First things first, however. She lowered herself into the cave, sniffed a pervasive dampness, a smell of rot and mould, and peered round. Something scurried across her boots and she leapt back. Rats. She wasn’t used to such creatures any more. She lit her lantern with care and had a better look. A potato or two had been gnawed at since her last visit with the inspector. But the ashes at the base of the small fire were cold.
She hurried through the alternate opening this time. Her path lay uphill. Unless she was imagining it, there were fresh footprints here. The prints clogs made, their uneven undersides imprinted on the moist earth. P’tit Ours, she imagined and shuddered. Though it could be anyone else. She stopped to listen. Quiet. But her lantern flickered. There was a draft of air coming from the direction of her destination. She hurried on, fearful now that her light might give out.
What felt like a long time later, she reached an arched, thick-slatted door. It stood just a fraction open. She almost shouted with relief, then tripped on something, righting herself only at the last moment. It took a second for her to realise that she had stumbled on a stick. This was what ensured the door didn’t creak shut. Could this, too, be a sign of P’tit Ours?
Taking a deep, calming breath she let herself in, slowly, slowly, so that the groan of the door was minimal. She made sure the stick was back in its exact place.
A quick sweep of her lantern indicated she was in a narrow wine cellar. Barrels and bottles lined the walls. There was rum, too. She paused at a label. Martinique. That name reassured her that she was in Napoléon Marchand’s house. As softly as she could she made her way up creaking cellar stairs. The door at the end opened easily. She found herself in a kitchen. The light startled her. It came from a high window out of which she couldn’t see. The slope of the hill must mean the kitchen wasn’t on a level.
There were pots on the stove, still warm, a pervasive scent of spice. Cinnamon and nutmeg; something stronger, too. Did that old vulture of a servant, Hercule, cook for himself? The inspector had told her no one had answered to the police and she had assumed he, too, would be away. Or were there others here, as she had suspected? Others who had been warned not to open any doors?
Her pulse quickened. With a sudden worry, she placed her lamp carefully on the second cellar step to ensure a quick retreat should she need it, then tiptoed across the room towards a stairwell.
Voices came at her from somewhere. Loud, then soft. She followed the sound, up the stairs and into a square, sombre hall, none too clean and hung with rifles and walking sticks, and coat hooks sporting an assortment of cloaks and caps. In front of her was the main door of the house. Four other doors gave off the hall, two behind her, two in front. The one at the back, left, near the stairs that led to the first floor, was ajar. It was from here the voices came, as well as the main source of daylight.
One voice was distinctly a man’s. The second was uncertain. It was soft and slurred. She couldn’t make out the words.
Holding her breath, Marguerite crept towards the door. She flattened herself against the wall and peered in. She saw a ramshackle drawing room with an assortment of worn armchairs and footstools and peeling wallpaper. On the table closest to her stood a bowl with an assortment of pipes, long-handled pipes. Opium pipes. Opium. Of course. The dead man’s single pupil had been contracted in the way of opium smokers. But there was no one in here. The voices came from further away through a set of double doors thickly curtained in old bronze velvet to keep out the cold.
She tiptoed over and stopped by the curtains. She could see clearly enough through the crack where they hadn’t been fully pulled together. A fire crackled and blazed. It was a smaller room, much of its space taken up by a lumpy claw-footed sofa on which large gold flowers grew as resplendent as the emperor for whom the fashion had been named.
The couple sitting on the sofa startled her. She only stopped her rush of breath in time.
The crumbling old giant who was Napoléon Marchand, with his straggling unkempt hair and massive features, was resting his large head on the copious, chocolate-brown cleavage of Amandine Septembre. He was patting the woman, stroking her bare statuesque shoulders above the thick drapery of her violet gown. His eyes, which looked straight towards Marguerite, lolled. His lips were loose, his expression lascivious. He was mumbling something she couldn’t make out. Endearments probably.
So the woman was his mistress, Marguerite thought with uncustomary distaste. He kept her here for his pleasure. She had misunderstood.
Amandine was sitting very straight, somewhat stiff. A deep yet soft voice suddenly came out of her, just as Marguerite was about to creep away across the room again. It took a moment for Marguerite to attune her ears.
‘Why can’t I go out, Papa?’ The mellow voice caught on a sob. ‘Amandine is going crazy. Crazy with being locked up. Hercule doesn’t let me out.’
‘Soon, my fragrant beauty. Soon. Soon Papa will find the right place for you.’
‘What kind of right place?’
‘Far from here.’
‘But Uncle Xavier. Where is Uncle Xavier? He said he wouldn’t be gone long. But it’s been weeks, Papa. Weeks. We have to wait for him to return.’
‘You smell so nice, ma petite Amandine. Put your hand where Papa likes it. Then Papa will be kind. Papa will be in a good humour. Come, Amandine.’
A shock ran through Marguerite. It made her knees weak. So the woman really was being held captive. Not any woman, either. Amandine was the old reprobate’s daughter. Daughter by a woman he had either bedded or bigamously married in Martinique. And now he was demanding his daughter’s sexual favours.
She wanted to rage. To scream at the injustice of it. But intervening right now would do no one any good. She had neither the necessary force nor police authority to stop the man. On the other hand, witnessing what the monster was going to tell Amandine about the whereabouts of his brother, Uncle Xavier, would certainly land him in jail for the rest of his days.
Amandine had wriggled away towards the end of the sofa and now Napoléon was coaxing and cajoling.
‘A little more rum for you, my island flower? Yes, yes. Then you’ll be kind to your old Papa.’ He picked up the bottle, but nothing flowed from it.
With an effort, he heaved himself up and shouted. ‘Empty! Empty! Where is that no good oaf? P’tit Ours!’ he bellowed, so loudly that Marguerite sprang back. From upstairs came the sound of uneven footsteps.
‘P’tit Ours.’ That terrible shout again.
Marguerite hid in the crack behind the door, pulling it as close as possible to her face as she dared. If she held her breath, P’tit Ours wouldn’t see her. He didn’t see well. The windows were shuttered. The only light came through the cracks and from the fire.
She said all these things to herself one after another to keep herself calm. Calm so that her breath came slowly.
She heard the heavy sound of P’tit Ours footfall as he rushed into the room. Meanwhile, through the doors, Amandine was asking, ‘When will Uncle be back, Papa?’
‘That again. Forget about him. Say goodbye to him. He went off with a fairground strumpet. A dancer. Fled. That’s what I found out in town. I can bet you won’t see him any more, that one. Not soon. No. Not soon.’
There was a sob from Amandine and then a torrent of words from P’tit Ours that sounded like emphatic negation.
‘No, no. Wrong. Wrong, witch. Uncle bumped down stairs. Push, then bump. Bump bump. Then to tracks. Uncle a sack on tracks.’
‘Shut up, P’tit Ours!’ the old man screamed. ‘Hold your tongue. What did I tell you? Out of here. Out!’
She could imagine the spittle leaping from that gargantuan mouth.
There was the sound of a slap. Heavy, hard. She felt its impact, felt that it must be P’tit Ours who had been cuffed. Poor, strange lad. Then came footsteps. The curtain was being pulled to. But P’tit Ours didn’t flee. Didn’t leave her side of the double room. He stopped there. Stopped right by the side of the curtains,
peering. She was trapped.
Amandine had started to cry, big full sobs. There was one from next to Marguerite, too. P’tit Ours was crying. Crying like a child in sympathy with a friend. A friend he had stood up for.
Marguerite turned her head towards the crack in the door. If she closed one eye, she could see.
‘What will I do? What will I do?’ Amandine moaned, rocked herself back and forth on the sofa. ‘I thought I heard something. Yes, Papa. Yes. That night in the big house with all those whores. The night you shot your pistol at me. Shrieking. I heard shrieking. I dreamt of the peacocks. But they weren’t peacocks.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I have to get out. Have to. I’m going crazy. Like prison. I have done no wrong, Papa. No wrong, you hear me?’
The old man leapt up and shouted, cursed. His big belly wobbled with the effort. He reared his leonine head, his eyes bulged. His sagging jowls waggled. He slapped Amandine. One slap then another. His trousers were halfway down his legs. He was baring his parts to her.
Marguerite remembered another slap and trembled for the woman. She wasn’t thinking clearly any more. What could she do? She pushed the door forwards slightly and peered round the side to see where P’tit Ours was standing. He, too, had his member in his hand, now as if in imitation of his corrupt old master.
‘Ungrateful bitch!’ the man yelled. ‘Where am I supposed to take you? Where? For a walk in the village? In town? In all your finery? On my arm? Bonjour, Madame la Marquise. Have you seen your colour? Mud. Mud brown. Like your mother. The white bitch will kill you before she lets you out. Kill you if she hears who you really are and finds you here. Bad enough, she hates Xavier. His companion, I called you.’
The old man snorted.
Amandine had stood up. She was almost as tall as the ancient hulk and she looked stronger.
‘Sister? Kill her own sister?’ she shouted back.
‘Not the first time. So shut up.’
P’tit Ours was so excited, he didn’t see Marguerite. He was jumping up and down, staring into the room.
‘Why should I shut up? Why? I’ll go to the police. Amandine Septembre is a citizen of France.’
‘You know nothing, my girl. Nothing. They’ll string you up before they believe you. String you up for the murder of Xavier. She’ll see to it.’
She heard the scrape of the sofa’s claws being pushed back as if someone had fallen on it, the groan of springs.
‘I’m taking care of you. Protecting you. Aren’t I? Now show me how you say thank you to your long-lost papa.’
‘Belly in her face,’ P’tit Ours shouted, his hand still on his member. ‘Belly in her face.’
Suddenly there was a tumultuous crash from next door, furniture falling, the thump and thud of bodies. P’tit Ours pulled the curtains open and ran in.
His old master lay on the floor. A toppled table half-covered him. The youth stared down in disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe the proof of his eyes. Then, he shouted. Shouted and shouted, whether in fear or euphoria wasn’t clear, since with each shout he landed a hefty kick on his master’s inert body.
A table lamp fell.
Amandine Septembre grabbed it and stamped on the flame that had leapt on to the carpet. She took P’tit Ours’s hand.
Marguerite found the shelter between the door and the wall again, just as the two came towards her. Though she wasn’t altogether sure why, she felt it better not to show herself yet. She didn’t know how the volatile P’tit Ours would react to her presence. Nor what the twosome might be planning. She also needed to make a foray upstairs for Martine, perhaps even for Yvette. Who knew what kind of brothel the old monster kept for himself.
‘Amandine Witch killed the old master. Amandine Witch killed the old master!’ P’tit Ours was chanting as they passed near her. His clogs tapped out the rhythm of a dance.
‘Hush, P’tit Ours. Hush. Amandine has to go away.’ The regal woman gave the youth a slow smile.
‘Policeman wants to lock up P’tit Ours. Lock up. Like Amandine.’
‘We won’t let them, P’tit Ours. We’ll run away. Run away together.’
‘Away?’
‘Yes. You’ll take care of Amandine. Is your horse here, P’tit Ours?’
‘No horse. Come from ground.’
There was a sudden jarring noise. The bell. Amandine and P’tit Ours raced from the room, hand in hand. She could hear them clattering down the stairs towards the kitchen, then another door opening.
She didn’t stop them. She didn’t want to. The police would do that soon enough. She made for the front door to let them in. A noise from behind her stopped her. She turned to see Napoléon Marchand’s arm move and take a grip on the sofa. Then give it up to reach for the bottle.
So the old tyrant wasn’t dead. Despite her better judgment, she was just a little sorry.
But there was all the more reason, now, to hurry the police in. Amandine hadn’t killed the old man. P’tit Ours’ kick was only a misdemeanour. He felt to her like some unruly, overgrown child who had been misled into wrong doing. Now Napoléon Grandcourt Marchand would live to have his day in court, where he would stand accused of two deaths.
She hoped with all her might that there were no others, that a trip upstairs would find the house empty of dead bodies.
She pulled back the lock on the heavy front door and was about to turn the key when the voice behind it stopped her motion.
‘Cousin. Cousin? Are you there? It’s Père Benoit. You told me to come this week. Hercule? Is that you? Open up. Marchand’s left an envelope for me. Open up.’
Did she want the curé here? More to the point, what did he want? And why hadn’t the police who were meant to be watching the place stopped him?
Without pausing to consider any further, Marguerite ran upstairs. This might be her only chance to check for Martine and Yvette before old Gargantua rose from his stupor.
TWENTY-ONE
She could find no one in the house. No one in the dining room with its fine mahogany table, where the wall sported a stuffed boar’s head of deplorable ugliness. No one in the rooms upstairs where the gilded paper buckled on the walls and fell away in long shards. Nor was there any sign of Martine or Yvette in the tiny servants’ rooms in the eaves.
There was nothing in Napoléon Grandcourt Marchand’s house except an abiding smell of damp and dereliction. And drawers stuffed with an accumulation of papers.
She started to rifle through these, hoping to spot instant corroboration of what she had found in Xavier Marchand’s notebook. Instead she found a drawer full of property deeds. She noted their presence with the thought that they might just name a house where the Branquart sisters were being kept, since they so palpably weren’t here. But searching now would take more time than she felt she had. This detailed work would have to be left for another day.
Halfway down the stairs, she stopped abruptly. The front door was open. How could someone have come in, or indeed gone out, without her hearing? Who had a key to the lock? She crouched low on the landing. Could Marchand himself have got up, Lazarus-like, from his swoon, and escaped before the police arrived? She pricked up her ears.
There was a sound coming from the room where she had last seen the man. A mewling sound, like a child’s whimper.
She moved softly towards it. The sight that greeted her made her rush once more for the safety of the curtains. It wasn’t so much that she feared being seen now, but a kind of modesty overcame her, a visceral embarrassment.
Madame Tellier was there. She must have come in as silently as a ghost. She had propped her father up in an armchair, or perhaps he had managed to get into it himself, and he was reclining, his eyes open but glazed. She was crouched at his feet, her head on his lap, her hair, her most beautiful feature, a tumble of loosened locks meshed around his fingers. The daughterly posture wouldn’t have troubled Marguerite, except that it wasn’t altogether daughterly, not in any ordinary way. The woman was talking in a littl
e girl’s voice, rich with lisps and endearments, stroking her father’s hands, stroking his face, stroking where Marguerite didn’t want to look.
‘Ah Papa, mon petit papa, what has happened to you? What has happened to you? All because you wouldn’t let your little Estelle in earlier. Or yesterday. You barred the door. Naughty Papa. But now you’ve opened it and you’ll be kind to your little Estelle, your Estelle who loves you, who loves only you. Yes, mon petit papa.’ Her voice grew more urgent. She was rocking herself against the man, who sat there, impassive, staring into the flames, grunting at her caresses.
Suddenly, the woman sprang to her feet. Her eyes smouldered, huge in that long odd face. Marguerite stepped back, shuddering.
Estelle Tellier had picked a brightly patterned embroidered bag from the floor. A howl came from her. Her nostrils flared. ‘So you have had her here. You’ve kept her here. All along. All along. Where is she? I’ll tear her eyes out.’ Her breath rasped. ‘It is her, isn’t it? She isn’t just Xavier’s companion. She’s your … your … Where? Where is she? Where are you hiding her?’
The woman was panting. Her expression tortured, demented. She pulled at her hair. ‘How could you? How could you, Papa? After everything I’ve done for you. Everything. I’ll kill her. That’ll be the end of it. The end of both of them. One, two. The end.’
The face was terrible in its contortion. A dark energy came from the woman that made Marguerite think that like a steam engine she would mow anything down in her path.
‘You love her, don’t you? You love her. That black bastard of yours. Where is she? I’ll kill her. You love her more. More than me.’ The woman was sobbing now. ‘It killed Maman.’
A vase flew across the room and landed near Madame Tellier with a crash.
‘Stop your whining, woman. Get a hold on yourself. Or I’ll put Amandine in for her share of the will after all. She’s a kind soul, like her mother. My very own island Joséphine. Not like that greedy, nagging bitch who was yours. A schemer incarnate.’ A mad laugh erupted from him, loud, curdling. ‘Your blackness is all on the inside.’
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