Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  “The male students started the protest. They are the ones who should be ashamed.” Theo kept her voice level, but under the table she dug her nails into her palms. “They assaulted the two women students and ran them out of the school.”

  “You see, only a meager two were even able to pass the test.”

  Averill spoke up. “The women are held to a higher standard than the men.”

  Her uncle swiveled, furious that Averill had taken her side. “You—”

  Theo interrupted him. “Many women tested higher than the men but were not admitted.”

  “You cannot know that,” her uncle sneered.

  Theo drew breath to argue, but Aunt Marguerite chirruped her distress.

  “If you say so.” Theo attacked the sweetbreads. Arguing with her uncle was always pointless, and for whatever reason he’d taken up the incident as a cause. He was glaring at her and at Averill, probably planning retaliation.

  Her aunt struggled to find a topic to distract him. “Francine was asking if we would go to the country this summer.”

  He frowned. “Have we not always?”

  “Yes, but she hoped we could go to the estate and I believe it still needs repairs.”

  “Wasn’t there a fire?” Theo asked, helping her aunt along.

  “Yes, perhaps six months before you came to stay with us. It was quite terrible.”

  There was a brief pause, and Theo presumed they were each remembering that fire.

  Averill gave her a tight smile. “It remains in ruins. Brambles are overgrowing the stone—very picturesque.”

  “As picturesque as the baron’s decrepit estate?” Theo asked.

  “Not at all picturesque.” He turned his attention to Grand-mère then, said something to make her giggle.

  “Next year, I will attend to the repairs.” Her uncle’s voice was sullen.

  “But why postpone the work again?” Marguerite asked him, earning a deeper frown. Theo could see her struggle. The cocaine had left her skittish and argumentative, but she had too much experience of her husband’s wrath to persevere. Instead she sat, her eyes darting around the table, her hands moving spiderlike from one bit of jewelry to the next then scuttling up to twist her hair.

  “I chose to invest in my laboratory instead,” Uncle Urbain explained as if to a moron. “I needed to expand the space, modernize the equipment, and improve the soundproofing.”

  “That was far more important, of course,” her aunt murmured.

  Far more important to have a place to vivisect his specimens, Theo snarled inwardly. Did he really need soundproofing? Averill said he cut the poor animals’ vocal cords. She pushed the sweetbreads around with her fork, unable to take another bite. After a few moments, they were replaced with a sampling of cheeses.

  For some reason, her uncle considered the discussion a triumph. He turned to his daughter and said in a cajoling tone, “Perhaps this year we will go to Deauville. You would like that, of course, Francine?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And you, my dear?” he asked, turning to his wife. “Deauville would appeal to you this summer, would it not?”

  “Of course.”

  Uncle Urbain did not turn and ask her, but Theo thought she would be invited eventually. If she did not go, she would not see Averill for a month. That would be impossibly painful. Yet it would be misery to watch him subdued under his father’s domineering presence, day after day. But they could escape together. Averill could take her to paint the cliffs over the sea and the boardwalk. And Deauville meant the race track. That would be exciting. Or perhaps Averill would beg off. They would have Paris to themselves alone. Theo felt a flush of excitement radiating between her thighs, hot and sweet. Feeling her cheeks heat as well, she glanced at Averill. He was studying his food in a most determined manner.

  They had finished the cheeses when Casimir was announced. With no pretense at subtlety, Grand-mère indicated the baron should sit beside their nubile Francine. He smiled, kissed her hand, then made small talk to everyone else with polished politeness. Francine sat hunched, casting yearning, resentful glances at him. Dessert was presented, a crumbly crusted tart with tiny wild strawberries and whipped cream. Theo still had little appetite but the fresh brightness of the berries tantalized her into a few bites. Casimir mentioned that he would soon be away for a few days, in Dieppe. This time, Averill exchanged glances with her. They knew Casimir was going to greet Oscar Wilde upon his release from prison.

  Oblivious, Aunt Marguerite made pleasantries about the sea air. “It is still too early for the best weather. There will be rain. You should wait a month.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Casimir replied, as if he was actually considering it.

  The baron was amiable as always, but Theo saw tension in his posture. He glanced from Averill to her uncle but avoided Theo’s gaze except when offering pleasantries. After dinner, the men went to the library for brandy and cigars. The women sat in the parlor, Theo’s tension winding tighter as she waited for a chance to speak to Casimir and Averill. She suspected the unexpected visit had something to do with the morgue. Her aunt asked Francine to continue on in Les Misérables. Francine read for about twenty minutes in her soft, inflectionless voice until Aunt Marguerite abruptly suggested they retire. Her eyes had a glazed eagerness. There would be a much-desired sleeping potion waiting by her bedside.

  Theo loitered in the parlor, allowing her aunt and cousin to precede her out the door. When she entered the foyer, she heard raised voices behind the library doors. Her uncle exclaimed, “Murder!” But the rest was a blur of sound. She was tempted to eavesdrop, but the servants were still moving about the house. Frustrated, she went upstairs to her room and waited a few minutes for the women to settle into bed, then went to the head of the stairs. At last, she heard the library door open. Catching a glimpse of her uncle, she ducked out of sight until he ascended to his room. Returning to the overlook, she saw Averill and Casimir below. As she descended the staircase, she heard Averill say, low but angry, “Why did you tell my father we were questioned at the morgue? He was already furious about the cemetery.”

  “Better he is forewarned in case the Inspecteur pays another visit. I was at the morgue with you. As a supposed suitor for his daughter, I must be forgiven—and you with me.”

  “He will only blame me for implicating you.”

  “He is mad. One can only do so much.” Casimir shrugged. “Forgive me?”

  “As always.”

  Theo did not want to eavesdrop. She wanted to be included in their conversation. Approaching, she called out their names quietly. They turned, startled. “You are talking about the interrogation at the morgue?”

  They looked at each other almost guiltily. Then Casimir faced her squarely. “In part. The Inspecteur is troubled because I remembered another winged cross.”

  “A winged cross?” She was completely perplexed. Casimir realized it at once and looked annoyed that he’d said anything. He glanced at Averill again. Theo was annoyed in turn. “I will not have hysterics again."

  “You weren’t shown the photo of a winged cross of the back of the grave?” Averill asked.

  “No.” An image teased the edge of her mind but would not take form. “I wonder why.”

  “Because the Inspecteur does not think you capable of murder. The rest of us are suspects,” Averill said.

  “It was a charcoal scrawl.” Casimir shrugged again. “Probably meaningless.”

  “Then why was it important enough for a visit? You said you saw another?”

  “By the Seine,” Casimir said. “People who scrawl on walls must have a limited repertoire.”

  “Scrawls mean nothing. This mark does. Tell me.”

  Casimir told her the sad story of the poodle washer. There did not seem to be a correlation, yet Theo was uneasy. “No one ever found her son?”

  “He probably drowned. The Seine was right there.” Casimir frowned. “No doubt the detective exaggerates the significance o
f this scribble—but I was obliged to show it to him.”

  “Of course,” Theo said. “There is a madman killing children.”

  “If this detective even bothers to hunt for him,” Averill added. “He seems perfectly pleased to seize whoever is at hand.”

  Theo shook her head. “I believe he is more competent than that. He just provokes us to see what will happen.”

  She lingered, but Averill seemed determined to wait her out and continued to find questions for Casimir. He must not want to be alone with her again after what had happened in the library. Reluctantly, Theo bade them good night and climbed the stairs. Reaching the top, she paused and looked down. Averill and Casimir were still talking at the front door. Casimir stood with his well-tailored back to her, gloves in hand. He did not see her, but Averill glanced up over Casimir’s shoulder, briefly meeting her gaze.

  Then he took Casimir’s face in his hands, leaned forward and kissed him.

  Shock seared through Theo like a bolt of white lightning. The pain was a blinding brightness in her brain, flashes of burning heat and burning cold in her body. Averill stepped back from the embrace and smiled at Casimir. He opened the door, slid his arm over Casimir’s shoulders and led him out into the night.

  Theo fled down the hallway to her room. Once inside, she sank to the floor as demons of pain and anger rent her with searing claws, trying to rip their way out. Heart and belly and lungs and brain all screamed at her. She could not breathe, could not think.

  But she must think. She must make sense of what she had seen. Pushing herself back on her feet, she began pacing. That kiss was utterly deliberate. She was sure Averill had kissed Casimir tonight to drive her away. Tonight. But that was not their first kiss. There was nothing hesitant in it. Nothing hesitant in the casual drape of Averill’s arm over Casimir’s shoulders as he led him out the door. They were lovers. If he had warned her, would her heart have been safer? Did he not trust her? Did he despise himself? Had it not been Averill’s secret but Casimir’s? That would be a double betrayal.

  Bettine knocked, but Theo sent her away. She undressed herself and tried to sleep, but images tormented her unrelentingly, what she had seen—and more that she imagined. She rose and paced again, wanting to smash the mirror, the windows, Casimir’s smiling face.

  Averill had tried to warn her when they joked about school crushes. When he said most boys experimented, she thought it a subtle way of confiding that he had too. But he also said most men turned to women. She knew he consorted with actresses and other disreputable beauties. So he desired women as well. The kiss he gave her had been savage, passionate. Was it only anger? Only desperation?

  Even now, would he tell her the truth?

  ~

  Exhausted at last, Theo fell asleep. At dawn she dressed and let herself out of the house. The morning was a morose grey, sky and air merged in a faint pervasive rain that was little more than mist. Wetness and misery swathed her like a veil as she searched for and finally found a carriage to take her back to Montmartre. It wasn’t until she stopped outside her door that she remembered what happened before that revelatory kiss—the conversation about the missing children and the mark left on the grave. Theo went farther up the street and turned onto the rue de la Mire. The image of Inspecteur Devaux examining the wall superimposed itself on the stairs. This was where Denis had been abducted. Theo descended a few steps and there, amid all the crude and ugly images, was the black cross. A cross with wings.

  Even knowing what she would find, Theo was dumbfounded. Images and emotions swarmed, a black cloud in her mind. Back in her apartment, she splashed cold water in her face to try and clear her head, then ground coffee and put water on to boil. Anything to wake up. But she could not wake up to a different reality. Dread was like some horrid yeasty substance swelling inside her. Was it no more than bizarre coincidence? If several children had been killed, was it so very odd that they knew more than one?

  Yes, it was very, very odd.

  Could one of the Revenants be involved?

  No. She knew them.

  But last night had proved that the one she knew best, she knew least of all.

  “No.” She said it aloud. None of her friends could slaughter a child. One of them must have an enemy who wanted to implicate them. But what enemies? Paul would have political enemies, of course, and an endless stream of rejected poets bent on revenge. Theo bit back a laugh that threatened to turn into a sob. What enemy would contrive these horrible murders because his poems had been spurned?

  Theo saw the Tarot cards laid out before her, The Devil squatting in their midst.

  She saw his nearby companion, the Page of Cups. So charming. So tormented.

  “No.”

  She felt the presence of evil envelop her, like a foul breath tainting the air.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The film of night flowed round and over us.

  And my eyes in the dark did your eyes meet….

  ~ Charles Baudelaire

  MICHEL had an assignation with Lilias tonight. For once, he felt more reluctance than anticipation. There was still time to send his regrets, but he had done so the weekend following the fire and the discovery of the linked murders. Lilias would not tolerate being taken for granted. He would be a fool to lose her.

  And she might have news for him. He desired that more than he desired the escape of pleasure in her arms.

  In a bistro near the Sorbonne he ate an oyster sandwich and sipped a brisk Beaujolais. At two, he went to his appointment at the university where he spoke to a history professor specializing in religion. Shown a photograph of the winged cross, the professor theorized at length about the Cathars and the Albigensian Crusade. When the earnest academic began on the secrets of the Templars, Michel excused himself. He had a fortifying coffee across from Notre Dame, then sought out the priest who had been recommended to him. Unlike the professor, he did not pretend to any knowledge, only stared at the cross in bafflement.

  “Could it be a symbol for one of the angels?” the priest asked.

  Frustrated to be questioned himself, Michel replied, “It’s not one used by the church?”

  “No, except the obvious symbol of the cross,” the priest said. He looked relieved, no doubt guessing it was involved in a crime. Michel thanked him for his time and left. There was one more expert he meant to consult, but Huysmans had put him off till Monday.

  Michel returned to the morgue to gather his officers’ reports. There were no new suspects though all of Paris continued to file past the display. He had to warn himself continuously that it might be only strange coincidence at work that connected the Revenants with the children’s killings. Like a savage clock, his brain ticked off cases where innocent men had died because of just such absurdities. Instinct told him to follow this trail, but he must guard against forcing the pieces to fit his theory.

  If no new suspects had emerged, there was new evidence. Searching in a wider arc than before, Michel had discovered one more cross, and Inspecteur Rambert another. Alicia remained the only victim they had found, so also the only one with the symbol where her body was displayed. A discrepancy. But even in the chaos of the fire, it had been a great risk to snatch the girl. The killer dared not take time to scrawl his mark. With the cross on the grave and the remnant the baron had shown him, they now had five kidnappings marked with a cross. Five murders, Michel was certain. How many more remained a mystery. The discoveries had given Michel a brief surge of satisfaction, followed by a deepening depression at their failure.

  Earlier in the week, Inspecteur Rambert had returned in a fury from the orphanage. The assistant who had been sent to identify the charred remains of the blind children had not even bothered to acknowledge that there was one child missing, but had simply told the officers to bury all the pathetic little corpses in a pauper’s grave.

  “Sac à merde,” Rambert had fumed.

  “He did not murder her,” Michel pointed out even though the callousness and in
competence angered him as well.

  Rambert stalked off muttering, and Michel had quit for the day as well. Though he had been in the morgue only an hour, the smell overlaid the odors of the Paris streets and the lingering aromas of Notre Dame, incense, candle wax and lilies. Gathering fresh clothes from home, he went to the nearest public bath house and scrubbed himself until he was sure any lingering scent was in his mind, not on his skin. Later this month he would allow himself the indulgence of a lavishly tiled Turkish bath. The steam, a massage, would force him to relax.

  Clean and somewhat refreshed, he ate a simple supper of brie and baguette in the waning evening light. After dark, he made his way through the quiet streets to Lilias’ home. He still had not brought his guitar. Choosing a song, practicing, would have given him a needed distraction. He tried to put the murder of Alicia out of his mind, but the ugliness preyed on him. A blind child raped, tortured, murdered. What torments had the other children suffered?

  And if at the hands of a Revenant, which one? Charron still seemed the most likely, but it might only be happenstance or even some sort of misdirection. Jules Loisel seemed too emotionally weak to commit such havoc, but Michel had met other killers who used the power of death to counter their weakness. The baron was the most athletic, a duelist, someone far more used to violence than he appeared—but violence against men, not children. He had not feigned his surprise at the photograph. He had visibly paled. What of Noret? These were not political crimes. There was a sick passion in them. Had they been rich children, Michel might have constructed some twisted theory. But they were sexual crimes, and all of the children poor and vulnerable. Perhaps Noret’s sexuality was as twisted as his cold-blooded anarchist politics, but buried, a sort of self-loathing….

  Michel made himself stop. The case was devouring him. He must push it away as best he could. He was grateful that he would not have to hide his concern entirely from Lilias, yet he could not go to her submerged in gloom. He must make an effort.