The Earl's Daughter (The Viscount's Son Trilogy Book 2)

by Aderyn Wood

  Michael frowned. The compliment bore similarity to those Nathaniel himself had paid Emma during their courtship, as documented in the blog. “Keep playing the memory, slowly. What else do you notice about him?”

  Anais frowned under his hand. “He has light hair, blue eyes, very handsome. He’s young. Much younger than I thought at the time, but his words sound very old. Too old for such a boy. He smiles at me – a lot. I look back at Emma then.”

  “What do you see?” Michael tightened his grip even further, his palm was burning now.

  “Him, Nathaniel. He is with her, at our table. They are talking. I turn back and the man who bought me a drink, he is looking at them. Oh, my!” Anais took a sharp gasp and stood away, her eyes opened and her forehead was red as though she had been standing in the sun for too long. Her eyes wide with fear, mouth open.

  “Anais? You right?” John stood and reached for her. “Michael? What’s going on?”

  Michael shook the heat from his hand and caught his own breath. Her memory had been strong and its visioning had taken a lot of energy; he would need to rest soon. “She will be all right. I’m sorry. Sometimes this process is physically tiring.”

  Anais’ hands shook as they went to her cheeks, and she whispered, “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”

  “What’s wrong? Michael? What’s happening here?” John looked at him with a frown.

  “Anais.” Michael’s voice had reverted to the soft tone of the confessional. “Now breathe easily and tell us what you saw. What has made you so upset?”

  She inhaled slowly and closed her eyes. Michael sensed her calm. She opened her eyes again. “The man, the one who bought me a drink?”

  “Yes?” Michael encouraged.

  “He had a small wound on his neck. Very faint, almost healed but I saw it clearly.”

  Michael frowned. “Go on.”

  “There were two small pricks. Just like she said in her blog. Two small red puncture wounds on the side of his neck.”

  Chapter 4

  Extract from ‘The Local - France’s news in English’ – Thursday 14th November

  (One year ago)

  Missing Woman’s Secret Vampire Blog

  The police investigation into the disappearance of Briton, Emma Farleigh, took an unexpected turn yesterday with the discovery of a secret blog.

  Farleigh, an accomplished conservator, set up the blog to transcribe the strange contents of an ancient journal which she claimed was a genuine sixteenth century artefact penned by medieval soldier, Nathaniel Chartley. In the blog, it is heavily suggested that Chartley was a vampire, and that he was responsible for Farleigh’s disappearance.

  Commandant Schleck of the Paris Crime Squad said only that the blog had provided little evidence in regards to the police investigation so far. “It is a fictional story that was set up for entertainment purposes.”

  The Commandant did not verify the existence of the journal mentioned in Farleigh’s blog, and would provide no comment about it.

  The blog itself was live up until last night and had received more than half a million hits since its revelation yesterday morning sent social media sites buzzing. The police shut it down at midnight.

  Michael stared at his tablet, trying and failing to place all the pieces of the puzzle into a coherent image. That diary, he thought, where is it now? He flicked through the case notes. There was little mention of it in the police summary. Had they even found it?

  “Your porridge, Monsieur?”

  Michael looked up at the round figure of Madame Terreux, owner of Petit Chez, the small guesthouse where he was staying.

  “Merci,” he said.

  “Perhaps one day you will try un croissant, or we can make you the English breakfast with the eggs and the sausages.” Madame Terreux looked over her spectacles at Michael as she picked up his empty juice glass.

  “Perhaps,” Michael replied, as the short woman tutted her way across the small breakfast room, back to the kitchen.

  The porridge, hot and creamy, would sustain him. Michael was never sure when he would have to draw on his gifts. Signs of the Faith, the bishops told him to call them in the seminary. But now, Michael thought of his strange abilities as his gifts, just as his grandmother had when he was a boy. They had been there long before he became a priest, and took their measure of energy when he used them. Porridge was good for that. He doubted a croissant would hold the same longevity.

  After breakfast, he bid goodbye to Madame Terreux. The guesthouse, while tucked away in a back lane, was close to both the Louvre and Emma’s apartment. He took a scarf from his coat pocket and flicked it around his neck, French style. The crisp morning air misted his breath, and he quickened his step.

  The hard metal of the key lay warm in the folds of his woollen coat pocket, and a subtle tingle flourished through his fingertips – a sensation that would go unnoticed by most, but Michael recognised the sign. Yes. He was glad for the porridge. Perhaps today he would find something of significance – something more than documents, vague memories and restated facts that had dominated his investigation so far. Something to earn the fee the earl already paid him.

  He turned the corner and passed a florist, dodging other pedestrians as well as the pots of dahlias and chrysanthemums dotting the pavement. Ahead the green and red awnings of a pizzeria came into view. This was the place. Emma’s apartment sat above the pizzeria. He strode closer, clutching the key. The tingling in his fingers grew stronger, just a notch.

  The key gave him admittance to the locked blue door next to the pizzeria, the small apartment building’s foyer. A row of five mailboxes lined the wall to his left. Emma’s was number five but he had no key to open it. He climbed the stairs to Emma’s apartment on the third floor, and stalled to catch his breath. The door opened with a soft click.

  The apartment was every bit the ‘shoe box’ Emma had called it in her blog. Books and the odd photograph lined the southern wall. Michael stepped closer and handled a picture frame. Two young women smiled at the room – Lady Susan and Emma. Emma’s cropped light brown hair made her blue eyes large. She had a sweet smile that suggested innocence – just as her sister had told him. Michael returned the frame to its place and stepped back. Above the bookshelf a small mezzanine floor held a bed and a bedside table with a lamp. A ladder connected it to the living area.

  Two large windows, one slightly open, allowed noise from the street below to dance through the apartment. A desk sat in front of one, home to a computer and a vase with dried roses. Some of the petals had littered the desk’s surface. They had faded to a deep maroon, almost black.

  The back wall held the only door, and Michael opened it to see himself staring back; his black scarf and coat made him appear priestly still. I ought to wear more colour. He noticed his ash hair sticking up at the back where his cowlick was and he patted it down. The mirror was disproportionally large for such a small bathroom. Very French. He closed the door and stepped into the tiny kitchen. It had a window too, smaller than the others. Above the kitchen bench two shutters opened to the main room. He had a better view of the mezzanine floor from here and a closet that must have housed Emma’s clothes came into sight. His fingers tingled once more.

  He stepped out of the kitchen, past the desk and the small two-seater lounge, and up the creaky ladder to Emma’s bedroom. The bed was made with white and blue linen, reminiscent more of Provence than Paris. The wardrobe stood against the wall near the foot of the bed. Emma’s clothes lay neatly arranged inside. Blouses and dresses hung to the left and small clothes sat folded in the drawers on the right. He picked up the sleeve of a cardigan and brought it to his nose. An oily eucalyptus scent filled his nostrils and the tingling in his fingers buzzed. He closed his eyes and waited for images to show in his mind’s eye. Flickering pictures of Emma laughing wavered, but nothing else. He let go of the sleeve, now a little moist from the heat of his hand.

  “What are you trying to show me?” Michael whispered.

  He lo
oked around again, and stepping to the other side of the bed scanned the entire apartment. A cloud must have shifted outside as two bright rays of sunshine appeared through the windows, falling on the rug below. Tiny dust particles danced in the sunbeams and something sparkled in the corner of his eye. He looked up and there above the bed, attached firmly to the ceiling was a camera. It pointed at him. Or seemed to. If he wasn’t standing there on the edge of the mezzanine floor. Michael guessed it would have pointed to the main room below, and would capture most of the apartment. Perhaps the police had put it there. But surely, they would have taken it again when the investigation had stopped. Michael took a step toward it. A small light at the top of the camera remained off. Perhaps the battery had run out. He lifted his tingling fingers to the lens and wiped the dust. The camera had not worked in some time.

  Michael sighed and took out his tablet. In the case notes, he wrote the date – Thursday 20th November. And a quick note – find out about the camera.

  His phone rang, making him jump a little before he looked at the screen. Private. It could be the earl. Michael swallowed, hoping it wasn’t. His investigation so far had revealed little. “Hello, this is Michael D’Angelo.”

  “Michael, John.” Michael recognised the accent immediately. “Listen. Anais’s had a bad night – nightmares. She didn’t come to work today.”

  “Oh.”

  “She just phoned me asking to see you again.”

  Michael frowned. “She’ll be alright. I think she gave herself a fright. She seems a little susceptible to that kind of thing.” He had met plenty of people like Anais before. Supernatural enthusiasts who wanted to believe in all of it – poltergeists, demons, angels … vampires. He tried to avoid them; they only made his job harder.

  John inhaled, no doubt smoking a cigarette. “Aye, she is that, mate. But she’s pretty determined. Says there’s something else she remembered. Sommat about a mirror.”

  A jolt of sharp pins and needles sprang through Michael’s fingers. “When can we meet?”

  Chapter 5

  Email from Michael D’Angelo – Thursday 20th November 3pm

  Lord Edward and Lady Susan,

  Thank you for arranging the interview with Commandant Schleck on Tuesday. Although I gleaned little information – the Commandant recited details already in the file you gave me.

  I have interviewed John and Anais, Emma’s co-workers and friends. They both care deeply for Emma and want to help me with my investigation, but I am not sure they can offer any new leads. I am meeting with them again tonight.

  I visited Emma’s apartment today. Do you have a key to her mailbox in the foyer? Lord Edward, I know you told me that you purchased the apartment for Emma when she first moved to Paris; did you give a key to anyone else? Is there anyone – perhaps friends or family – who has used the apartment since the police finished their investigation? I noticed a camera on the ceiling. Do you have any information about this? Did the police install it?

  I will be in contact every few days with updates.

  Regards,

  Michael D’Angelo

  At seven the streets were dark. Clouds covered the tiny sliver of moon and the fog thickened, making the streetlamps give off a weak, ineffective glow. The mist from Michael’s breath added to the grey that smothered all, and he yearned for his warm, clean room at the Petite Chez.

  He’d become familiar with the streets and boulevards around the guesthouse during his short stay. They bustled with city workers and a few tourists who braved the cold to visit famous sites. He had come to Paris once before. Years ago – with her. Because that’s what lovers do. They go to Paris. Michael shuddered as he walked, slamming the lid before any memories sneaked out.

  This was a part of Paris he’d never been to. Late night shops and entertainment bars with neon lights that managed to penetrate the gloomy night, lined the streets. Despite the cold, a steady throng of people lingered on curbs and outside clubs. He peered down an alley and was sure he saw two men exchanging cash. Michael turned his gaze, fast, and walked down another street, gloomier than the others.

  The dark didn’t bother him. Even though he knew the terror that sometimes lurked there. Demons are drawn to darkness the way moths are drawn to light. But demons didn’t scare him either; he’d seen enough of them. No. If anything, it was his fellow man that caused him worry. Humans. Especially the female variety.

  A dull street lamp revealed a corner and Michael stopped to peer up at the sign on the side of the building. John had given him instructions from the metro station. He adjusted his glasses and could just read the words ‘Rue La Bruyere’. He was close now.

  “Veux-tu un peu de compagnie, monsieur?”

  A woman lingered under the streetlamp. She’d appeared from nowhere and Michael wondered briefly if she was a demon herself, but no tell-tale signs lingered in the air. She wore a thick fur coat and a mask of makeup. Her wine red hair shone too brightly as she stepped closer. It must have been a wig.

  “Ah, pardon?” His French was improving, but he didn’t understand her words. “English?” she said with a heavy accent and a sigh.

  Michael swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Want some company?” she asked, and opened her coat to reveal pink satin lingerie.

  Michael blinked and averted his eyes. “Ah, I’m alright. Thank you. I’ve, ah, got an appointment.” He gave a stiff nod, not wanting to offend the girl and rounded the corner into the next street.

  “You got a girl? I’m better!” the woman yelled.

  Michael flushed and quickened his step. What kind of neighbourhood did John live in? A moment later he came to the apartment building. It took up a whole street corner.

  The topmost window was lit and Michael thought he saw John through the gloom, smoking at the window.

  Michael waved, and the figure moved and waved back. John leaned out the window to shout. “Come up, Father. Door’s open.”

  “I’m not – a priest,” Michael uttered as he crossed the street.

  He climbed three flights of stairs and stopped at the top. John stood at his doorway leaning on the frame. “You made it, Padre. Come in.” He clapped his hand on Michael’s back as they stepped into the apartment.

  It was a shoebox, similar to Emma’s, but older and messier. Dirty dishes lined the sink and empty alcohol bottles were scattered throughout. But a brilliant view through a curved corner window drew the eye. The city below sparkled. The lights of the street twinkled in the gloom.

  “You can see the Moulin on a clear day,” John said. “Want a drink?”

  “Ah, yes.” Michael’s bones were cold and his walk through John’s neighbourhood had unsettled him.

  John poured them each a whisky and cleared a spot on the couch for Michael.

  “Do all expats live in small apartments in Paris?” Michael sipped on the whisky. It was smoky, good quality.

  John lit a cigarette. “This place is cheap. Means I can spend money on important stuff.” He raised his glass and sipped.

  “I saw Emma’s apartment today,” Michael said, resisting the temptation to wave the cigarette smoke out of his face.

  “Oh? Find aught?”

  “Not much. There was a camera planted on the ceiling.”

  John raised his eyebrows. “Aye? Police?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Michael shifted an old pizza box off the coffee table and put his glass down to retrieve his tablet from his pocket.

  “Sorry ‘bout the mess,” John said, exhaling a long draw.

  “Oh, please.”

  “I ‘spose Emma’s place wasn’t much better?”

  Michael squinted, looking up from his case notes. “Why do you say that?”

  John shrugged. “At work, we’re both bad with mess. Em was better ‘n me, though, that’s for certain. But she’s no neat freak.”

  Michael frowned. “Her apartment was spotless.”

  “Her family musta cleaned it. Was always in a mess. Not as bad as mine, mind.
” He picked up an empty coke can and ashed in it.

  Michael gazed at the red glow of the cigarette. His frown deepened. Emma’s blog tugged at his thoughts. What had she said? Something about her apartment being a mess with laundry everywhere. But today, all the clothes were neatly arranged in their proper place. And clean, as though they’d just been washed.

  “Father?”

  Michael shook his head and readjusted his glasses. “I’m sorry, I was just thinking of something.”

  John laughed. “Off with the fairies all right!”

  “Is Anais on her way?” Michael typed a quick note – ask if the apartment is cleaned regularly.

  “She’ll be here soon.”

  “I hope she’s safe.”

  “It’s not as scary as it looks here, Padre. Perfectly safe.”

  Michael frowned again.

  “Sommat happen? On your way here?” John stubbed his cigarette on the top of the old coke can.

  “Oh, it was nothing. I just ran into a lady of the night.” He flushed.

  John laughed and scratched his dark beard. “That’d be Lucrecia. Red wig?”

  “Ah, yes, that’s the lady.”

  “She’s harmless. Not bad either.” He winked.

  Michael coughed on the last of his whisky.

  “Another drink?”

  “Ah, why not? It’s a good drop.”

  “Aye, Talisker. I only drink the good shite.”

  Michael scrolled through his calendar as John poured them more whisky. “I have an appointment with your boss tomorrow.”

  “Pascal? I doubt he’ll have aught to tell. He considers us robots rather than people.”

  “He didn’t get on with Emma?”

  John shrugged. “Pascal don’t make much effort to ‘get on’ with any of us. It’s the work the man’s crazy about. Artefacts, not people. He heads virtually all the big museums and galleries in the country. A picture frame isn’t chosen without his say so.”