by Yves Fey
“Just scraped.” His voice sounded gritty. “Corbeau doubled back.”
Rambert looked up at the cut floorboards. “He set a trap?”
Michel nodded. Together they circled behind the hay bales. Rambert reached out and pulled some down. Five pitchforks had been wedged into an improvised wooden stand between the bales. Michel had barely missed skewering his head on the last one.
“Nasty,” Rambert said.
It had taken Corbeau a while to assemble this. Had the trap been set for them, or was he at odds with some partner in crime? Michel remembered the vacant space for the second fiacre and suspected Corbeau had it stored elsewhere.
Going upstairs, they found the cracked panel opened onto a landing with narrow stairs descending down to a door. Corbeau had jammed it, but they managed to shove it open. Outside was an overgrown backyard with a large but sickly apple tree and a multitude of weeds. There looked to be another door leading into the house, but Michel could not find the trigger to open it. Turning to Rambert, he said, “We have reason to search now that we’ve been attacked.”
They entered the front door, moving carefully from room to room. Every one was filthy, thick with dust and debris, stinking of rotted food and waste. They found the grandfather alone in a room on the ground floor in the back. He was frail, crippled with arthritis, and almost deaf. When they asked about his grandson, he quivered with fear. He crossed his arms over his chest and pulled the bottom of his sleeves to cover his hands. Drawing the sleeves back Michel saw his hands and arms were covered with small round sores…cigarette burns.
Old Corbeau jerked his arms away and waved his hands at them. “Go away! Go away! He will kill me. Worse.”
“He won’t kill you,” Michel promised.
“What? What?”
Michel spoke loudly and slowly. “We have men to guard you. One during the day, one at night.”
The old man stared at him uncertainly. “You will protect me?”
“But you must tell us what you know.”
“I don’t know anything!” he cried.
“What you suspect,” Michel challenged.
The old man looked away, looked back furtively. At last, he whispered, “The hideaway.”
“What is that?”
“Under the stables.” He began to recount what must be an old family story. “When the Catholic kings were helping kill off the Protestants, our family smuggled them from Paris to Dieppe. We had another stable there and were allied with a shipping company. The Protestants paid us well to escape Paris and sail to a friendlier place. It made us rich, yes, but it was dangerous. It was heroic.”
“What is under the stables?” Michel asked again.
“A priest hole.” The old man giggled. “A priest hole, but for Protestants.”
“Where?”
“In the corner of the back stall, hidden under the feeding trough.”
Rambert was eager to go search, but first Michel asked the old man, “Did your grandson come here with any friends?”
The old man shook his head but looked uncertain. At last he looked up and said, “Sometimes the floor shook, as if there were two people upstairs. Two people walking back and forth in his room.”
Michel turned to Rambert. “First we look in his room, then the stables.”
Rambert glanced at him uncertainly. “The grandson may try to return, either for something he has left or to silence any witnesses.”
“I did just promise,” Michel said wryly. “See if the other men have come back from their search and set them to watch here. And we need to find a relative, however distant.”
Michel talked to old Corbeau while Rambert went on his errand. He managed to gather a few tales of wretched torment before Rambert reappeared with the first watcher. He’d left a note at the café for the other. The watcher scowled, unhappy with this new assignment that would last all night. It was the man that Michel was certain had clumsily alerted Corbeau earlier. He had no sympathy. “You had best stay awake, or you’ll find yourself skewered by a pitchfork. There may be other escape routes hidden in these buildings.”
With the grandfather guarded, Michel took Rambert up the stairs and down the corridor to the room that would be over the old man’s. It overlooked the apple tree in the back yard. There was a stuffed raven on the table—Corbeau’s namesake. Its glass eye caught the lamplight and winked at him. There were drawings and torn pictures of ravens on the walls. There were no books in the room, but there were clippings from the newspapers about the fire at the bazaar and others about Alicia being displayed at the morgue. There were also articles about some of the other missing children, the girls in particular, he noted. All that had been reported, Michel imagined. There were some older clippings, grisly murders that must have intrigued him. Michel had a sinking feeling. He had said to Averill Charron that in Paris even chimneysweeps read Baudelaire. Carriage drivers could read Huysmans. Corbeau was not illiterate, but there were only the clippings, no books. Whoever had created the Gilles persona was well read, to have ferreted out oddments from research. This man showed no sign of that sort of effort. He might have taken the story as it was and dressed himself in its trappings. Could someone else have given him the flourishes? Michel could not discount the possibility.
Seeing his frown, Rambert asked what was wrong. Michel went over his theory.
“Perhaps the books were elsewhere. Perhaps he has not kept them,” Rambert argued.
“They would be his Bible.”
“He might know the important bits by heart?”
Michel shook his head. “He’s claimed the raven as his symbol, not the swan.”
Rambert drew breath to argue, then paused, sighed. “I’m afraid you are right.”
Michel nodded glumly. “Let us find this hidden room.”
They went back to the stables, to the stall in the far corner that the old man had told them about. No horse was kept there, but there were extra bales piled up in the corner. Corbeau was not overly imaginative. When they pulled away the bales, they saw nothing. Probing the floorboards, Michel felt the slightly deeper seams of a door. In its time, it had been well designed to escape detection. The door slid back under the wall, perhaps into one of the storage sheds outside. Opened, it revealed a staircase leading underneath the stables.
Already, Michel caught the rotten scent of old blood rising from below. He and Rambert exchanged glances. “Stay here,” Michel said.
“I must see it.” Rambert’s voice was bleak but determined.
“I understand, but we don’t want to risk being trapped.”
“Ah. He might come back.”
Michel went and took one of the lanterns that lit the stable. “I haven’t seen anything so precious he might return for it—unless he wants his stuffed raven—but neither do I want to risk being interred below.”
Rambert smiled grimly. “If he killed off the others, there’d be no one to say where we were.”
“Exactly.” With Rambert keeping watch, Michel descended the ancient steps. The old man called it a hidey-hole, but he arrived in a large storage room. The reek of blood was overpowering. He leaned against the wall, nauseated. He had a strong stomach, but a voice in his mind whispered, Alicia’s blood. The lantern showed a wooden table in the center of the room. Approaching it, he saw its surface was totally stained, though the edges were darker, silhouetting the shape of a small body. There were dark patterns on the stone floor and piles of soiled straw. He saw blood spatters on the wall. How many children had died here?
Corbeau had felt invulnerable. Little cleaning had been done. It could not be laziness alone, the killer must revel in the smell, adding the bright metallic scent of new blood to contrast with this foul decay. Piled in one corner were burlap bags and lengths of oilcloth along with coiled rope and balls of twine. He saw a sock, a shoe, a pink ribbon carelessly left behind from his disposal of the bodies. His whole body suddenly clenched when he saw a striped pinafore lying to one side. His memories of the fi
re were sometimes chaotic, sometimes searing in their clarity. He remembered now a little girl in a striped pinafore whom he’d held for a moment in his arms.
Overwhelmed, Michel left it all in place to be photographed tomorrow and went back up the stairs. To Rambert, he only said, “It is difficult.”
The other man took the lantern and descended. He did not stay as long as Michel, though more than long enough. When he heard Rambert’s heavy tread on the stairs, Michel found himself hoping he’d not seen the small clothes on the far side of the room. Rambert emerged whey-faced, walked a few steps into the straw, and vomited. Michel left the stable, fearing the sick aroma might trigger the nausea he’d fought off. After a moment, Rambert came out. “Sorry.”
Michel shook his head. “I felt the same.” He looked out into the night. Clouds were gathering, blocking out the stars. The moon was still visible, like the thick rind of some moldy half-devoured cheese. He felt his anger growing, the cold fury he feared most. “He escaped.”
“He tried to kill us and failed,” Rambert answered. “We know who he is.”
“Who he was. Now he is free to become someone else.” Knowing they would be on the watch for him here, Corbeau could run to another city. But if he was emotionally attached to Paris, perhaps he could not bear to leave. Or if he had a partner who shared his depravity, he might be loath to abandon their shared lust. Much depended on just how insane Corbeau was. Michel doubted he loved anything but mayhem. If he could no longer resist displaying his kills, he would be caught—eventually. But if he could control that urge, he might indulge his blood lusts for years.
“He will never be free,” Rambert said seriously. “He is doomed to repeat these crimes. They are all he is now.”
“But that is what I’m afraid of,” Michel said. “We let him escape to kill again.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
No shining candelabra has prevented us from
looking into the darkness, and when one looks into
the darkness, there is always something there.
~ William Butler Yeats
CARMINE sent a note begging off the trip to the Mathers. Her father needed help to finish a print run. Theo could hear her voice in the brisk encouragement. “They are expecting you, so go by yourself. They will not bite!”
Friday’s weather was beautiful. Theo wheeled her bicycle down to the flat boulevards and rode it across Paris. She passed three other women in bloomers en route. They all smiled and returned her wave. Susan B. Anthony said that the bicycle had done more for the emancipation of women than anything else in the world. Theo loved her outfit—azure Turkish trousers topped by an embroidered knee-length coat in iridescent peacock. Scandalized, Uncle Urbain had threatened to burn it. Such garments, such activities, led to indecent feelings. And feelings to actions, Theo supposed. For the moment at least, she felt indecently free, the sprightly breeze flowing around her all the way to the Mathers’ abode.
When she knocked, it was MacGregor who opened the door. “Ah yes, the young artist who is embroiled in darkness.” He scrutinized Theo intently. She looked down to hide her dismay. It was true enough, but his manner was so theatrical it exasperated her. He gestured her into the foyer where Moina waited, wearing one of the draped gowns that made her look like a Grecian oracle, a necklace of heavy amber glowing golden around her throat. Theo wanted to talk only with Moina, but MacGregor obviously wanted to rule the situation. Gesturing to his wife, he said, “Moina has dreamed of you, not once, but twice since we saw you. She is very sensitive, very intuitive. It is certainly significant.”
Theo looked to Moina, stunned. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Moina affirmed. “It was as if the Tarot cards came alive and I was wandering with you in the landscape of the moon.”
Doubt settled around Theo like a murky grey cloak. For a second, she clung to it eagerly. But why bother coming here if she could not believe? Moina’s dream was not that odd, given Theo’s dramatic reading. Nonetheless, it felt darkly prophetic. Carmine was not a fool and she trusted Moina. MacGregor might be self-aggrandizing, but there was a ferocious intentness about him.
Theo let the doubt fall away. “Did you find some message for me in your dream?”
Moina shook her head, smiling sadly. “No. I felt I must warn you of something, but I never discovered just what it was. It may only be that the layout Carmine did was so troubling, but I have learned to trust such dreams.”
MacGregor moved closer, his intentness demanding attention. “And you, Miss Faraday, have you had any dreams of import?”
“They have been troubled and I was happy to forget them quickly. I wasn’t looking for import—my waking life seems overly full of it.”
“When you dream,” MacGregor said to her, “you should look for Moina.”
Was that possible? What a fascinating idea. The Revenants always talked of the power of dreams. For a time Theo had written hers down, searching for inspiration for her art. But even the most vivid Moulin Rouge extravaganzas of her dreaming life never seemed to translate onto canvas for her. The waking world offered far more inspiration, even if her imagination then turned the image into something resembling a dream.
Theo followed the Mathers into the salon, where a china tea service was set out. The brew was an herbal tisane, for the fresh, pure fragrance of mint perfumed the air. Moina poured cups and handed them round. There were also a few simple sweets on a tray. Theo felt too nervous to eat so much as a biscuit, but she sipped her tea and felt the hot liquid flow through her. Unexpectedly, the brew gave her a new calmness and her mind felt clearer. She smiled at Moina, who gave her a warm smile in return. It seemed a good moment to begin, but just as Theo took out her notebook, a knock sounded at the door.
“I will send whoever it is away.” Moina went into the hall. Theo heard her open the door and then the low sound of voices. After a moment, she returned, but not alone. A tall, slender man came with her. Theo recognized William Butler Yeats, an Irish poet she had first met at Verlaine’s funeral. His poems were often mystical. Since he knew the Mathers, his interest in the occult must run deep. They exchanged greetings, then Moina said, “Mr. Yeats dropped by to bid us adieu, for he is returning to Ireland. His arrival seems fortuitous for, like us, he is a student of the occult. I have asked him to stay.”
“But only if you feel comfortable with my presence. I will understand if you do not.” There was a hint of Irish lilt in his voice and his paced speech differed little from the way he chanted his poetry.
Impulsively, Theo replied, “Yes, please join us.” The poet’s presence was like an omen that her friends were innocent. Theo knew her response was anything but rational, but she felt happier with him there.
Yeats settled himself in a chair beside her. She guessed him to be about thirty. The oval glasses he wore did not obscure the intense yet dreamy expression of his deep brown eyes. His lips were full and sensitive, but a strong nose gave his face character. He had lovely floppy hair rather like Averill’s. She remembered them sitting side by side, murmuring over a poem, their hair falling over their foreheads.
Although Yeats spent most of his time with his Irish compatriots, he had come to some of the Revenants’ café gatherings. Averill had coaxed him to submit a poem to the first issue of the magazine, Yeats’ English version printed beside Averill’s translation into French. Theo had suggested some alternate words, even a rhyme or two, for her vocabulary was wider than Averill’s. But she did not have a poet’s unique sense of rhythm, any more than Averill could draw a landscape as easily as he could critique one. She thought the translation a great success and Yeats had seemed pleased.
Moina set down her tea and looked at Theo. “Carmine said that you needed our help. She said that the Tarot reading we did for you had come true.”
Theo nodded. “Yes, I believe it has.”
“Which cards did you draw?” Yeats asked. When she told him, he frowned. “Most difficult.”
“Yes,” Moina said. �
�The forbidding landscape of The Moon and The Devil hovering over all.”
“And Death at the end.” Theo felt bleak.
Yeats looked directly at her. “Do you know who this Devil might be?”
“I am trying to identify him,” Theo answered, then turned to the Mathers. “That is why I am here. I hope you can help me do that.”
“Of course. But how?” Moina asked.
“First, I must ask you all for a promise. Please don’t discuss what I tell you with anyone, not until the case is solved.” It was a small precaution in respect for Inspecteur Devaux. He would be displeased at her coming here and even more at her showing them evidence.
“I promise,” Moina said solemnly. Seated around the table, the others nodded as well.
Theo could not know that they would keep their promise, but people who practiced magic must be good at keeping secrets. Theo laid down the sketch she had done of the winged cross in her alley. She waited a heartbeat, then realized she’d been hoping for a gasp of recognition. She looked at Moina and Macgregor in turn. “This means nothing to you?”
“No, nothing,” Moina answered.
Yeats asked, “Are they bird’s wings?”
“I thought so,” Theo answered.
“Perhaps an angel?” MacGregor stared at the image intently, but Theo saw no light of recognition in his eyes. He turned the paper this way and that. “It is an emblem of some sort, I believe.”
“Of what sort?” she prompted.
“That I cannot say.” His forehead creased in thought as he groped for the memory. “The concept does seem somewhat familiar, perhaps something which I encountered in passing.”
Theo fought down a surge of frustration. How foolish to hope for an instant solution, some arcane bit of knowledge that would explain everything and point to the killer.
“A cross.” Yeats tilted his head, considering the drawing as MacGregor turned it toward him. “Wings…ascension. Perhaps transformation.”