Floats the Dark Shadow

by Yves Fey

  “The friend I went to visit was in ill health,” Casimir said. “He was much subdued. It seemed best to depart early.”

  “Oh…would you like an herbal tea? Chamomile perhaps?” Her aunt’s voice quivered as she tried to carry on. The trivialities kept hysteria at bay. “You must not get ill yourself.”

  “I do not believe it is contagious.” Casimir glanced at Theo, impatience simmering. “I thought to catch Averill outside his anatomy class, to tell him about my trip over lunch. I came here when I found he was absent.”

  “He has been doing very well…” Aunt Marguerite collapsed on the sofa, weeping helplessly. Francine stalked over and handed her a handkerchief. Crushing it in her hand, her aunt pleaded, “Where is your father? Why hasn’t he come?”

  “He will be furious.” Francine smirked. “Perhaps he has gone to the police station.”

  “Or to his lawyer to have Averill disinherited,” Casimir muttered under his breath.

  Theo caught that and they exchanged a rueful glance.

  “What will happen?” her aunt sobbed.

  “I don’t know,” Francine snapped, then collected herself. “Perhaps Father will arrange to have Averill released.”

  Theo doubted that. Michel believed he was responsible for the murders as well as Ninette’s kidnapping. She hadn’t revealed that, but Casimir knew it all too well. He hid his concern, but Theo could see tension in his stance and the hard set of his jaw.

  “I will go to the Dépôt. Perhaps the police will let me speak to him,” Casimir offered.

  “Yes, please,” her aunt said. “You are most kind.”

  “Thank you.” Theo hoped he could at least get a shred of new information.

  As soon as Casimir left, Francine turned on her. “How dare Averill do this? The shame is unsupportable.”

  Theo was outraged. “What shame? He rescued a girl in danger!”

  “This girl…this baker’s daughter…surely she will clear his name?”

  Theo hoped so. “I don’t know what she remembers. She was drugged.”

  “These people—it’s all so despicable.” Francine’s disdain encompassed Ninette and her parents as well as Vipèrine.

  “Yes, it was despicable,” Theo responded. “Think how terrified you would have been.”

  Francine looked at her blankly. Such a thing happening to her was incomprehensible. Theo turned back to her aunt. If Ninette didn’t remember what had happened, would there be any way to disprove Averill’s involvement? “We must get Averill a lawyer at once. He must consult with him, see what information they have….”

  “Father will do that in due course,” Francine said haughtily.

  “Surely he will be cleared before the trial!” her aunt broke in with a cry.

  Theo was bewildered. “But he needs a lawyer now. They need to go over the evidence, plan their defense.”

  Aunt Marguerite frowned at her, puzzled. “But he will not be permitted a lawyer before the trial.”

  “No lawyer?” Theo was flabbergasted. She knew French law was different, but she had never tested it beyond silly misdemeanors—wearing pants or sneaking into the catacombs with a hundred other gleefully guilty Parisians.

  “The innocent need only cooperate with the juge d’instruction,” her aunt recited the words like a catechism, but her lips trembled and new tears slid down her cheeks.

  Theo trusted Michel to search for the truth, but that did not mean he would find it. With so many pieces that fit his theory, he could easily discard anything that did not. There would be no way to prove Averill was innocent until the killer struck again. And if the killer loathed the Revenants for some reason, he might wait till Averill was executed.

  Guillotined.

  She had refused to think of it till now. Losing your head seemed more horrible than hanging—so much bloodier. Was it truly more merciful?

  There was a knock at the door. Theo exchanged apprehensive glances with her aunt. Outside in the hallway, the maid’s tentative footsteps approached the door. When she opened it, Theo could hear muffled voices. Curiosity cracked through the brittle shell of fear and Theo hurried out, the others trailing behind. Inspecteur Devaux was there, accompanied by two younger officers. And with them was Averill, utterly haggard. Shadows lay under his eyes and huge bruises marred his cheek and forehead, their mottled colors of purple and green stark against his pale skin. He wore a shirt that was too big for him, and a red cotton handkerchief was knotted around his throat. They had him in handcuffs.

  His mother went forward unsteadily, tears streaming. Michel nodded for the guards to stand back and allow her to embrace Averill. She clasped his face and kissed his cheeks again and again. Francine hung back, staring over their heads at the paintings on the walls. When Averill tried to catch her eye, she examined the pink rosettes on her shoes. Turning back to his mother, Averill spoke to her in a low voice. Theo could not hear all of what he said but she heard the most important word, “innocent.”

  She stepped forward, and Michel nodded that she could speak to Averill. She didn’t dare embrace him but laid her hand over his heart, feeling it beat.

  “Thank you for trying to help.” His voice was strange, a rough croak. Had they been interrogating him all night? Then she saw the bruises around his throat. She gasped, her hand flying instinctively to her own throat. Averill shook his head infinitesimally. His mother had been too distraught to notice.

  Stunned, Theo didn’t know what to say, what to think. Had he tried to kill himself? Why, if he was innocent? No, the interrogators must have throttled him, hoping to squeeze a confession from him. She pivoted around and glared at Inspecteur Devaux. He looked away. It was the first time he had not met her gaze. Anger poured through Theo, filling her to the brim. Speechless with fury, she started toward him. Averill whispered her name, halting her. He glanced at Michel and shook his head. Michel was not responsible then? Theo stood where she was, wrapping her arms around herself to contain her raging emotions. She must not make it more difficult for Averill.

  Michel nodded to the guards, who again stepped in front of Averill. “We will be searching the house,” Michel told her aunt, who gaped in disbelief. “Perhaps you would like to retire to your own rooms. We will need to search everywhere, but we will do them last.”

  “Monstrous.” Francine turned and stalked to the foot of the stairs, her back rigid. She’d still said nothing to Averill. Pausing, her back to them, she said only, “Mother.”

  It was unlike her to assume command, but suddenly she seemed very much her father’s daughter. Marguerite looked confused but murmured, “Please, Inspecteur…” She trailed off, not knowing what to say. Lifting the lace hem of her skirt, she walked slowly over to join her daughter. Her elegance looked frail beside Francine’s new-found authority. Together they went up the stairs.

  “I’m staying,” Theo announced.

  Michel looked about to protest, but only said, “You will not interfere in any way.”

  Grateful he hadn’t thwarted her challenge, Theo nodded. Did he permit her presence because she’d been part of Ninette’s rescue? Or perhaps he thought to discover definitive proof of Averill’s guilt, something she could in no way deny?

  “Show us your room, Monsieur Charron,” Michel said, beckoning to his men. Theo followed them up the stairs and along the hallway. Michel opened the door to Averill’s room and they all went inside. To her the dusky purple room was sweetly familiar, with books scattered everywhere. Inspecteur Devaux ordered his men to search Averill’s clothes while he stood by the entrance, watching the process and Averill’s reaction.

  Theo walked over to him. “What of Vipèrine?”

  “He is being interrogated,” Michel replied tersely.

  “Why are you subjecting the family to this if you don’t know whether Averill is guilty?”

  “How do you think we discover if someone is guilty, mademoiselle? A very few are overcome by remorse and confess. Most continue to deny their crime even after you
heap the evidence in front of them.”

  He was right, of course. She felt like a fool but her anger didn’t abate.

  Michel crossed the room to Averill’s desk and began to examine the books there. Theo supposed the medical textbooks would be suspicious to a policeman. He continued searching while his men rummaged through the bureaus and stripped off the bed linens. Watching them, Averill looked as if he might be ill. Theo bit the inside of her lip, tasting blood. If she felt violated, how much worse it must be for Averill.

  Michel began pulling open the desk drawers, searching in and under them, hunting for hidden spaces. Reaching the bottom drawer, he took out several folders. Averill took a step forward, only to be stopped by the guards. Michel looked at him. “Works in progress?”

  “Yes,” Averill replied, barely audible. “My poems.”

  Michel glanced up at Averill now and again as he read the poems silently. Finally he walked over to stand face to face with him. Lifting a sheet of paper, he quoted, “She invites you to explore death. Is this your poem about Alicia?”

  Averill shut his eyes. Opening them, they looked haunted. “That is a different poem. I’d thought to make them a pair. Aesthetic horror and true horror, if you will.” He smiled grimly. “But of course, you will not.”

  “Will not?”

  “Believe me.”

  “I believe the evidence.” Michel held up the poem and read.

  Tes doigts cherchent dans le doux abîme.

  Des aveux furtifs qui t’entraînent,

  En éveillant un plaisir impie!

  Savoure cette obsession malsaine.

  Your fingers search in the sweet abyss. Furtive revelations pull you in, awakening a blasphemous pleasure! Savor the corrupt obsession. Theo forced herself to stand straighter, fighting the caving in her stomach.

  “Do you often write of despoiling bodies, Monsieur Charron?” Michel asked.

  “I write about death. What poet does not?”

  “About Alicia?”

  Averill hesitated. “I started to write a poem about Alicia…to exorcise the memory if I could.”

  “To exorcise it or to dramatize it?” Michel asked.

  “I chose the word I wanted, Inspecteur.” His voice was weary but adamant. “I destroyed the poem about Alicia because it distressed Theo.”

  Michel looked at each of them in turn. “She asked you to destroy it?”

  “I would never ask that!” Theo was horrified.

  She could hear the clink of the metal handcuffs as Averill buried his hands in his hair. “It lives on in my mind. It still wants to be written.”

  “Write it,” she urged him. Averill cared enough about her pain to have destroyed the poem. The killer would revel in watching her misery. Theo wanted to shout Averill’s innocence, but Michel would just say his delight was secret—the blasphemous delight of the poem. Instead, she struggled to think like a detective. “If Averill wrote this poem about Alicia, Inspecteur Devaux, then what about the others? Why just one of them? Wouldn’t a killer poet commemorate each victim?”

  “Perhaps he has, and the poems are well hidden.”

  “You found this one easily enough.”

  “Because he was still writing it. The others may be buried with the bodies.”

  She had no counter to that—but it didn’t matter. The poem was not about Alicia. “Averill told you the truth. The woman in that poem is not even real.”

  “Not real?” Michel frowned at her.

  Moving forward, Averill said, “No—she is wax.”

  “Wax?”

  “She is an anatomical Venus that my father owns.” Averill made a helpless gesture with his hands. “You can open her body to study the placement of the organs.”

  “She belongs to your father?”

  “His most extravagant and adored possession.” Averill smiled a challenge. “Perhaps he is your killer, Inspecteur Devaux. He is certainly a most monstrous murderer of souls.”

  “He is also one of the few with a legitimate alibi for one of the kidnappings, being away for a week at a physician’s conference.”

  “Another fabulous hope shattered on the crags of reality,” Averill said with bitter drama. But then he thought for a moment and said, “Vipèrine could have hidden the child and waited.”

  “For a week?”

  Averill looked ill at the thought. “I’d hope the child’s suffering ended more quickly.”

  “I want to see this anatomical Venus.”

  “That is easily done, she’s downstairs in my father’s library.” Averill gave a twist of a smile. “You would have stumbled over her eventually.”

  Michel signaled his men to keep searching, then gathered up Averill’s papers. He read from the Venus poem again, his voice cold and taunting.

  Des aveux furtifs t’entraînent

  Là où t’attendent des énigmes menaçantes.

  Savoure cette obsession malsaine :

  Cette peau rosée cache des horreurs ondulantes.

  Furtive revelations pull you in, where menacing enigmas await. Savor the corrupt obsession: This rosy skin hides twisting horrors. Theo had to ball her hands into fists to stop herself snatching the poem from Michel’s hands.

  The Inspecteur nodded toward the door. “Show me your corrupt obsession.”

  They retraced their steps and Theo followed. She had to clutch the banister as memory again scorched her mind—Averill looking at her before he kissed Casimir—only a few hours after he’d embraced her with passion and desperation. When they walked along the hall to the library, she remembered the wrench of terror she’d felt when she saw the opened body of the anatomical Venus.

  Once again, the room was in shadow. Michel lit the lamps. The wax sculpture was closed within her case like Snow White in her glass coffin, only far less chaste. Her nude body gleamed softly, her angelic face was turned toward them, watching their approach through half-closed eyes of blue glass.

  “Her gaze is beseeching, don’t you think?” Averill asked Michel. “It’s as if she wants to be opened.”

  Theo’s queasiness intensified. That was the same provoking tone Averill used to talk to his father. He was angry. When he was angry, he was reckless. She watched as Michel stared him down. Averill flushed and looked away.

  She walked over to the glass case, nodded down at the figure. “You see, Inspecteur, Averill is not eviscerating people.”

  Michel’s voice was flat. “This wax figure proves nothing for good or ill.”

  “But she’s not real,” Theo protested. “She belongs to his father.”

  “He chose her for the subject of his poem. She may long ago have inspired him to explore death.”

  As they argued, Urbain Charron marched through the door and stood in the middle of the room. He seemed to swell with outrage as he surveyed them one by one, then fixed on Inspecteur Devaux. “How dare you disturb my household!”

  Michel’s response to the pompous exclamation was a slight narrowing of his eyes. “The juge d’instruction gave me permission to search. Your son is present. That is all that is required.”

  Her uncle stared closely at Averill, then suddenly surged forward, grabbing the scarf and yanking it off to reveal the bruise circling his neck. “You tried to kill yourself.” He scrutinized Averill, lips quivering with disgust. “It’s a pity you didn’t do a better job of it.”

  Theo wanted to claw his eyes out.

  “Is that what you think?” Averill asked.

  “Have you committed these obscene crimes? If you have, you are mad. You carry the same taint as your mother and your—” He broke off suddenly, his eyes darting nervously

  “And my sister?” Averill finished his sentence, his voice dripping venom.

  “Be quiet!” his father cried, truly furious now. “Don’t speak of her.”

  “You thought I wouldn’t find out—but I did! I found you’d shut her away in the asylum.” Averill was white with fury, but patches of red flushed his cheeks, lurid bloodstains u
nder the skin. “This killer has your sort of madness. Your sadism. Your love of degradation.

  “Silence!” his father roared.

  Averill’s voice hardened. “My mother’s spirit is trampled. My sister is lunatic. It is all your doing. Your oppression crushes and deforms us.”

  “Be quiet.” A hiss now. A vein quivered on his father’s forehead like a worm crawling under his skin.

  Thoughts tangled inside Theo’s mind but she couldn’t pause to sort them out, not with the vicious family drama erupting in front of her. Michel was watching both men tensely, ready to intervene, but hoping some vital clue would tumble out.

  “We are a degenerate family, a perfect case study. I will have to write a monograph about us, won’t I, Father?” Averill laughed and lifted his cuffed hands. “Rather difficult to do in manacles. Do you want them to keep them on? Do you want them to take off my head? Will you pickle it in a jar and keep it beside your anatomical Venus?”

  Urbain backed away. He extended his arm dramatically, pointing at Averill. “You are mad! You are as mad as Jeanette. They will lock you away.”

  Averill gave a choked cry and lunged at him, chained hands closing around his throat. His father pounded at him with his fists, but Averill’s rage gave him strength. Michel leaped forward and pulled Averill away, gripping him tightly until he stopped struggling. Her uncle looked terrified, his fingers pawing at his throat. Slowly, he regained his composure. Glaring at Averill, he proclaimed hoarsely, “Patricide!”

  “Unfortunately not,” Averill sneered. He jerked away from Michel, who let him go. “What do you think, Inspecteur, have you found your killer—the degenerate son of degenerate stock? Perhaps the whole family is mad.”

  “Perhaps.” He stood watching Averill and his father.

  Averill face was stark with hatred. “Jeanette wasn’t mad before but she is now, isn’t she? That is your doing.”

  His father moved closer, his voice low and intimate. “I know you tried to visit her. You will never find where I’ve moved her—your whore of a sister.”