The man eyed the two of them. “Not from the likes of you two, I’m sure.”
“Of course not. But two people are already dead, and at least one of them had business dealings with your mistress. I think she would want to know that.”
“Why don’t you just give me the message, and I’ll pass it on?”
Marcus shook his head. “I have questions that only she can answer. Now, are you going to let me see her, or do I have to tell her she needs a new doorman?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “And why would she need a new one?”
“Because you’ll be dead.” Marcus drew his sword a few inches.
A woman screamed from within, and the doorman’s eyes bulged. Marcus shoved past him, followed by Simon, the lumbering behemoth close behind.
“Where?” demanded Marcus, tossing the question over his shoulder, another terrified cry coming from upstairs the answer. He rushed up the stairs in front of him then stormed down a long, narrow hallway, a commotion coming from the end of it. He kicked open the closed door, his sword drawn, as he took in the scene.
A woman was on the floor, her arms raised in self-defense, as a man was already half out the window. Marcus charged toward him but he jumped clear, running along the rooftop, the roofing tiles sliding out from under his feet before he leaped to the ground and out of sight. Marcus made to go after him when he heard a horse whinny, then the sound of it breaking out into a gallop, pedestrians on the street shouting in protest as the man successfully made his escape.
Marcus stifled a curse then turned to Simon. “If we were looking for a man who needed a cane, he wasn’t it, or no longer needs it.”
“Why would you say that?”
Marcus turned to the woman, her doorman helping her into a nearby chair. She appeared flustered, and she winced as she examined a cut on the top of her left hand.
“You were lucky to have survived, Mrs. Thibault, unless his intent was not to kill you.”
Thibault frowned. “Oh, he intended, all right. He definitely intended.” She pulled up her sleeves, revealing metal armor wrapping her lower arms. “He didn’t anticipate that I was prepared for such an eventuality.”
Marcus chuckled in appreciation. “A wise precaution in your line of work.”
Thibault regarded him. “And what do you know of my line of work?”
Marcus bowed slightly. “Little, except that you were acquainted with a man who is now dead.” He paused. “But why did you ask about what I said? About the cane?”
She gestured toward the window, then dabbed at the cut with a handkerchief. “This man that just attacked me. I’ve had dealings with him over the past several months. When I first met him, he employed a cane, but today he had none.”
“And you’re sure it was the same man?”
She eyed him. “I’m not a fool, though I must confess I’ve never seen more than his chin. I recognized his voice, of course, so I know it’s the same man.”
Marcus’ eyes widened with a thought. “If you heard it again, out of context, would you recognize it?”
Thibault shrugged. “Perhaps, though context is sometimes everything, and he was attempting to disguise it.” She wrapped the handkerchief around her hand then switched to a seat behind a large, ornate desk. “Now, what is your business with me?”
“You had dealings with a coachman named Richard.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “What of it?”
“May I ask what your business with him was?”
The woman sighed. “If you had asked me an hour ago, I would have said no, but as my business with Richard was related to the man who just tried to kill me, I will tell you.” She paused as a maid entered the room with a bowl of water and several clean towels, immediately setting to work cleaning the wounded hand, Thibault ignoring her as if the cut were no matter. “Our mystery man hired me to find him a trustworthy coachman, and a beautiful woman of rather exacting specifications.”
“Exacting?”
“Yes. Height, weight, age, skin tone, hair color. All had to be quite exact. Furthermore, she had to be trained to act like a lady.”
Marcus already knew the answer, but he asked the question regardless. “And you found such a woman?”
“Yes, in all regards but age.”
“And was her name Melanie Girard?”
Thibault’s eyes widened again. “Yes! How did you know?”
“Ma’am, both of these people you hired, have been murdered.”
The woman uttered a string of curses that would have made any sailor proud, enough to cause even Simon to shift uncomfortably. She stabbed a finger at the open window. “I knew I shouldn’t have gotten involved with him. Whenever you deal with the aristocracy, you know it will never end well. I mean, what was I—”
Marcus held up a hand. “Sorry, aristocracy? How do you know this man is aristocracy?”
She huffed. “I can tell. They have a distinct way about them, and that way they talk? You can pick one out in a mob if you listen carefully enough. It’s unmistakable. Only aristocracy spoke the way this one did.”
Marcus’ exposure to aristocracy was limited, most of it over the past two days, and several weeks ago in the King’s Court. And he had to admit, they spoke far finer French than most he had encountered.
And then there was the arrogance.
Most he had encountered spoke with a tone that he wasn’t even certain they were aware of. It was condescending, as if they knew they were better than anyone else that didn’t share their station, though he suspected that was true of any aristocracy in the world.
He stepped back as the maid finished treating the wound, taking the now pink water away. “How were you able to train Melanie to act as a lady? I had the opportunity to speak to her, and the transformation was quite remarkable.”
“It wasn’t too difficult. She simply had to be reminded of what she already knew. She had grown up working in the household of a baron, until he died without a male heir, leaving the estate to be torn apart by distant relations. When the new master took a liking to her with the back of his hand, she fled to the streets. That’s where I found her, and put her to work.”
“As a prostitute.”
Thibault shrugged. “It’s a living.”
“Not much of one.”
A burst of air escaped her lips. “I dare say she had a better life these past several months than she ever had or would.”
“Except that now she’s dead.”
Thibault frowned. “True, but everyone has to die at some point. Better to do it with some pleasant memories, rather than nothing but misery.”
Marcus had to admit it was a difficult argument to counter, and thought of the room he had found, filled with beautiful things that little girls loved, something he was learning through helping raise Angeline.
You must give that little girl good memories.
“You said she was murdered. When?”
Marcus focused on the woman again, his train of thought momentarily lost. “Last night, when we figured out what she was up to.”
“And what was she up to?”
Marcus’ eyebrows shot up. “You don’t know?”
Thibault shook her head. “I have no idea. I was hired to find her and train her, nothing more. Once she was ready, I notified him.”
Marcus’ heart beat a little faster. “You notified him? How?”
She motioned at the doorman. “Enzo left a note under a specific pew at St. Severin Church.”
“And how long was it before you heard from him.”
“The very next day.”
Simon grunted. “That suggests he, or someone under his employ, checked regularly.”
Marcus agreed. “At what time did your man leave the note?”
She shrugged, motioning toward the pile of muscle and sinew. “Ask him yourself.”
It spoke. “I don’t remember specifically, but it was in the evening, after dark.”
“What day of the week?”
He shrugged. �
�Dunno. Don’t remember.”
Marcus turned to Thibault. “Do you?”
“No idea, though it wasn’t a Sunday, that’s all I know.”
“Why?”
“Our girl was a good Catholic. We never trained on Sundays.”
Marcus turned to Enzo. “Specifically, which pew.”
“Facing the altar, far left, third one from the front. There’s a gap between the wood.”
Marcus nodded. “I think that’s our next stop.”
Simon agreed. “I could use some time in a church, after what we’ve seen today.”
Thibault leaned forward. “And what is this business that I have myself mixed up in?”
“The woman you found was hired to impersonate a lady, and then to have an affair with a member of the King’s Court, pretending to be the wife of a rival.”
Thibault’s eyes shot wide. “Who?”
“Their names are unimportant. Let us just say that the scandal is already significant, as others have been implicated. I dare say it will shake the very foundations of the Court.”
Thibault paled, the first true hint of fear he had observed in her. “If someone went to such trouble, then they must indeed be powerful.”
“Yes, and they have already killed two of those involved, and made an attempt on your life.”
She absentmindedly ran a finger over her bandaged hand. “Then you think I am still in danger?”
“Absolutely. If I were you, I’d immediately make myself scarce until such time as my safety could be assured.”
She stared at him. “By whom? You?”
Marcus bowed slightly. “I intend to uncover the truth, and in so doing, hopefully bring to justice the man who now threatens your life.”
“And in the meantime?”
“Do you have someplace to go?”
She laughed. “If anyone here gets wind that the aristocracy wants me dead, they’re liable to try and kill me themselves in the hopes of collecting some reward.”
Marcus frowned. “You have no friends or family?”
This time even her man laughed. “One does not make friends in my business, and my only family is dead.”
Marcus sighed, thinking for a moment. This woman was in danger, and despite her profession, deserved protection, not to mention the fact she may yet possess information that might help him. She was the only person still alive that had even met the man behind this, and he still hoped she might recognize his voice when the time came.
He smiled at an idea. “I might actually have the perfect place for you to hide, if you are willing to humble yourself until these matters are settled.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Where?”
“With a friend.” He motioned toward her. “If you want my help, then we must leave immediately. Take only what you need, and a heavy purse.”
She rose, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because your host is extremely poor, and as payment for him providing you with shelter, you will pay generously for your accommodations.”
She grunted. “Sounds like a scheme if I ever heard one.”
“Ma’am, not all are like you.”
She laughed. “And a good thing! If they were, I’d have no one to profit from.”
20
Durant Residence
Paris, Kingdom of France
Thomas Durant’s stomach growled again, the starving protests of his body now going unnoticed, his mind numb to the warning signals sent it. He stretched out his arm, remarkably emaciated compared to just a few days ago, yet still with enough meat to keep him going.
Something had to give.
He couldn’t stay like this much longer.
He’d soon be dead.
Good.
It was what he wanted. At least that’s what he kept telling himself. With his father dead, what did he have to live for? This was a wretched existence, and he was tired of it. At least with his father around, they had an income, and no matter how meager it was, it had provided enough for them to keep their bellies full and their bones warm enough.
But now there was no money, no food, and he had resorted to burning the furniture, as the days grew colder and the nights longer. The charity displayed by his neighbors had waned then dried up. Some of it was fatigue on their part, but most of it was his fault. He had taken to consuming all the alcohol, and cursing those that arrived with food rather than drink.
And now he had nothing.
No mother, no father, no living relations that he was aware of, no prospects, and no skills beyond reading and writing, nearly useless in these parts.
And soon, he had no doubt, no roof over his head.
The glint of a knife lying on the floor caught his eye, last used to cut a loaf of bread left by the neighbor across the street, a good friend to his father. It was sharp. All the knives in the house were, his father a stickler for a sharp blade. It could do the job. It could end things quickly. One plunge into the stomach, or a slice across the wrist, and it would all be over.
Just one quick slice of the wrist.
The stomach would be too painful, but the wrist, that could easily be done. It would hurt for but a moment, then he could simply relax and let his body take care of the rest.
And when it was over, he’d see his father and mother once again.
Only if they’re condemned to Hell.
He closed his eyes, and they burned with shame. To take one’s life was the ultimate sin, and he had an option, an option his pride prevented him from taking.
But why?
The offer had been genuine, he was sure of it. It would be a hard life, though a good life, and perhaps could lead to something even better should he choose.
But he had to choose.
He had to stop wallowing in self-pity, and reach out and grab that offer of security, a security his father had provided until a few weeks ago.
He had to leave this wretched place, and make for the farm where food, warmth, and companionship awaited him, for if he didn’t, the elements, or his weakness of spirit, would end him once and for all.
He sighed, closing his eyes, his mind displaying an image of the proud Templar knight who had been nothing but kind to him, despite barely knowing him.
The offer was genuine.
But toiling on a farm? He couldn’t even imagine what that would be like. And to leave his home, the only one he had ever known? It would be like abandoning his mother and father, and every memory they had built over the years.
It felt like a betrayal.
They would want you to survive.
His shoulders shook as a wave of shame and desperation swept over him.
“Oh God, please help me! Please tell me what to do!”
His parched mouth barely gave voice to the words, yet they weren’t meant for the ears of mortals, but for the Lord above, someone in whose faith he felt slipping away by the moment.
I don’t know what to do!
Yet he did.
He had no choice.
He had to leave everything he had known his entire life, and start anew.
He had to survive.
He curled into a ball, covering himself with his father’s threadbare blanket in front of the embers of a dying fire, his shoulders shaking from the cold, the hunger, and the shame.
When someone knocked on the door.
21
Durant Residence
Paris, Kingdom of France
Marcus stepped back from the door, glancing at Simon, who had been here before. “Was it like this last time?”
Simon shook his head, pointing at several boards covering the windows. “This was a place open for business. Now it almost appears as if abandoned.”
Marcus flagged down a woman passing by. “Do you know if the boy still lives here? Thomas Durant?”
She nodded. “Aye, if he still lives, he’s inside. I haven’t seen him in days though. Poor thing. He’s taking the death of his father very hard.”
Marcus bowed sl
ightly. “Thank you.” He rapped on the door several more times. “Master Durant. This is Sir Marcus de Rancourt. I have a favor to ask of you.”
He placed his ear to the door, listening for any sign of life on the other side, but it was impossible to tell with the din of daily life surrounding them. He shook his head and raised a boot to kick open the door, the safety of the boy now in question, when it opened a crack, a sliver of an emaciated face appearing.
He forced a smile, hiding his shock at the change only a few weeks had brought. “Master Durant, do you remember me?”
The young man nodded.
“May we come in?”
He still said nothing, but pulled the door open, stepping aside. Marcus entered the dingy interior, Simon and Thibault following, her doorman, Enzo, left behind despite protests.
“You expect me to stay here?”
Marcus gave Thibault a look, silencing her. “You don’t look well, son. When was the last time you ate?”
He shrugged, his reply barely a whisper. “At least a few days. Maybe a week.”
Marcus shook his head, frowning. He motioned to Simon. “Take off your markings so you blend in a little more. Get us food, drink, and wood for the fire.”
Simon began disrobing. “And with what bounty shall I pay for all this?”
Marcus chuckled then beckoned Thibault. “It’s time to contribute.”
She shook her head, muttering about the environment as she fetched several coins. She handed them to Simon, who left immediately. Marcus sat Thomas down in one of the two remaining chairs, Thibault taking the other as she surveyed the surroundings with disdain.
“I have a favor to ask of you.”
Thomas looked up at him. “What? As you can see, I’m not in a position to actually offer much.”
Marcus smiled. “But you have the one thing I require.”
“And that is?”
“Shelter.” He motioned at Thibault. “This is Mrs. Thibault. She requires a place to stay where nobody knows her, while Simon and I try to find those who would harm her and others more innocent.”
Thomas’ eyes narrowed, and he regarded the woman for a moment. “What’s going on?”
“The less you know the better, but I will let you know everything eventually, I assure you. The good news for you, is that Mrs. Thibault is a woman of some means, and she intends to pay you handsomely”—she laughed—“for your sacrifice.” Marcus looked about. “It should be enough to get you back on your feet for a short while, anyway.”
The Templar Detective and the Parisian Adulteress Page 7