The Essence of Malice

by Ashley Weaver

  There had been a time in our marriage when I would have allowed this dismissal, but things had changed in recent months. I was not in the mood to be thwarted. I looked at him, my eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me, Milo?”

  “You’ve a suspicious mind, my sweet,” he said dryly, folding the paper.

  “Whose fault do you suppose that is?” I replied, only half in jest.

  “Entirely mine.” He smiled, tossed the newspaper aside, and leaned toward me. “I’m very wicked indeed, tainting your innocent heart with constant mistrust.” There was a look in his eyes that made it clear that he was going to do his best to distract me from the conversation.

  This was confirmed as he pressed his mouth to mine and slid his arms around me, and for a moment I almost forgot that I was growing cross with him. Almost.

  I pulled back from his kiss and firmly pushed him away. “Answer me, Milo.”

  The corner of his mouth tipped up, an expression that was a mixture of amusement and exasperation, and he sat back with a sigh. “I didn’t mention it because I was afraid you would do what you are doing now: baying at the scent of trouble like an overwrought bloodhound.”

  My brows rose. “I will overlook, for the time being, that highly insulting description of my interest and ask only that you explain yourself. What trouble?”

  He leaned across me to grind out his cigarette in the brass ashtray on the little table near the window. “I’m not entirely sure. There was something wrong about Madame Nanette’s first letter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For one thing, she wrote of a private matter she wished to discuss with me. The vagueness of it was what caught my attention. She has never had trouble expressing herself, so the careful wording was unusual. Something about the tone of the letter was off.”

  Vagueness was not, in itself, cause for alarm, but I trusted Milo’s instincts. He was unnervingly astute when he wanted to be.

  “She didn’t come out and say it,” he went on, “but I had the impression there was some difficulty with the family for whom she’s working.”

  “They were supposed to holiday in Como,” I said.

  “Yes. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t know if there was anything in it. I thought I could go and speak with her without causing you alarm.”

  I didn’t entirely buy this excuse, especially given his unflattering reference to my proclivity for sniffing out trouble.

  “But then you received the second letter this morning,” I said, “saying that she had been detained in Paris.”

  He nodded. “That seems to confirm that something is amiss. She would not have asked me to come otherwise.”

  Even from the meager details at our disposal, I could not disagree with his assessment that something seemed wrong. I wished that he had seen fit to confide in me before this.

  “You might have told me, you know,” I said.

  His expression was unrepentant. “You’ve been in enough danger as of late. I have determined to keep you out of trouble, and I won’t apologize for it.”

  I frowned. It was true that we had found our way into several less-than-desirable situations over the past year, but wasn’t that all the more reason for us to do what we could to solve Madame Nanette’s problem? We were becoming experts at such things.

  “Surely it’s not a question of danger,” I said. “And if Madame Nanette is experiencing some kind of difficulty, we should do whatever we can to help her.”

  “I shall do whatever is necessary,” he said with an air of finality that irritated me.

  “Well, you won’t be doing it without me,” I said.

  He studied my face for a moment and then shook his head.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked.

  “That expression of yours. I know what it means.”

  “And what is that?”

  He sighed. “Trouble.”

  * * *

  WE ARRIVED IN Paris on a warm morning full of sunshine and the scent of heliotrope.

  Despite my concern about Madame Nanette and my irritation at Milo’s initial secrecy, I had been lulled into a deep sleep by the motion of the train and had awoken feeling refreshed and hopeful. Perhaps there was nothing so very wrong after all. Perhaps Madame Nanette merely wanted to visit with us. It had been a long time since we had seen her, after all.

  We had lunch at a café and then went to our hotel, a lovely stone building with blue shutters and window boxes full of bright flowers. It was not where we usually stayed when in Paris, but it was in close proximity to the address on Madame Nanette’s letter, and we thought it would be best to be near her.

  Milo had wired her about our arrival and he stopped to inquire at the desk as to whether there were any messages.

  “There is a message, monsieur,” the desk clerk said, handing Milo a slip of paper.

  Milo took it and glanced at it. “She says she will call tonight after dinner, if she can get away.”

  I nodded, my optimism suddenly beginning to fade. I sincerely hoped there wasn’t something seriously amiss, that she wasn’t ill. Though Milo was not one to confide his feelings, I knew that he cared very greatly for Madame Nanette. His mother had died shortly after giving birth to him, and Madame Nanette was the closest thing to a mother that he had ever known.

  He seemed to have sensed my concern, for he smiled reassuringly and gently squeezed my arm as we exited the lift and followed the bellboy toward our room.

  I stepped into our suite and looked around as the bellboy deposited our hand luggage inside the doorway. Our trunks had come ahead with my maid and Milo’s valet from the station.

  “Everything in order?” Milo asked, as he tipped the young man and then closed the door behind him.

  “Yes, it’s lovely,” I said.

  The door from the hallway had opened into the sitting room, which was tastefully decorated in pastels and muted florals. A satin sofa and armchair sat before the marble fireplace, and there were a number of pleasant art pieces on the walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, and I walked across the plush carpets to them and pulled back the drapes. Below us, the Seine sparkled in the afternoon sunlight.

  “It’s nice to be back in Paris,” I said. “It seems as though it’s been ages.”

  Though the words were sincere, I heard the lack of enthusiasm in my own voice. I couldn’t seem to shake my growing unease. Milo must have noticed it, for he followed me to the window and stood close behind me.

  “There’s no need to fret, darling,” he murmured, sliding his arms around me and brushing a kiss on my neck. “I’m quite sure everything will be fine.”

  “Yes,” I said, his confidence making me want to believe it, too. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  There was a polite shuffling of feet behind us, and I knew that Milo’s valet, Parks, was making his presence known. Parks was extremely uncomfortable with any displays of affection between Milo and myself, and he took great pains to make sure he never stumbled onto one unknowingly.

  “Yes, Parks?” Milo asked, releasing me and turning to face him.

  “Your things are all arranged, sir, and I’ve set out your evening clothes. Is there anything more?”

  “I don’t think so,” Milo said. “Why don’t you take the evening off, Parks. I daresay even you could find something to amuse yourself with in Paris.”

  “Undoubtedly, sir,” Parks said, with an absolute lack of enthusiasm. “Thank you.”

  “Is Winnelda somewhere about?” I asked.

  “I believe she went to a nearby shop, madam, to collect some, ah, reading materials.” The words were rife with disapproval.

  I knew very well what type of reading materials Winnelda would be collecting. Gossip rags. She loved nothing more than juicy scandals, and I was certain Paris would have plenty of them for her. I was doubtful, however, that she would find much written in English.

  “Thank you, Parks,” I said.

  He nodded and then n
oiselessly exited the suite.

  “Poor fellow can barely contain his excitement at the prospect of an evening off in Paris,” Milo remarked dryly.

  I smiled. “I do wonder sometimes what Parks is like when he’s alone. Do you think he’s always so respectable?”

  “Eminently. I half expect he sleeps in his suit.”

  “I know working in proximity with Winnelda has been trying for him.” Winnelda was as flighty as Parks was dependable, and I suspected that she vexed him greatly.

  “He may not have to worry. You’re likely to lose that girl in Paris,” Milo commented. “Either she’ll be swept off her feet by some mustachioed scoundrel or she’ll wind up kicking her heels in a chorus line.”

  “No, not that,” I said. “She hasn’t balance enough.”

  It was just then that the door to the suite opened, and Winnelda came inside, a stack of magazines in her arms. She stopped when she saw us and bobbed an awkward little curtsey. “Oh, madam, Mr. Ames, I didn’t realize that you had arrived. I just went down the street to purchase a few things. That is … I … well, I have your trunks almost unpacked, madam. Shall I unpack the little valise you had with you?”

  With one last look at the picturesque view outside, I turned from the window and pulled off my gloves.

  “Yes, Winnelda, thank you. And will you lay out something for me to wear this evening?”

  “I thought you’d be buying new gowns,” she said, her tone expressing shock that I should wear something I already owned when all the shops in Paris were at my disposal.

  “I may do some shopping,” I said with a smile, “but not before dinner.”

  She looked a bit disappointed, so I resorted to a topic I knew would cheer her.

  “Anything of interest in the society columns?” I asked. Winnelda took great pleasure in the bad behaviors of the rich and famous. Now that Milo had managed to keep himself out of the gossip columns for the last several months, I was much less averse to them than I had been when his name was bandied about with those of beautiful socialites and cinema stars.

  “I had to go through a lot of magazines to find anything interesting,” Winnelda said glumly. “Most of them were in French and had an old man on the cover.”

  “An old man?” I repeated.

  “Yes, his photograph was on the cover of many of them. He was quite old and not very handsome at all.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, fighting back a smile.

  “I bought the ones I could find in English and a few of the French ones, too. I thought, perhaps, you might tell me what some of them say later.”

  “Certainly.”

  If I had known the direction our Paris visit was about to take, I might have paid a bit more attention to the gossip columns from the beginning.

  3

  WE HAD AN early dinner and returned to the hotel to await Madame Nanette’s arrival. Milo ordered coffee to be sent to our room in preparation for her visit, and there was nothing to do but wait. I turned on the wireless and Milo sat smoking, giving every appearance of perfect ease.

  I couldn’t help but feel relieved that both Parks and Winnelda had been given the evening off so that we might have some privacy. Parks was the soul of discretion, but Winnelda was an inveterate eavesdropper. She meant no harm by it, but it would be easier to focus on our visit with Madame Nanette without wondering where Winnelda might be lurking.

  Shortly before ten o’clock a light knock sounded on our door. Milo moved to open it, and Madame Nanette stood before him. They exchanged greetings in French, and there was a transparent fondness in Milo’s tone that I seldom heard there.

  She caught both his hands in hers, looking up into his face. “You look very well,” she pronounced at last. “Too much sun is bad for the skin, of course, but you have never minded about that.”

  He laughed, leaning to kiss her forehead. “I might have known you would notice.”

  She smiled and reached up to pat his cheek before coming into the room.

  My gaze swept over her face, searching for any sign of illness. I felt relieved to see that she looked radiantly healthy. She had a sweet countenance and sharp, dark eyes. She was of average height and slim build and wore a dark gray dress, a bit old-fashioned in style but of excellent quality. Her once-black hair was now streaked with silver, but her skin was almost unlined, and she might easily have passed for a much younger woman.

  She came then to me and gently grasped my arms and brushed kisses across both cheeks. Then she stepped back, her hands still on my arms, to examine me. “You look wonderful, Mrs. Ames. Very happy.”

  “Oh, call me Amory, please.” I had told her the same thing each time we met, but she had yet to become comfortable with the informality.

  She squeezed my arms and then she turned to Milo. “Your wife glows with happiness. It must be because you’ve been behaving yourself. I’ve scarcely seen a word of you in the gossip columns for several months.”

  Milo smiled, passing off what might have been a gentle rebuke as a compliment. “Yes, I’ve been extraordinarily well-behaved as of late. It’s almost a pity, really. I haven’t had a good scolding in many a year.”

  “I’m sure you have a few that are long overdue,” she replied, the twinkle in her eyes belying the sternness of her tone. “You are still much too handsome for your own good, but I suppose that can’t be helped. Now, Amory, come sit beside me and tell me about your trip to Italy.”

  We moved to the cluster of furniture near the fire. Madame Nanette and I sat on the sofa, and Milo took a chair near us. I poured coffee from the silver pot into the hotel’s fine white porcelain cups. Madame Nanette took her coffee with two sugars, no milk, just as Milo did.

  I was, of course, anxious to hear why she had really come, but she seemed in no hurry to divulge the reason for her visit. Instead, I told her about our time in Italy as Milo sat, smoking a cigarette and contributing an occasional comment. I could almost believe that we had imagined the undertone of trouble in her letters, except for the slight hint of some private worry that flickered occasionally in her eyes before she pushed it away.

  Finally, it seemed that Milo had had enough of the niceties. He set down his cup and saucer and ground out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the table. Then he set his gaze on Madame Nanette. “There was more to your request that we visit than wanting to hear what Italy was like. Why have you really asked us to come to Paris?”

  A smile touched the corner of her lips. “Always intuitive and always impatient.”

  “Yes, well, I think I’ve been remarkably patient thus far.”

  She clicked her tongue disapprovingly at his tone, but it seemed to have prodded her forward and, after a moment’s hesitation, she began. “There is something wrong,” she said. “I suspected as much when I wrote to you. Now I’m sure of it.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about it?” I encouraged.

  “It is about my employer,” she said.

  Milo nodded. I knew he had thought it likely that the matter concerned her employer.

  “For whom are you working?” I asked.

  “You have heard of Helios Belanger?”

  I was surprised. I certainly had heard of him. Helios Belanger was one of France’s premier parfumiers. He was the creator of more than a dozen popular perfumes. “Worthy of queens,” the Parfumes Belanger slogan proclaimed. No respectable society woman was without a Belanger scent. I had several bottles of them on my dressing table at home.

  I glanced at Milo. He did not look at all surprised, and I had that strange inkling that he knew more than he admitted.

  “I don’t know if you heard,” Madame Nanette went on, “but he took a very young wife four years ago.”

  “Yes,” Milo said. “I believe I did hear something about that.”

  “They had a child the year after their marriage, a girl, Seraphine. It is she who is my charge.”

  Milo nodded.

  “And there is something about working in Helios Be
langer’s home that has caused your concern?” I asked.

  Again, she hesitated. Then she folded her hands in her lap. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning,” she said. “You know about Helios Belanger, but perhaps you do not know all that is necessary for my story to make sense.”

  Milo sat back in his chair. “By all means, tell us.”

  I poured more coffee into her cup, and Madame Nanette began her story in her warm, musical voice. Her accent had been considerably softened by twenty-odd years in English service, but there was still the melodic fluidity of the French language in her speech.

  “Helios Belanger has a long and illustrious history of wealth. He is a man who has met with success at every turn, thanks to both a relentless nature and a Midas touch. His beginnings were not so illustrious, though few know much about that part of the story.

  “He was born in Marseilles, the son of a Frenchman and his Greek wife. Neither of them survived past Helios’s youth. He had no family and made his way here, to Paris, where he spent many years on the streets. But those years were not wasted. He learned how to use his wits and how to be an excellent judge of character. Not only that, he always claimed that his keen sense of smell was developed from nights spent in the open air in the Jardin des Plantes and amid the follies of Parc Monceau.”

  I could picture him in my mind, the young boy, ambling along the pathways of the park at dusk, finding a spot to lie down amidst the lush foliage, and looking up at the stars.

  “He was quick and smart, and he got a job at an apothecary. His employer was a former soldier who told Helios of his travels around the world and instilled in him a desire to experience foreign lands,” Madame went on. “When Helios wasn’t working behind the counter, he spent time mixing herbs and flowers, making amateur perfumes that his employer eventually let him sell. That was how I first met him.”

  I looked up, a bit surprised. I had not expected this development, that Madame Nanette had known him in the past. My eyes flickered to Milo, but he wasn’t looking my way.

  “As a very young woman, I spent a summer working in a flower shop,” she went on, “and Helios would often come to buy flowers. He could talk for hours about the fragrances, the subtle differences between them. He would sometimes walk me home and could tell, before we turned a corner, what types of flowers were in the window boxes on the next street. He was exciting, charming, and I began to be very fond of him.”