by Anne Perry
‘Is he a revolutionary?’ She would not let him hear in her voice that she was afraid. She wanted him to think she was as brave as he was, equal to anything he could ask. But she hated the Jacobin Club and the people in it. It had started out as a place for deputies from out of town to spend their evenings with other men of like mind—strangers and idealists all burning with the same dreams, longing to talk endlessly and plan the great new society. Now it was filled with the men whose names frightened her most: Robespierre, Hébert, Saint-Just, Couthon, and a dozen other allies who hung on their words and would obey anything and everything they said. ‘Why would he be there?’ she said aloud.
Georges laughed abruptly. ‘Because it is the place to be in order to listen and learn what is most likely to happen. The Jacobin Club is the tail which wags the dog of the Convention. It’s the place to be if you are a spy, an idealist, a lunatic, or simply someone who wants to know what is politically safe, and which side you should be on if you want to survive.’
She caught the bitterness in his voice and did not argue.
‘Look at Renoir and listen to him, Célie,’ he said with sudden, fierce seriousness. ‘Don’t tell him anything at all, except that Bernave is dead—which he probably knows already. Be careful!’
‘I will,’ she promised, the cold inside her thawing a little.
He leaned forward and grasped her wrist, not painfully, but too firmly for her to pull away. ‘I mean it! We don’t know who killed Bernave, or why. All that is certain is that it was someone behind him in that room. Someone already carrying a knife! It wasn’t a fight, it wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t in defence of themselves, or anyone else. Someone used the confusion of the crowd breaking in to move up behind Bernave and plunge that blade into his back.’
‘I know,’ she whispered, finding her mouth dry, her throat tight. She wanted to touch him, to feel the warmth and the strength of him, but that would be weak and stupid! And it would make him think all the wrong things about her. It was only fear and the power of her imagination picturing what had happened in that room, and what could still happen ... again.
She was tired and cold, that was all. She would be better in a little while; then she would be glad she had not given in to such idiocy.
‘I will.’ She pulled her hands away from him and stood up. Her legs ached, her feet were wet and sore and her skirt swung icily around her legs. ‘I’ll go home now and talk to Amandine and St Felix, then this evening I’ll go to the Jacobin Club and find Renoir if I can.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly, standing up also.
‘What for? I believe in this as much as you do! I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it because I want to.’
He stood still. ‘I know that. I just meant that I should be doing it.’
‘You can’t!’ She sounded cold, and hurt. ‘It isn’t safe for you, and we both know why that is.’ The moment the words were out she wished she had not said them, but they were there and it was too late to take them back. What could she say to redeem the situation?
She was at the door. In a moment it would be too late. She looked at him. He was standing with his back to the window. She could see only the side of his cheek clearly. Outside it was raining again. The water ran down the glass of the window, wavering the lines of the roofs beyond.
‘I’ll be careful,’ she promised, her voice gentler. It was wet and cold outside, but she was going back to Bernave’s house, Marie-Jeanne’s now, and it would be warm there. She would have hot food tonight. He would still be cold. She smiled at him, meeting his eyes and feeling her heart tighten. ‘I’ll find out what there is, and I’ll tell you. Don’t worry. It might still be all right.’ And before he could tell her that was absurd, she opened the door and went out on to the small landing. She closed it behind her so he could not see her creep down the stairs and she would not be aware of him watching her.
When she got back to the Boulevard St-Germain, she spoke to the guard in the courtyard and then let herself in through the back door. She found Amandine alone in the kitchen, cleaning out the empty bins where dry food was stored. Presumably the other members of the family had eaten already. She gave Amandine the shopping she had collected for the house, her justification for having been out.
‘Did you find the captain?’ she asked under her breath.
Amandine stood up off her knees and straightened her skirt, the gesture something left from the days when her clothes had been pretty and worth caring for. Her eyes searched Célie’s for news of Georges, but she answered the question. ‘Yes. I think he’s all right. I wish I knew better how to judge. He didn’t seem to know anything about any special passages, or if he did, he couldn’t say to me. I think he didn’t know. Bernave simply told him to be ready to sail with cargo for a wool merchant on the twenty-first.’
‘Bernave didn’t trust him!’ Célie concluded. ‘I’m not sure he trusted anyone. It’s the feeling I got in St-Antoine.’
Amandine looked at her closely, her face, not her wet clothes, or hair straggling over her brow. ‘Do you really think it can work?’ she asked softly. ‘Have they got anyone to—’
‘No ... not yet.’ Célie knew what she was going to say. ‘But Georges is looking. He says he’ll find someone.’
Amandine regarded her with quick sympathy.
‘You look cold—and tired. Do you want something to eat? You should. And then go and get dry clothes. A skirt, at least. You’re sodden.’
‘Yes please.’ She remembered the cold attic and the wine she had refused.
Amandine turned to the pot on the stove and stirred it briskly before reaching for a bowl from the cupboard and ladling out a generous portion with several pieces of meat and potato in it. ‘How was he?’
There was no need to explain.
‘Cold, but quite well.’ Célie thanked her, took the bowl and went to the table where she sat down and began to eat.
Amandine did not speak for several minutes and Célie was halfway through when Menou came in through the back door.
‘Ah ... so you have returned, Citizeness.’ He put a very slight edge of emphasis on the remark, as if there were a deeper meaning to it.
‘Yes,’ she replied expressionlessly. ‘Mostly a waste of time, but one has to try. I got some candles and some onions, and a little soap. Have you eaten, Citizen?’
His face relaxed a trifle. He was apparently surprised that she should ask. ‘No, not yet.’
‘Then you’d better have some of ours,’ she offered. ‘Amandine is a good cook, even without much to use.’
‘You’re very gracious,’ he accepted, sitting down.
With tight lips Amandine fetched him a bowl and served him a less generous portion than Célie’s, and one slice of bread.
He thanked her, but still looked at Célie as if waiting for an explanation.
‘You are the soldiers of the revolution,’ she said, looking back at him levelly. ‘You keep the peace in the city, and you will guard us if we’re invaded ...’ She permitted no sarcasm whatever into her voice.
‘Invaded!’ His hand jerked up and he spilled a little of his stew.
She kept her own hand perfectly steady although her heart was pounding.
‘Well, I expect we shall be, after tomorrow, when they see we’ve executed the King,’ she explained elaborately. ‘After all, every country around us is monarchist. They can’t afford to have our ideas spread, can they?’
‘Who told you that?’ he demanded, his eyes wide, very clear grey-blue.
‘Nobody,’ she said innocently, taking another mouthful of stew while it was hot. ‘It stands to reason. Don’t you think so?’
He obviously had not thought of it.
She smiled at him. ‘So of course we are honoured to feed you ... who wouldn’t be?’
Amandine’s cooking was excellent, but he seemed to lose his pleasure in it.
Fernand had come in from the courtyard, his jacket hunched over his head against the rain. He st
ood in the centre of the floor, dripping.
‘Rubbish!’ he said crossly, pulling his jacket straight and stamping his wet feet. ‘We won’t be invaded. Of course we won’t! That’s just silly talk. You’ve been listening to gossip in the queues. You should have more sense.’ He walked across the room and went out into the hall, slamming the door behind him.
Menou looked at Célie very carefully. ‘Did you hear that in a queue, Citizeness?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It just seems common sense. Monarchies can’t afford to let ideas like ours spread, or they’ll be deposed too, and maybe finish up with their necks under the headman’s axe, or whatever they use there. I wouldn’t if I were a king—would you?’
He stared at her without answering.
‘Or a cardinal,’ she added for good measure, taking another mouthful.
‘Oh, so now you’d have Rome against us too, would you?’ he said sharply.
‘Since we’ve abolished the Church and killed most of the priests, I’d be surprised if they weren’t,’ she retorted, eating her bread.
Suddenly his voice dropped and became almost silky. ‘And you disapprove of that, Citizeness?’
She heard the warning with a chill. The bread seemed to catch in her throat. She swallowed. ‘On the contrary. I think it was an excellent thing to get rid of the Church,’ she answered quickly, only a slight tremor in her hand as she held the spoon, but she did not risk raising it to her lips. ‘We should have taken its lands and property years ago and given them back to the people.’ That much she could mean. It was the ritual she needed, the surety that the priests believed in God, a faith stronger than her own, whatever other sins they were guilty of.
He relaxed, wiping his mouth carefully on the napkin Amandine had given him.
‘Who killed Citizen Bernave, Citizeness?’ he asked.
She should have expected the question, but it caught her by surprise. She froze for an instant before answering, her mind still for a moment on the Church.
‘I’ve no idea, except it seems that it has to have been one of us.’
‘Did you see the knife?’ he went on.
‘No.’ That was totally honest.
‘What was Citizen Lacoste wearing?’
‘Wearing?’
‘Didn’t you hear me, Citizeness?’
‘Breeches and a brown jacket, I think. The same as he usually wears.’
‘With large pockets?’
‘Just an ordinary jacket. Yes, I suppose it had largish pockets.’
‘I’ve seen them. Large enough to hide a knife?’
‘I suppose so.’ She tried to think if she had noticed any strange shape that evening, any distortion. She frowned. ‘I don’t think he carried a knife around with him. Why should he? He couldn’t know there was going to be a riot in the street that night.’
‘Someone did,’ he pointed out.
She was startled, for a moment not understanding. ‘You mean someone began it on purpose?’
‘Someone carried a long sharp blade into the room,’ he said, watching her face. ‘Ready to use—when the opportunity was made.’
‘Did they?’ With a jolt of understanding she realised that almost certainly that was not true. Someone could too easily have noticed it, and St Felix had been wearing a coat with shallow pockets which would have been ripped by an unguarded blade. It was infinitely more likely the knife had been left in the drawer of the chest or in the small cupboard near the door.
Menou must have read her expression. He leaned forward, his eyes wide and bright.
‘What have you thought of, Citizeness? What is it you remember?’
Could she lie?
Amandine was standing rigid, the soup ladle in her hand. Her fear filled the room like electricity before a storm.
What would happen if Célie gave an answer Menou did not believe? He would think she was protecting someone. He knew her affection for Amandine. He knew they had come here because they were friends. He could see Amandine’s care for St Felix—a blind man could see it. He would assume it was St Felix she was protecting.
No, she could not lie.
‘I just realised that the knife was probably already in the room,’ she answered with very nearly perfect composure. She looked into his clear eyes. ‘In one of the drawers of the chest, or in the cupboard by the door. It would be much safer to leave it there, against opportunity, rather than carrying it around where someone might see it, or it might cut through the cloth and be obvious. Also there would be no chance of accidentally injuring yourself.’
Menou nodded slowly and let out his breath in a sigh. ‘Oh, very well thought, Citizeness,’ he said admiringly. ‘I knew you were observant, but that is excellent. I begin to see why Citizen Bernave sent you to do his errands for him, and to report back what occurred in the Convention. You are wasted as a laundress. Tell me—how did the murderer of Citizen Bernave get the bloody knife out of the room afterwards, and where did he hide it?’
She must be very careful indeed—not too clever, not too foolish. He could trip her in even the slightest mistake. She could feel Amandine behind her, like a string about to snap.
‘I don’t know.’ She tried to sound ingenuous. ‘I suppose in the confusion in the dark, the surprise, they put it somewhere out of sight, maybe even back where they got it from. Then afterwards hid it ... I’ve no idea where. I don’t know the house all that well.’
‘You’re the laundress!’
‘Exactly,’ she agreed quickly. ‘I work in the kitchen or the linen cupboard. I never go into the Lacostes’ rooms. I have no occasion to.’
His eyebrows rose questioningly. ‘Are you saying one of the Lacostes stabbed Citizen Bernave?’
‘No,’ she repeated patiently. ‘I am saying I don’t know the whole house. Anyone could have gone upstairs to their rooms later on, or to the attics or anywhere else. Into Citizen Bernave’s rooms, for that matter.’
‘Or Citizen St Felix’s?’ He looked at her closely.
‘I imagine so. I don’t know where the knife is.’
‘And would you tell me if you did?’
‘Of course,’ she said blandly. She was lying, and she knew he knew it. She never imagined she would be believed.
‘How long had Citizen Bernave known St Felix?’ he asked, changing the subject suddenly.
‘He never told me.’ That was true, as far as it went. ‘They both came from the same town, but they had lost touch a long time ago.’
He shifted position a little, leaning closer towards her. There was silence in the room except for their voices.
‘I’m asking you what Citizen Bernave said!’ he urged. ‘Why did he take into his home and look after a man he had not seen for years? He had not a reputation for such casual philanthropy.’
‘I don’t know.’ This time she could answer without having to think. ‘He never spoke of it.’
Menou smiled. ‘And you never noticed? You, the so-observant Citizeness that he trusted to watch and listen to the great political debates of the revolution and report their meaning to him!’ His voice hardened and there was a tiny flicker at the corner of his mouth. ‘I cannot help thinking your loyalty is misplaced. This man thought highly of you, he trusted you! He was murdered—stabbed to death, surrounded by his family, in his own house ... where incidentally you still live.’
Célie was stung. She knew that was exactly what he intended, but she still could not help it.
‘I don’t know who killed him, Citizen Menou!’ she retaliated. ‘Of course I observed something of his feelings for St Felix, and St Felix’s for him. It seemed to me they had known each other well long ago, but that a lot of time had passed since then and much had changed.’
‘For example?’ he demanded.
She must be careful. No lie must be suspected, let alone proved.
She tried to make her voice level again, iron the anger and the fear out of it. ‘I don’t know. If they spoke of it, it was not when I was there. All I ev
er heard was discussion of the present situation, of the revolution and what was likely to happen, the chances of war on all sides if we guillotine the King.’ She saw Menou wince. ‘I am only telling you what they said, Citizen.’
‘Are you now trying to say that Bernave was against executing the King, Citizeness?’ His eyebrows rose and he looked at her very steadily.
She saw the trap for St Felix. ‘He spoke of the dangers,’ she said meekly, keeping her eyes on his, but making them gentle. ‘I am sure Citizen Marat himself is just as aware of them. After all, he has travelled a great deal, so I hear. He even lived in England for a while. He will know better than any of us.’
‘Of course he will!’ Menou agreed a shade too quickly. She saw the fear for an instant in his eyes also. He seemed to have forgotten Amandine over by the stove. ‘What about St Felix? What did he say about it?’
‘I was in and out. All I heard him say was that it was a danger.’ The less she concerted herself to this view the better. Above all she must not let Menou suspect Bernave of having used and betrayed St Felix, or any of them.
‘No more than that?’ Menou said incredulously.
She smiled back at him, very slightly. ‘He was discreet,’ she explained. ‘Perhaps he did not trust me as much as Citizen Bernave did, or seemed to.’
‘Or seemed to ...’ he repeated. ‘Yes, I see what you mean, Citizeness. As I observed before, you are very perceptive. I would sooner have you as a friend than an enemy.’
‘As long as you are for the welfare of France, you will,’ she answered a trifle sententiously. Then she added very quickly, ‘And that means of the revolution, of course.’
His face lit with a sudden flash of amusement. ‘Of course.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for the food. Now show me the drawer where you think the knife was left, and the cupboard. What are they normally used for?’
Célie felt the chill run through her. For a moment her mouth was dry. ‘Linen,’ she answered. The truth was the only possible thing. If he asked anyone else they would tell him. ‘And candles.’
‘Remarkable,’ he said with a little shake of his head. ‘And no one noticed a knife! Not even you, returning the clean laundry.’