Marcus frowned. “I’m afraid so. We were hoping to see her room.”
The woman drew a deep breath. “I-I’ll show you.”
“Are you okay, love?” asked the husband, placing a hand on her shoulder. She patted it and nodded, then pointed toward a set of stairs to the right.
“Follow me.” She led them up two flights of stairs, the husband returning to hawking his wares, then opened a door decorated with a hand painted lily. The woman stepped inside and threw open the curtains, sunlight pouring in, revealing a room filled with things far finer than anyone living in such a place should possess.
It was definitely Melanie Girard’s room, and she was clearly paid well for her services.
“Sir.”
Marcus glanced over his shoulder to see Simon pointing at a piece of paper sitting on a dresser. He stepped over and picked it up, reading what appeared to be the instructions for her latest meeting with Sir Denys. He frowned as he removed the letter given to them by the coachman from his pocket, comparing the handwriting. “They appear to be written by the same hand, though I’m no expert.”
“And does this new letter tell us anything?”
“Only that her instructions were quite explicit. She was to, umm, sleep with him again, declare her undying love, and question him as to what should be done with her husband.”
Simon frowned. “What a lovely character this one must be.”
Marcus agreed. “He is eloquent and educated, by the looks of this. There’s no way a man of means is coming into this neighborhood unnoticed.” He turned to the landlady. “Ma’am, how are these letters being delivered?”
“Once a week a man arrived with a letter for Melanie.”
“Can you describe him?”
“He’s always dressed shabbily. No one would give him a second glance. But I always thought there was something odd about him.”
Marcus’ eyebrows climbed. “Yes?”
“He always smelled far too good for someone from these parts.”
“Did he ever say anything?”
“Never a word, not even her name. He would simply hand me or my husband the letter with her name on the front, then leave. If it weren’t for his lack of smell, I would have thought he was paid to deliver them.”
“Anything unique about him?”
She shrugged. “Nothing I can think of.”
“What did he look like?”
Another shrug. “Dunno. He always wore a hood that covered his face, and he’d be here mere moments.”
“Did Miss Girard ever leave him anything?”
The woman shook her head.
“And how did Miss Girard seem when she received the letters?”
“Happy, I should think, as they clearly contained coins.” She tapped her chin. “Though, come to think of it, the last few times she did seem out of sorts.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“A couple of months, I should think.”
Marcus glanced about the room, searching for anything that might prompt another question. He paused. “Did she seem surprised at the first message?”
The landlady shook her head. “No, I got the distinct impression she was anticipating it.”
Marcus nodded, turning to Simon. “That means whoever she was dealing with, met her somewhere else.” He turned back to the landlady. “Any idea where that might be?”
The woman grunted. “All the girls of her type end up at the Three Moons at one point or another.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “Her type?”
The woman stared at him, her expression as if he had said something incredibly naïve. “She’s a prostitute! Didn’t you know that?” She waved her hand around the room as Marcus controlled his jaw. “And a fairly high-priced one, considering the fine clothes I’ve seen her in of late.” She raised a finger. “You know, since she’s been receiving these letters, she hasn’t been making merry with her lot.”
Simon grunted. “Not surprising, considering her newfound wealth. She could become a target.”
Marcus agreed. “Where might we find this Three Moons?”
The woman stepped to the window and pointed down the street. “Just out the door and to your left. Follow the filth a few hundred paces. You can’t miss it.”
16
The Three Moons Tavern
Paris, Kingdom of France
The smell was the first thing to strike Marcus, then the sheer acreage of exposed flesh. Women with skirts hiked above their knees, bosoms pouring out of their tops, and no shame or modesty on display anywhere.
And the men loved it.
It was unlike any establishment he had ever before experienced.
He had heard of places like these, of course, though they were relegated to the darkest corners in the Holy Land, as there were more pious men than not in those parts. But here, in Paris, it was in plain sight on a busy street, and nobody paid it any mind.
God has been abandoned by these people.
Though he knew He would never abandon them.
All in good time.
“So, what do you think?”
Simon’s eyes were wide, his vows not as absolute as Marcus’, though strictly adhered to as far as he knew. “Umm, I’m finding I can’t think straight after the stench of fish earlier.”
“I’d prefer fish to this.”
“Then you have truly been touched, sir. Nothing is worse than the smell of fish.” He grinned as he looked around. “But I’m beginning to forget about it.”
Marcus chuckled. “I’m glad I brought you. David and Jeremy would be of absolutely no use to me.”
Simon laughed. “The poor boys would have fainted by now, or left the Order altogether.” He pointed at a group of women cloistered in the corner. “How about we start with them?”
Marcus nodded and they strode deeper into the establishment, a hush falling over the proceedings as their Templar markings were finally noticed. He glared at one man about to open his mouth, and the man paled, silenced before the first syllable could be sounded.
Marcus produced one of the sketches of Melanie Girard. “Excuse me, ladies.”
“Ooh, ladies! Who’s the gentleman, now?”
Marcus smiled. “We’re looking for this woman.” He showed the sketch. “Her name is Melanie Girard. Do any of you know her?”
“I’m sorry, Sir Knight, but I think she’s out of your price range now, what with you taking a vow of poverty. Or have you forgotten that one too!”
The table roared with laughter, immediately joined by the bar. Simon bristled beside him, but Marcus chose a different tact, tossing his head back and joining in. “I’m sure any of you fine ladies are out of my price range, should I be looking, but I’m not.” He wiped the smile from his face. “I’m afraid I am the bearer of bad news, but only to those who knew her.”
This elicited the response he wanted. “We know her. Or at least did. She hasn’t been about in months.” The w
oman eyeballed him. “What is this bad news you speak of?”
“She’s been murdered.”
Gasps from the table and those within earshot confirmed to him that they knew the girl. “How?”
“That doesn’t matter right now, what does, is who her current employer was. Have you seen her with anyone different? Anyone unusual?”
Heads shook then a redhead near the wall pounded her drink onto the table. “What about that bloke she met here that time?”
Sounds of recollection and a hurried, whispered discussion followed before Marcus was made privy to the details. “A few months back, she came in, and rather than join us, told us she was meeting someone, someone important. She sat at her own table, and he arrived a few minutes later. They spoke for about ten minutes, then left together. We haven’t really seen much of her since.”
“Can you tell us anything about him?”
The woman shrugged. “Not particularly. He wore a robe that covered him from head to toe. I couldn’t see his face. He was definitely not from these parts, though.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?”
“Dressed too finely, and when they left, they climbed into a carriage.” She motioned at the customers with disdain. “None of this lot have carriages.”
“Anything unique about it? Any markings?”
“There was probably a crest on the door, but I honestly can’t remember.”
Marcus frowned. “That would have made it too easy, I suppose. Anything else you ladies can remember?”
Another leaned forward. “Didn’t he have a cane?”
“Yes, that’s right!” cried the redhead. “He had a limp. Quite bad, if I remember correctly.”
“Did he seem elderly? Frail?”
The women all shook their heads, the redhead replying for them. “Not at all. He seemed healthy enough. In fact, he moved quite quickly, despite the limp.”
Marcus bowed. “Thank you for your help, ladies.”
A round of over the top responses devolved into laughter as Marcus and Simon left, Marcus drawing several deep cleansing breaths when they were far enough away, ridding himself of the filth they had just experienced.
“That man you chased, do you think he needed a cane?”
Marcus shrugged. “He certainly handled his horse well. I would have to say no, though if practiced enough, anything is possible. God knows I’ve seen men who could barely walk, handle a horse in battle as if they were one.”
“So, we could be looking for a man with a limp, or not.” Simon sighed. “I don’t know if we’re any further ahead than we were yesterday.”
“Unfortunately, I have to agree.”
“Then what now?”
“There’s a question I need answered, that I didn’t think to ask our coachman.”
“And what’s that?”
“Who delivered the letter and payment?”
17
Coachman Richard’s Residence
Paris, Kingdom of France
Marcus knocked yet again, and still there was no answer. The man could be out, but the landlady downstairs had said he hadn’t come down yet. It was possible she had missed him, though he had his doubts. Melanie Girard had been murdered, and as far as they knew, the coachman was the only person left who was involved in this conspiracy.
Someone could be tying up loose ends.
He tried the door and found it unlocked. Pushing it open, he sighed with disappointment at the sight before him. The coachman was dead, bled out from the stomach, likely by a blade shoved deep and twisted, his body lying on the floor in front of the door. Whoever had killed him had probably stabbed him immediately upon entering, the door perhaps opened by the victim himself.
“This is a bloody mess,” muttered Simon.
“Yes.” Marcus knelt by the body and felt the man’s cheek. “He’s still warm. This didn’t happen too long ago.”
He stepped out of the room, closing the door, then hurried down the stairs, followed by Simon. He flagged down the landlady, about to enter one of the rooms. “Ma’am, a word.”
“Yes? Did you find your friend?”
“We did, ma’am. Did he have any visitors this morning?”
“Yes, yes he did. A very generous man, in fact.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”
“When I asked his business, he tossed me several coins, and asked what room your friend was in. I told him, he went to see your friend, then returned a few minutes later and left.”
“Did he say anything when he left?”
“Nothing.”
“Was he carrying a cane?” asked Simon.
The woman shook her head. “No, I think I should remember that. Why?”
“We’ve heard mention of a limp.”
“Well, this man didn’t have one.” The woman’s mouth slowly opened. “But now that you mention it, I did hear him express some discomfort when he took that first step. It’s a little higher than usual.”
Marcus eyed it, remembering from the night before that it was indeed almost twice the height it should be. If someone were not yet fully recovered from some injury, it could prove a challenge. “How long has he lived here?”
“Years. An excellent tenant. I never had a problem with him. I always felt he could do better, but he seemed content to live here. He kept to himself for the most part, and rarely entertained.”
“Did he ever have any visitors? Family? Friends?”
Simon leaned in. “A lady?”
The woman’s head shook until Simon’s interjection. “Actually, a lady did come here once, a few months ago, though how much of a lady she could be, I don’t know. A woman visiting a man in his room? I can think of only one purpose for that!”
Marcus suppressed a smile. “Could you describe her?”
“Overdressed.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, trying to be a lady, but not quite managing it. Her bearing wasn’t right. She was dressed well, but I doubt she was born into the money she wore.”
Simon leaned closer to Marcus. “That sounds like our girl.”
And it did, which suggested their coachman had been lying about his relationship with his passenger. “Anything else you can tell us?”
“Brunette. Maybe forty.”
Simon grunted. “Definitely not our girl.”
Marcus agreed. “How long did she visit him?”
“Perhaps ten minutes.”
“Not very long for anything untoward.”
Simon cleared his throat. “Some men are faster than others, sir.”
Marcus gave his sergeant a look. “I’ll yield to your expertise on the matter.” He returned his attention to the landlady. “And you’ve never seen this woman since?”
“Not here.”
Marcus’ eyes widened slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I’ve seen her about.”
“Where?”
She shrugged. “Nowhere specific. Just in the street.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Perhaps a week ago, maybe two.” She smiled. “I remember now! The last time I saw her was at the Swan. It’s a tavern not five minutes from here. Ask there, they may know who she is.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “But watch yourselves. It’s a bad lot that hangs out there.”
18
The Swan Tavern
Paris, Kingdom of France
“You two lost?”
Marcus ignored the jabs at their expense as they entered yet another establishment of questionable repute, this time with the intention of simply asking the proprietor for his assistance, rather than the riffraff occasioning his business.
“We don’t serve sacramental wine here!”
Even Simon chuckled at that one as they reached the bar.
“What can I do for a Templar knight?” asked the man, his eyes bloodshot, his features gaunt from enjoying his own offerings a little too much.
“We’re looking for a woman.”
“Aren’t we all!” he roared, the bar joining in. “I thought Templars were sworn to keep their swords sheathed?”
Simon snorted, Marcus ignoring the insult. “She’s possibly in her forties. Brunette. Dresses above her station.”
The barkeeper lowered his voice. “Oh, you’re speaking of Simone.” He leaned in closer. “What business could you possibly have with her?”
“None that concerns you!” muttered Simon.
Marcus held out a hand, calming the man. “Why? What is her business?”
“All things nefarious, I assure you. If there’s anything you want in these parts, she’s the one to see.”
“An odd business for a woman.”
The man shook his head. “Oh, she didn’t start the business, her husband did. But when smallpox took him, she stepped in to take over.” He frowned. “A little too eagerly, if you ask me.”
“What makes you say that?”
The barkeeper lowered his voice further, leaning in closer. “She’s a vicious one. If you’re going to do business with her, then I’d watch my back.”
Marcus nodded. “Thanks for the warning. Any idea where we can find her?”
The man lowered his voice further still. “I’ll give you the address, but you never heard it from me, understood?”
Marcus could see the fear in the man’s eyes, and wondered how justified it was, though it was clear he wouldn’t be given the information he needed were he to dismiss it. “Understood.”
19
Simone Thibault Residence
Paris, Kingdom of France
“We’re here to see Mrs. Thibault.”
A brick wall of a man filled the doorway, the scowl so deep, a smile might physically hurt him. “What possible business could a Templar knight and his sergeant have with her?”
Marcus smiled pleasantly. “Don’t you think she should be permitted to hear our business herself?”
The man grunted, unswayed. “She’s a busy woman.”
“I have no doubt. But does she know she is in extreme danger?”
The Templar Detective and the Parisian Adulteress Page 6