by Ann Benson
“Such a rare and worldly treat,” I commented.
The fabric of her long sleeve rustled against the table runner as she reached across the table to place another section of pear on my plate. “I was once a woman of the world,” she said, smiling warmly, “when I was younger, I mean to say.”
Then, whether I ought to have or not, I asked, “Are you widowed?”
“Oh, no,” she said, laughing a little. “I came to this veil a spinster.”
“By your own choice?”
After a slight pause, she said, “It did not seem so at the time. I was betrothed in childhood, an excellent match according to my family, very advantageous for all of us. Except that my betrothed turned out to be the most loathsome man God ever created. A vile beast with despicable habits. I would rather have died than bring his children into the world.”
Had this frank, outspoken woman been at the hippocras, so early in the day? I thought not and decided it must be the honeyed thé that was loosening her tongue. “So you thought to come here instead.”
She smiled conspiratorially. “Did you decide to go to Nantes?”
It was a very direct question, delivered bluntly, and I fancied that she knew the answer already. “No,” I said. “My husband had died; my only remaining son was a priest, who could not support me.”
“Ah, yes. How often it goes that way. But I have found that the sisters who come here after living in the true world are so much wiser and more useful than those who take the veil as young virgins.”
I could not and did not disagree with her.
“When I first came here it was far less”—she gestured with her hand in search of a word—“comfortable. My father wanted me to understand the consequences of refusing the match he had made for me, so he sent me into the worst place he could find. But he brought me up to be clever, and I rose quickly among the young girls. This convent was in near ruin—when I took it over I saw to its restoration.”
“Quite wonderfully,” I said, looking around. The stone walls were all remarkably clean and freshly mortared. Oil had been diligently applied to the surfaces of the wood, which imparted a warm glow and gave off a lovely scent. The windows of multicolor glass were spotlessly clean. Though our abbeys and convents were of a far grander scale, nothing we had in Nantes was in a comparable state of perfection. She had used her skills far more forcefully here than I had in my own realm.
“Submission and loyalty have served me well enough,” I told her, “but whenever I try to be clever, it seems to work only toward my undoing.”
“I have no bishop here to annoy me.”
“Ah,” I said. “True.”
“His Eminence Jean de Malestroit is a man well known for his staunchness.”
“Another truth,” I mused. “But he did allow me this journey, against his own wisdom. Though I suppose, since he is a chancellor as well, that he might have made this concession to me because it was in his interest, or that of Duke Jean.”
“There you have it,” Sister Claire said. Then she leaned forward and whispered advice. “You must observe him and discover what drives his actions in this matter; you will find a way to make him grant you what you want. In that sense, all men—even priests—are like husbands.” She laughed discreetly and added, “Or so I am told, never having had one myself.”
The Abbess had sent a young nun out first thing in the morning, well before we took our meal. The girl had gone straight to the nearest village and stood at the well, as would any good crier, to spread the word that I was inquiring about lost children. She was a local girl and proved to be an exceptionally good choice of emissary, for it could not have been an hour before a woman of the village arrived. It felt like less time to me, perhaps because the Abbess had served me another flagon of her marvelous thé, which had the strange effect of making me feel giddy but not drunk. I was wearing a path in the handsome stones between the dining table and the privy, but I felt wonderfully alive despite my dark mission and welcomed my visitor enthusiastically.
“Marguerite Sorin,” the Abbess said when the woman was brought in. “Madame is a chambermaid. She sometimes works in the maison that is attached to our convent, as well as for a number of prominent local families.”
Madame Sorin bowed and took the proffered seat, and the Abbess, my soeur en Dieu, discreetly turned to leave.
“Mother, please stay, if you’d like,” I said.
She looked pleased to have the invitation and sat back down in her own seat.
I turned to the woman who had come to speak with me. “Madame Sorin,” I began, “how good of you to come.”
The woman nodded almost eagerly. “I could not fail to, after what the young sister said.”
I could only imagine the embellishments. “You have a story to tell, regarding a missing child?”
“Oui, Mère, I do.”
My first question was “What is the child called?” It hardly mattered, but somehow I thought he would take form within me if I knew his name.
“Bernard le Camus,” she said. “He is—or was, as I fear it may turn out—not a local boy. He was—is—I hardly know which to say—from Brittany. He came here last year from Brest, where his family lives, to stay with Monsieur Rodigo. The boy was here to learn French, as he was raised speaking only Breton, and his father thought it would be a great liability to have only one language, especially that one. He was ambitious for the boy, or so we have heard since.”
“A wise father, in that choice at least.” To speak Breton alone would get his son nowhere in this life. “How old is this child?”
“Thirteen when he disappeared, according to the father. He came here looking for the boy last year, perhaps a month after the child went missing. By now I suspect he would be fourteen, though I did not think to ask the father the month and day of his birth. He was managing very badly the last time we spoke.”
I could understand that. “How did you come to know this boy?”
“Monsieur Rodigo had engaged my services to look after him while he was here. I would come every morning to serve him his petit déjeuner, empty the pot, look after his laundry and mending, do all the things his mother or nurse would have done, and naturally we became quite friendly, the lad and I. His French was poor yet, though improving rapidly. We managed to understand each other. I lack sons—though I’ve daughters aplenty—so it was a pleasant change for me.”
“One senses that you took his welfare greatly to heart.”
“I looked out for him as best I could. But I could not be there every moment to watch over him.” There was deep pain and regret on her face.
I knew that feeling well and did my best to comfort her. “Of course not, my daughter. You must not berate yourself. God does not expect perfect vigilance.”
“It is not God who expects it, but I,” she said sadly. “One day I saw Bernard talking to a stranger; it must have been August, but quite late in the month, I think. The storks were already restless on the rooftops and making ready to depart. He was an odd-looking man, although man seems not quite the right word to use—he was very slightly built and almost womanly in his shape. At first I thought perhaps it was a woman dressed in a man’s clothing—but, mon Dieu, who would do such a thing, save at the feasts and tournaments, where that is sometimes the fashion of the highborn? Later I learned this man’s name—he is called Poitou, though I am told that is an affectation after the city where he was born, that his real name is Corrilaut. It made me uneasy to see him with Bernard, because he seemed to be putting his hands on him in a manner that was too friendly for my liking. And the boy was pure-looking, of a very good nature, and compliant. It would have been easy for someone to take advantage of him. So after this Poitou left, I asked the boy: What did this man want with you?”
“And he said . . .”
Her voice revealed a great frustration. “Nothing. Not a blessed thing. Only that he had been forewarned not to speak of the encounter by Poitou. I asked him again, more vehemently than befor
e, to tell me what passed between them, but still the boy would not speak. I warned him that strangers make offers to trick young children and that he ought not to believe fine promises, for they are unlikely to come true. Again he put me off and revealed nothing. I never got another chance to ask, because that was the last I saw of him.”
The Abbess and I exchanged dark glances.
“When did you realize that the boy was gone?”
“It was not I who noticed, but Monsieur Rodigo. He went looking for the boy that evening in the room where he’d been installed and found his hood, his robe, and his shoes still there. But not the boy himself.”
I sat back in my chair and wondered aloud, “Where would a child go without his shoes?”
The Abbess spoke. “Where else but to some place where he had been promised new ones? To a boy of few advantages, shoes are not an insignificant offering.” Then she sighed deeply and added, “If not shoes, then something else; he was enticed away by something he could not have expected to own otherwise, at least until he was better established.”
Poitou. The name rang in my head like a bell. “Madame, you are saying that you did not see the boy depart with this Poitou, but that you inferred nefarious intent on his part toward the boy. I am wondering how you came to this conclusion.”
Now her voice rose. “It was quite obvious, Mère, so shameful and ungodly the way he handled the lad . . . and what could he possibly gain from this child? I can only think he meant to do him some harm. A woman knows these things.”
We do, in some incomprehensible way. Taking care not to upset her, I pressed further. “Do you suppose, Madame, that Bernard might just have run away? Boys of that age often do. Especially those who are spirited, as seems to be the case with this young one.”
“Those that can almost always return, Mère, after they have had their fun. It is a cruel world when one walks through it alone.”
How right she was. “Perhaps he abhorred his studies and did not wish to confront his father about his unhappiness.”
She shook her head, quite vehemently. “He often spoke of how much he loved his studies. He wanted to learn Latin as well. As much as the father was ambitious for him, the boy was ambitious for himself.”
“Could there have been any other reason for his sudden departure—might Monsieur Rodigo have been cruel to him, or too strict in the rules of his lodging?”
“Monsieur Rodigo is the kindest and most courteous man in this village. He was decent and generous to Bernard and was greatly distressed by the boy’s disappearance.”
I asked a few more questions, all of them inconsequential. We came to no conclusions about the missing boy. I thanked Madame Sorin for bringing her story to me and she left the room, bowing her way out.
I was drained by the encounter. It must have showed on my face, for the Abbess was quick to offer me refreshments—in particular, another cup of her brew. “There are biscuits as well,” she told me.
I declined it all. “My stomach is a bit unsettled just now.”
The Abbess said, “It would be wise to take some refreshment while you have the chance.”
“But I am not yet hungry,” I said.
“I think you will be,” she said. “Or, on the other hand, you may lose your taste for food altogether.”
Here was a new mystery. “Why?”
She folded her hands together and said, “There are some people waiting to see you.”
“Some people?”
After a heavy sigh, she told me how many. I crossed myself to keep from fainting.
chapter 6
Smoke wafted out when Ellen Leeds opened the apartment door. Her hair was a mess and she was still in the same clothes she’d been wearing the night before.
She hadn’t been to bed, the evil bitch.
“Hello, Mrs. Leeds. I’m sorry to disturb you so early. But I was hoping I would find you home.” I was solicitous and sympathetic.
“Where am I supposed to go? I wasn’t about to go to work today. I mean, what if Nathan tried to be in touch with me, or someone found him and tried to contact me . . .”
This wonderful actress had obviously been reading the Parents of Missing Children manual, the version edited by Susan Smith. I nodded in sympathy for her pained dilemma and walked right through the door without invitation.
“I meant to ask you more about your work situation last night, but we had other things to cover first. I’m curious about the arrangement you have with your employer.”
Translation: I want to check with your boss about the exact times of your arrival and departure yesterday.
“I work at the Olive Branch.”
“Ah,” I said. “That must be an interesting place.” It was a high-profile nonprofit peace-oriented organization whose M.O. was to provide start-up money for small businesses in third-world countries, the theory being that when poor people start to get fat and rich, they get very peaceful and their societies stabilize. They were aggressive in their fund-raising, sometimes to the point where there were complaints. I wondered if it was just a job to her or if there was some belief system behind her choice of jobs.
She answered the question before I could ask it. “I suppose some of the positions are interesting. But mine is a lot like telemarketing. I manage all the donor lists and oversee the computer system that we use to input donor information. I’m not out there in the trenches teaching Ethiopian widows how to keep track of their inventory. But it has some advantages, the primary one being that there’s a lot of work I can do at home.”
“You were there yesterday, though . . .”
“Yes,” she said with bitter deliberation. “Otherwise I would have been here, and I would have known about Nathan a lot sooner.”
I wanted to press harder, to see if I could trip her up on something, but it was too early. I needed her unguarded a little while longer. “Do you happen to remember what time you left here yesterday, Mrs. Leeds? I’m trying to establish an exact chronology for the events of the morning.”
She didn’t flinch or get that nervous look and didn’t seem at all ruffled by the question. “I don’t have a set time for leaving because I don’t have to be there until nine and it’s pretty close, only a fifteen-minute drive, maybe twenty when the traffic is bad. But it’s nice to have some solitude at the office—I can get so much more done without the distractions of other people. So I generally go in at eight. Nathan leaves here before then, so there’s no reason not to. Yesterday I think I probably left around seven-forty. I don’t know exactly, but it must have been about then. Nathan had been gone only a few minutes when I left myself.”
“And what route do you take to drive to work?”
“I take a left out of the building parking lot and then a right onto Montana.”
It was east. She would not have passed by Nathan on his way to school. But it made me wonder—if they left at relatively similar times, why did Nathan walk?
“He likes to,” she told me. “It gives him a sense of independence. He’s lucky enough to be that close. A lot of other kids get bussed, but he likes to get there under his own power. He’s a very heady kid—always daydreaming—he thinks and mutters and dallies along the way. Sometimes I think it’s downright weird the way he behaves, but it seems to have some benefit to him. And I want him to have all the benefits he can get.”
I recalled my own walking-to-school days in Minnesota—as I told my kids when they whined, especially Evan, my trip was nine miles uphill both ways, always in the snow. A far cry from three blocks in perpetual warmth. But I understood what she meant; there was great value in private-thinking time.
If she needed to make him disappear for some reason—the Susan Smith thing popped into my head again—why not just take him down to the garage and drive off with him, and do the deed in seclusion? Why on earth would she grab him in broad daylight on a weekday?
It was beginning to seem to me that Mrs. Paulsen had been seeing things.
I was a little miffed
at myself for not remembering from my earlier visit whether she’d been wearing glasses. When she opened the door, she wasn’t wearing any, but there was a pair of granny glasses suspended from a cord around her neck.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Paulsen, but I just wanted to review a few things with you, if you have the time.”
“Oh, not at all, come right in.” She smiled and winked at me. “All I have is time, dear. I was just doing the crossword puzzle, anyway.”
She pointed to the chair by the window. Next to the binoculars on the small table by the chair was a folded section of newspaper and a fat old dictionary that explained the glasses.
“There are just a couple of things I’d like to clarify. If we could go to the window . . .”
“She didn’t hurt him, did she?”
I was a bit taken aback by the abrupt question. But she’d had some time to think about the things I’d asked her and to consider her own recollections and had come to a logical conclusion, similar to my own.
“I can’t say what happened yet—it would be nothing more than specu-lation. That’s why I’m here again. The circumstances of the boy’s disappearance are somewhat confusing and I need to sort it all out properly. At this point Mrs. Leeds is not a suspect in her son’s disappearance.”
The elderly Mrs. Paulsen emitted a quick little hmph and raised her eyebrows. I half-expected her to start whispering gossip about Ellen Leeds; her expression was one hundred percent let me tell you.
I purposefully did not allow myself to react. “If we could go to the window . . .”
She walked right over to it; her paces were short but her footing seemed firm. I wondered if she ventured out at all, or if this apartment and this building comprised her entire world.
“Could you show me approximately where you were standing yesterday morning when you saw Nathan’s mother pick him up?”