‘Indeed. Come in, Mr Rama. Please. You will take tea with me.’
‘I would be honoured. Madame is very kind.’
‘The small drawing room, Jeanne. Bring tea and some light refreshment for Monsieur.’
The girl was staring as if eyes and ears, both, had given birth to hallucinations. Marguerite prodded her. ‘That done, we do not wish to be disturbed.’
‘A most beautiful palace you inhabit, Madame.’ Mr Rama was taking everything in with his bright eyes. He sat down carefully on one of the upholstered armchairs by the fire. He kept himself quite stiff. Perhaps he feared he might be asked to leave at any moment.
Marguerite tore open the inspector’s letter. He had made preliminary contact with Martinique. Amandine had travelled to France with a Xavier Marchand. That tied in with their speculations. He would tell her more tonight. But he wouldn’t return to the château until then. Meanwhile, he hoped she would take time to talk more fully to his messenger. He suspected he might know things he didn’t speak, or perhaps didn’t even know he knew.
Marguerite allowed herself an inward smile. The content of the letter, which was no real content at all after her earlier message, was precisely why she so enjoyed the inspector’s collaboration. It was the messenger who was important. Grand, universalist theories might occasionally divide them, but when it came to assessing people, they were most often in accord.
‘How are you and your friends faring, Mr Rama?’
‘Not so very badly, Ma’am, nor so very well. There is much upset about Danuta. And for me, on top, about my livelihood. Soon we must move on.’
Marguerite nodded in sympathy, exchanged small talk until the tray had been brought, the tea served. Then she grew more serious.
‘You told me when we first met, Mr Rama, that your snake had been taken, perhaps by Danuta. Did the snake have any particular home that he lived in?’
‘But of course, my lady. A very fine home. Especially carved for him by my cousins in Bengal. The best rosewood, beautifully punctuated with breathing holes for my poor Nasa.’
‘Yes, Monsieur, I can imagine.’
‘If you see such a box, you will tell me.’
Marguerite had already seen it, but it was best not to reveal this yet to Mr Rama, though from the look in his eyes she suspected he had already guessed but was too polite to press her.
‘Tell me, when we last spoke amidst the sadness of the funeral, you painted a picture for me of Danuta’s love for a man. Did you ever see this man?’
‘No, Madame. Danuta did not bring him to us. It would have driven Auguste to distraction. Already he was made furious by the name she chose to give him, as if he were such a very special man.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. “Mon empereur,” she called him.’
‘Her emperor. You’re certain?’
‘Oh yes, Madame.’
‘What did Auguste do when she taunted him?’
‘Oh no, Madame. No, no, you mistake our Danuta. She was not like that. Not at all. She did not tease poor Auguste. He is capable of fury without much provocation. In fact, Danuta calmed him. She said the man was so old he had nothing to worry for. His demands on her would not be so very great. And he was rich enough for all three of them. In fact she knew how to get money from him for the whole group of us.’
‘She said that?’
‘That is what Auguste now tells when he sings her generosity, her praises. She had, it seems, already given him some of these riches. He spends most liberally now, our Auguste. Most liberally. Buys us all brandy. But have you ever seen a big man crying, Ma’am? A very big man? It is sad, you believe me?’
‘Very sad, Mr Rama. Very sad. Please will you have a little more tea, and some cold meats? I am sure you must be hungry after your ride.’
‘I am wondering if I could become the rider of Danuta’s horses. Did you see me? I am not so bad, eh? And bareback. But I do not know that I can twirl.’ He looked into the distance with a profound sadness.
‘You will learn, I feel certain of it. Tell me, Monsieur, when Dr Labrousse, the tall man with the big beard, came to you to show you the photographs of the person who had been found dead on the tracks, did you recognise him?’
‘I might have seen him in the crowd. But I couldn’t be certain. A proper identification is important. It is no point saying I think … or I might … or anything at all. I know this. To my pain. In this country, they think all Indians look exactly alike. Too stupid. So I do not wish to commit the same stupidity.’
‘Very wise of you. Very wise. But Danuta, she recognised this man?’
He gave her a wily look. ‘Danuta was very brave with her nine lives. I told you this.’ He stood, as if he had said enough.
‘One more thing, Mr Rama. I am concerned about that young man they call P’tit Ours. Was he a particular friend of Danuta’s?’
‘He is more a friend of Auguste’s. Our strongman sees in him a kindred spirit. Danuta…’ he shrugged. ‘Ah, Madame. With women, women like her, I mean, one never knows.’
Marguerite smiled. ‘Will you come back and see me before you leave the region, Mr Rama? And perhaps even bring your friend Auguste. We can try to cheer him a little.’
‘You are kind, Ma’am. I am not certain he wants kindness.’
The atmosphere at the lunch table was frosty for more reasons than she could determine. There were the three men, whom she had begun to consider as the household core, and herself.
Olivier had seen Mr Rama riding away. He had managed a few jibes about the company she kept and how he was less than pleased to have such riff-raff in the house. But she had let his comments pass.
In fact she wanted everyone in an easy mood. For once, too, she was eager to see the arrogant young curé who had so transformed her husband.
‘Do tell me more about the saintly Père François,’ she addressed him as soon as the marinated pike was on the table and the first glass of wine poured.
‘You liked him, Madame?’ The curé’s eyes narrowed into little slits of calculation.
‘Yes, I did. He talked to me of my parents, you remember.’
‘Happy those who are made happy by talk of their parents,’ Paul Villemardi muttered, loudly enough for everyone to hear.
‘You are not happy talking about your parents?’ Marguerite couldn’t resist questioning the sculptor’s cynicism.
‘Not particularly, Madame. They do not interest me. Though perhaps they interest me rather more than our dear curé’s parents interest him.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ the curé snapped.
‘To mean? To mean? Why, nothing at all, or simply that God the father displaces all others, I guess. You have altogether abandoned your origins. You never even visit your old mother, who is, I’m told, in sorry straits these days.’
‘Who told you that? Who?’
‘Monsieur le Curé has so many duties, I do not wonder he has no time to ride to Tours every day,’ Marguerite intervened.
Olivier was staring at her, blinking slightly, as if unsure whether this change of heart towards his preferred priest carried a sarcasm he couldn’t detect.
‘Indeed, Madame.’
‘And I’m sure Monsieur is solicitous of his family closer to home. The Marchands isn’t it, mon père? Do you visit the old man when he comes to Troo? I’m told he had quite a reputation in his youth. Even now. He’s apparently rather difficult when he’s had too much to drink, though. He, too, I imagine is in need of attention.’
The curé’s face had grown contorted with emotions she couldn’t altogether decipher, though panic was uppermost in them. He seemed to be straining against some weight. A weight of expletive, perhaps, given the angry red that had risen in his smooth cheeks. His eyes shot bolts through her.
‘Perhaps you saw his daughter here the other night. She’s a Tellier now, as you know. She came with her own two daughters, Laure and Hortense.’
A strangled sound came from the curé’
s throat, which was neither a yes nor a no.
‘Am I wrong, Monsieur? You are not a Marchand, then. Who could have misinformed me? I thought it was the bishop himself who had said something.’
A cackle came from Paul Villemardi. She ignored it. Olivier looked alarmed. She had forgotten how much lineage meant to him. Evidently the curé had never mentioned anything as unspiritual as direct parentage. He would be less than pleased to find his favourite churchman related to Madame Tellier whose vulgarity he had already mentioned twice.
‘A very distant relation, Madame.’ Père Benoit had found his voice. ‘Altogether negligible really. But charity is always necessary. You asked me about Père François?’
‘Yes, yes.’ The man was nothing if not shrewd.
‘This will interest you, I feel sure. Père François has long had a concern for the education of women. The appropriate, Catholic education, I should stress. He has overseen many conventual schools, acted as confessor to the girls and to the sisters.’
‘Charming,’ Paul Villemardi muttered.
Marguerite was suddenly struck by the sculptor’s resemblance to the satyr in the oil behind him. She was surprised Olivier hadn’t yet seen fit to replace the Dionysian scene.
‘In fact the good father talked to me only recently of his hopes for a new establishment in our little town of Montoire, which is growing as you know. He asked me if I cared to be involved, and I assured him that I would be more than happy, indeed, to take a lead. The Bishop of Blois, for whom Père François works, supports the project.’
The curé was now in full control of himself again, brimming with unrestrained egotism, convincing himself of the urgency and importance of this demanding work. His lips moved to produce phrases, which swayed him, above all.
‘This may well be something Madame herself would like to have a hand in, close as I imagine the education of women is to her heart.’
He looked from Olivier, who nodded, to Marguerite, who smiled in encouragement.
‘The government is intent on secularising education. We must fight back, particularly since there is now also a threat to the closed orders. Their lands will be taken from them if we are not careful. Yes, we must fight back. And one way to do so is to ensure that the catechism remains at the heart of education, a girl’s education. We need to train the future teachers, whether they become professionals or stay in the family.’
‘Indeed,’ Marguerite voiced her enthusiasm. ‘I would do much to help with the education of women. With education will come the vote.’
The priest’s face fell. He turned his attention to his plate that still had a few slivers of magret on it. Olivier meanwhile had started to rap his fingers impatiently on the table. If there hadn’t still been dessert to come, she thought he might already have stood.
‘Oh yes, mon père,’ she continued innocently. ‘You must engage the church in the struggle for women’s right to vote. After all, with so many women firm believers, it might indeed, in the end, further your political ambitions. I am sure that Pope Leo, with all his feelings for social justice, his support of the Republic before his French brothers turned against him, would see the reason in this.’
Olivier was gazing at her in confusion, once again unsure of her intent. Père Benoit was clearly looking for a retort, but hadn’t yet been able to find one.
‘Yes, and I am most interested in making sure that all the women we have in our service now have achieved a high enough level of education. I am certain we would see less of that horror we have been so subject to of late if this were the case. I mean the abandoning or killing of infants. Which reminds me, Monsieur Villemardi, have you had any success in tracking down Louise, our one-time maid, for me…’
The curé choked on his wine. He and Olivier exchanged baleful glances. She intercepted one and had a glimmering sense once more of being at the centre of a plot she couldn’t quite unravel.
Paul Villemardi flung his hair back in his dramatic manner.
‘I have been remiss, Madame. I haven’t located the young woman myself. But I happened upon Madame Germaine, you know, the midwife, and she told me that she had been approached by a young woman called Louise Limbour, which I believe to be Louise’s mother’s name by a second marriage. The woman, who from Madame Germaine’s description might well be our Louise, wanted to know how she could go about becoming a midwife. I imagine the girl has decided to take on her stepfather’s name.’
‘Why have you not told me this sooner, Monsieur Villemardi?’
‘I only learned yesterday. I chanced to be visiting those uninteresting parents of mine, in order to help my father out with a difficult commission, and Madame Germaine happened in on my mother. Since the two good women are champions in the sport of gossip, I took my opportunity. This particular Louise, if she is indeed ours, is definitely living in the area of Blois. Madame Germaine will provide us with the details.’
‘Excellent, Monsieur. The sooner, the better. You didn’t by any chance hear from your champion gossips anything about my poor missing Martine.’
‘Non, Madame.’
He seemed to be about to say something more when the sound of Olivier scraping his chair back from the table brought an abrupt end to the conversation.
‘I think I won’t join you for coffee, gentlemen,’ Marguerite announced with her most fetching smile. ‘I want to go and see how little Gabriel is faring.’
She had also just remembered that she had never emptied out her jacket pockets. In all the turbulence of the attack on Durand, she had forgotten about the items from Amandine Septembre’s room that she had placed there.
TWENTY
Marguerite tethered her horse at the far end of the wall, which gave on to the orchard, and looked around her. Everything was quiet. The valleys were at lunch. A pale sun lay at the height of its winter trajectory.
She pulled on a cap to protect her hair from the grit of the tunnels, adjusted the belt on her borrowed trousers and walked downhill to the low point of the wall near the hillock.
She was surer of her destination today. Last night in the geographical section of her father’s library she had found an old book that detailed some of the tunnels of the region. It was a revelation. Now, as long as her luck held and she didn’t bump into P’tit Ours in the cave that was her entry point, she knew the underground paths that would lead her to Napoléon Marchand’s house.
If the police couldn’t gain access to interview the old man, who was still away, she hoped she could at least get into his house. She knew she would certainly be able to lay her hands on documents to match the story told in the notebook she had found in the house Amandine Septembre had been held in. She was more certain now than ever that the woman had indeed been held.
The notebook was in fact a diminutive accounts ledger, or a summary of one. She had had to read it several times before its sense came clear. Who it belonged to was plain enough, though. That was written in decisive letters on the front page. Xavier Port-Royal Marchand: what exact relation this person had to Napoléon Marchand wasn’t clear from the notebook, though he was probably the brother who had been mentioned to her, the one who had stayed abroad. What was incontestable was that the two men were or had been in business together. A trading enterprise based in the colony of Martinique in the town of Fort de France.
Trade was good. There were lists of supplies of rum and spices that set sail for Marseilles, ships hired, costs incurred. The problem, it seemed, was that the products had never been paid for and the sums owing grew larger year after year. There were also details of other joint enterprises: a distillery that had gone bankrupt because profits had been drawn in France and never reinvested; a dyeing establishment that had gone to pay for a property in France for which the deeds had never been sent. There was more than ample reason here for Xavier Port-Royal Marchand to journey home and confront his relative, Napoléon Grandcourt Marchand. In fact, the points were summed up at the back of the notebook under a thrice-underscored heading enti
tled: OWED.
There was also ample motive for Napoléon to do away with his probable brother, if demands or threats grew too vocal. The sums involved in the business were substantial.
It was clear to Marguerite that if Yvette, in her role as maid, had been privy to any of this, there was reason for her to vanish. As there was for the woman called Amandine Septembre who had sailed to France as Xavier Marchand’s companion. As for Danuta the Dancer, given what Mr Rama had told her yesterday, she had dealings with a man she called the emperor. Her emperor. Napoléon. Napoléon Marchand. Danuta, too, might well have overheard something of the two Marchands’ dealings.
Marguerite remembered that the first time she had met the horrendous Napoléon with his daughter, he had talked of blackmail – a ‘blackmailing strumpet’ was what he had called Yvette. Was it possible that this girl who had no compunctions about drawing blood, who was bolder than her sister, who was, it seemed, frightened of neither P’tit Ours nor her master, really had tried to blackmail the man? As Danuta could well have, too. Money for sexual favours would be even greater if an element of bribery entered the picture. And Mr Rama had said there was plenty of money.
But what about Martine? Marguerite could only think that Napoléon’s henchman, P’tit Ours, really did think the girl was Yvette and had stolen her away to bring her back to Napoléon Marchand for punishment.
Would she find her in Marchand’s house? It was primarily because of this that she had set out without waiting for the inspector. If the girl was there, perhaps hidden in some dank cellar like the storeroom they had found in Amandine’s house, and Marchand was away, the likelihood was that she was safe. There was no time to lose. P’tit Ours wouldn’t act without his master’s orders. He had seemed to like the girl.
One more thing worried her, but not with the same urgency: P’tit Ours’ refrain that Yvette had gone to the doctor, to Dr Labrousse. Had they beat her up? Did she need medication? Was there something Labrousse was keeping from her out of fear? He had made an impromptu confession to her about his brother. In her experience the easy confession often signalled a deeper, more secret, guilt.
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