The Essence of Malice

by Ashley Weaver

  I suspected that, in the world of the Belangers, this was a very disparaging assessment indeed.

  13

  CECILE BELANGER LED me to a white-framed greenhouse, the panes of glass glinting brightly in the afternoon sun. We stepped inside, and I was immediately hit with a potent bouquet of fragrance. For a moment, I was lost in the heady, almost dizzying, combination of scents. However, after a moment passed, I began to make out some of the individual smells that hovered in the air. Jasmine, rose, and violet were the most discernible. Other, more exotic scents were also familiar, but I could not name them offhand.

  I looked around. Flowers and plants grew everywhere: on climbing trellises, in pots on the floor and tables and planters hanging from the ceiling. There were also trees growing in huge earthen vessels. I spotted orange, lemon, and acacia, among others. Everywhere one looked there was some other lovely flower or shrub to draw the eye. It was a glorious jumble of plants, but I could sense that there was definite order to the seemingly untamed verdure. This was no common greenhouse. It was as though I had stumbled into some exotic and well-kept jungle in the middle of Paris.

  “It’s magnificent,” I said.

  She smiled, and it was the first time I had seen what looked like genuine happiness in her face. “It has taken me a long time to get it just as I wished. I am very proud of it.”

  A flagstone path lead through the foliage, and I followed her along it through the warm, sweet air as she pointed out different plants.

  “Here I have herbs,” she said. “Marjoram, mint, patchouli, rosemary, lemongrass, just to name a few. I had to keep them here rather than in the potager so Cook would stop stealing them to put in our dinners.”

  I laughed.

  “I have over twenty varieties of roses,” she said, nodding toward a large section of the greenhouse where roses grew in tangled abundance. “Several of them are hybrids I’ve developed myself, mostly to enhance the aromas.”

  I was very much impressed. Cecile Belanger was clearly a master of her craft.

  We reached the back of the greenhouse and there was a door in the wall. Cecile opened it and led me into a room that, though attached to the greenhouse and possessed of large windows open to let in the sunlight, was not made entirely of glass like the rest of the building. It looked as though it might be the office of a scientist. There was a large portion of the room with scientific equipment on tables and a wall of shelves full of carefully labeled jars. A thin rope was strung across the ceiling and held bunches of dried flowers. The smell was subtler here, less fresh than the greenhouse but still very pleasant.

  “This is the laboratory that my father created for me,” she said. “Of course, it was rather rudimentary to start. I don’t know if he really believed at first that I meant to dedicate myself to it. Once he saw that I loved it as much as he did, he began to buy me more equipment. Some of it rather expensive. He had his own scientists, of course, but there were times when I solved my own little olfactory dilemmas.”

  She pointed to a shelf of leather-bound books. I looked closely and saw that there were no titles on the spines. “These are my scent journals,” she said. “I started writing them at a very young age, under my father’s guidance. I began taking special care to study scents and write them down. I was always stopping to smell the flowers, an English expression, is it not? I would keep a log of what plants smelled like and how they smelled after different amounts of time, how they smelled when mixed together. They called him Le Nez, the nose, for his renowned sense of smell, and he called me his petite nez. Later, of course, my notes became much more scientific. My father would often read over them and add remarks.”

  “I think it’s wonderful that he encouraged you to follow in his footsteps,” I said.

  She nodded. “I was always very happy that he did not view women as incapable of doing the things that men do. Instead of pointing me toward more jejune pursuits, he did everything possible to nurture my fascination with scent and develop my skills.”

  She was fortunate in that respect. I knew a great many women who had been discouraged from such pursuits by parents who thought their main objective was to marry well and produce heirs.

  She led me to the table that held her equipment. There was a large metal press and an array of beakers, droppers, spoons, and a great many other things I didn’t recognize. She pointed to a curious-looking contraption. “This is for steam distillation,” she said. Her hand moved to another piece of equipment, what appeared to be a stack of frames on the floor, not unlike a wooden beehive in appearance. “Are you familiar with the process of enfleurage?” she asked.

  “Only vaguely,” I admitted. I had determined it would not do any good to pretend that I was in any way knowledgeable about the process of perfumery. Better to say that my interest was newly developed than fumble my way through feigned familiarity.

  “Enfleurage is used to extract the fragrance from flowers.” She picked up a plate of glass in a wooden frame. “In cold enfleurage, these chassis are coated with fat, and flower petals are pressed between them. The fat absorbs the fragrance from the petals over the course of several days. The process is repeated until the fat has absorbed enough of the fragrance.”

  “I see,” I said. “How very interesting.”

  “I have always thought so,” she said, a smile forming at the corners of her mouth. “In fact, I first attempted it many years ago. I had seen the process done at my father’s factories and here in his laboratory as a young girl. He made his own lavender pomade that he was never without, and I was fascinated by the method and most eager to try it myself. When I was perhaps ten years old, I located some broken window panes in the garden shed, coated them with leftover grease I had secreted from the kitchen, and picked some roses from my mother’s garden, pressing them with some old bricks for several days. Unfortunately, I lacked the correct technique. The grease went rancid and the flowers rotted. The resulting pomade was putrid in the extreme, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  We laughed, and I could tell the memory was special to her. “I put it in a jar anyway,” she said. “My mother accepted the present graciously, and my father took me back to the shed to show me what I had done wrong.” Her smile faded ever so slightly as a look of sadness came into her eyes. “I learned everything I know about perfume from my father, and everything about being a good woman from my mother.”

  “They must have been very special people,” I said.

  She nodded. “My mother was a beautiful woman.” There was something unspoken in the words, and I wondered if she was thinking about her stepmother, comparing the young woman who had married her father to the woman who had raised her.

  The soft silence of the room was suddenly broken by the ringing of a telephone I had not noticed on the wall. “We had it installed for the sake of convenience, but it is sometimes a nuisance,” she said, going to answer it.

  “Yes?” She listened for a moment and then glanced at her wrist. In keeping with her generally understated appearance, the only jewelry she wore was a watch. Granted, it was a watch set in diamonds and emeralds. Displaying both great wealth and eminent practicality, it suited Cecile Belanger perfectly.

  “Very well,” she said. She hung up the phone and turned to me. “I’m sorry, Madame Ames, I’m afraid I have lost track of time. In order to create your custom scent, we really should talk more. I need to learn more about you before I can determine what will best suit you. Unfortunately, I have another engagement this afternoon.”

  I remembered what Madame Nanette had told us. Today was the reading of the will.

  “Perhaps we might set up another appointment?” I asked.

  “Yes…” It seemed that she hesitated ever so slightly and then said suddenly, “Would you and your husband like to come to dinner tomorrow night?”

  I couldn’t help but be a bit surprised at the invitation. This was more of a social engagement than a business transaction. I thought perhaps that she had warmed to me throug
hout the course of the day. I certainly felt as though I knew her better than I had.

  “That would be lovely,” I said.

  “Good.” She smiled. “I shall look forward to it.”

  I couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty. I had approached Cecile Belanger under false pretenses, but now I felt that what might have the potential to blossom into a genuine friendship was tainted with my treachery. Of course, there remained the possibility that Cecile was a killer, in which case I was certainly not the one who should feel guilty.

  We walked back through the garden and into the house. Just as we reached the foyer, Anton stepped out of the office that he had inherited from his father, the one from which I had heard their conversation at the party. “Cecile, may I speak with you?”

  “Yes, after I’ve walked Madame Ames out.”

  “I can show myself out,” I said. It was, after all, only a few steps to the door.

  “Very well,” she said. “Good afternoon, and we shall see you tomorrow night?”

  “Yes. I shall look forward to it.”

  With a dismissive nod in my direction, Anton motioned for her to precede him into the room and he followed her, closing the door behind them. As much as I was tempted to press my ear against the door, my sense of propriety won the day and I turned to take my leave.

  It seemed my opportunity for eavesdropping had not been lost, however, for just as I reached the front door I caught the sound of voices in the drawing room, and I couldn’t help but hear what they said.

  “What a lovely bouquet. And you look positively blooming yourself.”

  “Thank you,” came the hesitant reply.

  I recognized both voices. It was Beryl and Michel Belanger. It seemed Michel must have just come in and found Beryl arranging her roses from the garden. There was something in the interaction that gave me pause. This seemed to be more than a friendly conversation. His next words confirmed it.

  “One might never know that you were recently widowed.” His tone held a jesting, almost mocking, note. “I have no doubt you will find comfort in your grief.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say such things, Michel.” Her voice was strained, almost distressed.

  He laughed. “You needn’t feign grief with me, my dear stepmother.”

  “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t…”

  “I do not judge you, not at all. Nor do I begrudge you your little afternoon walks in the Jardin du Luxembourg. I think tomorrow would be a good time for one, yes? He is anxious to be alone with you, I am sure.”

  There was a sudden thump and the shatter of glass followed by a startled cry.

  “How clumsy of you, Beryl,” Michel said.

  I slipped out the front door before one of them came from the room to summon a maid to clean up the broken vase.

  So the tensions in the Belanger household had not diminished with the death of Helios Belanger. What was more, it seemed that Madame Nanette had been correct in her suspicion. Beryl Belanger had a lover. Was that motive enough for murder? People had killed for less.

  * * *

  I RETURNED TO the hotel and was a bit surprised to find that Milo was there. He was reclined on the sofa, his feet propped up on the arm, smoking a cigarette.

  “Hadn’t you anything amusing to do this afternoon?” I asked. It was only by the strongest of efforts that I kept from asking him if he had a train to catch. Throughout my entire afternoon, that ticket in his pocket had been at the back of my mind. I wanted very much to know why he had lied to me, but I was putting off asking him. Perhaps some part of me was afraid to discover the answer.

  “Not particularly,” he replied. “I had thought about it, but then I realized Madame Nanette was likely to ring us after the reading of the will if anything of interest occurred.”

  It was uncharacteristically thoughtful of him to have decided to await her call.

  I went to the sitting area and took a seat on the chair across from him. “Cecile Belanger left me for an appointment. It must have been the reading of the will. I suppose we are likely to hear something before dinner.”

  “How did you succeed with the Belangers?” he asked. “Did you learn anything?”

  “A few things, I think,” I said thoughtfully. “The most telling, perhaps, is that the door to Cecile’s greenhouse, which contains a number of deadly plants and chemicals, is left unlocked. It also seems Madame Nanette was right about Beryl Belanger having a lover. I overheard Michel taunting her about it.”

  “Has she risen to the top of your suspect list, then?” Milo asked.

  Despite his somewhat flippant tone, I gave him my honest answer. “It’s difficult to say. It seems to me that Cecile was very fond of her father. Of course, that might have been an act. It’s difficult to tell about Anton. He didn’t say much, except for what he plans to charge to make my custom perfume.”

  I named the price that Anton Belanger had quoted me, and Milo shrugged. I ought to have known that he would have been unimpressed with the exorbitant cost of procuring a custom perfume along with information.

  “And we’ve been invited to dine with the Belangers tomorrow night.”

  “Excellent, darling. You have made progress,” he said.

  “I hope so. It seems as though things have been frightfully difficult to uncover thus far.” I glanced at him. “There are so many secrets. One never knows what people are hiding.”

  “No, one doesn’t,” he said, with no hint of guilt.

  I opened my mouth to confront him about the train ticket, but was prevented from doing so by the ringing of the telephone.

  Milo and I glanced at each other. I would have thought it was too early for Madame Nanette’s call, but perhaps the reading of the will had not taken as long as I thought it might.

  I started to rise, but Milo sat up and was on his feet before I was. “I’ll get it,” he said, dropping his cigarette in the ashtray.

  He crossed to the telephone and picked it up.

  “Hello,” he said. There was a slight pause and I could tell from something in his manner that it was not Madame Nanette. “Yes. What did she say?” Another pause. “Indeed. You have done very well.”

  This was rather a curious conversation. I wondered to whom he was speaking.

  “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think … Yes, thank you.”

  He put the telephone back on the receiver and turned to me, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I have garnered us a valuable opportunity,” he said.

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “I’ve found a way for us to speak to Herr Muller.”

  I had to admit this was good news. I had been trying to think of a way I might approach him but, short of commissioning him to make a sculpture of some sort, I had not had any good ideas. And I did not particularly want to pay for both a custom perfume and a sculpture in the space of one visit to Paris.

  “It turns out that he has come to Paris to meet with a model,” Milo said.

  Something about this bit of information struck a chord of suspicion in me. I suddenly had the distinct impression that he was being evasive.

  “Who was that on the telephone, Milo?”

  “That was Nadine,” he said, very casually.

  It was just as I thought.

  “Dear little Nadine,” I said. “What did she have to say?”

  “It occurred to me earlier that she might prove of use to us.”

  “Did it?” I replied, quite interested to know his logic. “How so?”

  “I told you that she works as a model. I rang her this afternoon and asked if she might ask some of her friends if any of them have posed for Herr Muller before. It turns out he’s rather a well-known figure here in Paris. Nadine has been acquainted with several of his models, including the one he is going to sculpt next. She made plans to meet them at a nightclub tonight and has invited us to join them.”

  Though I hated to give any credit to Nadine, I couldn’t help but feel it would be a good opportunity. Herr Muller h
ad behaved rather strangely at the party, and I would like to see what else I could learn about him.

  On the other hand, I was already very annoyed with my husband for keeping secrets from me, and the prospect of a dinner with him and a table of young models was not entirely appealing.

  I realized suddenly that he was waiting for a response. “Very well,” I said. “I think that may prove very useful.”

  “I thought it was rather clever of her to arrange it.”

  “Yes. Perfectly enchanting,” I replied. “How shall we ever repay her?”

  My inability to keep the edge from my voice annoyed me. I had nothing against Nadine, and she had indeed been quite helpful. The problem was that I could not forget that ticket I had found in his pocket this morning, but nor did the time seem right to confront him about it.

  All of this crossed my mind in a matter of seconds. When I looked up, Milo’s eyes caught mine, and it was too late for me to mask my expression.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied lightly. “I told you, I don’t mind Nadine.”

  “I don’t mean Nadine,” he said. “There’s something else.”

  I hated moments like these, when he could read my emotions with minimal effort and I could tell nothing of what was going on behind those blue eyes of his.

  With great effort, I smoothed my features and offered him a smile. “I suppose I’m a bit tired after meeting with the Belangers today. It’s nothing.”

  14

  MADAME NANETTE HAD not rung us by the time we left for the nightclub. Milo had been a bit reluctant, I think, to leave the hotel without hearing from her, but I was not especially concerned. It was likely that she had been caught up caring for the child and had not yet found the time to contact us.

  We met Nadine and her party at a nightclub in Montparnasse. This was the sort of place that was more likely to appeal to the younger set. The dances on the floor were much more lively than the ones to which I was accustomed, and the women all seemed to be wearing clothing that was a good deal more ostentatious than mine. Then again, I was no longer one of the flashy younger generation. I had chosen a heavily beaded gown of sapphire blue, which I felt was quite gaudy enough.