The Passing of Pascal

by Annette Moncheri

  Mad Safia, with her hair and makeup perfect but her smile a bit sideways, somehow found herself at the forefront, and she dizzily looked over the scene. Then she declared, “Oh, how lovely! It’s a dance!” She went to Monsieur Daucourt and presented her hands for him to take as if they were to join in a waltz.

  Embarrassed, Monsieur Daucourt bowed to her and begged off.

  Quickly, Inés went to Safia and took her hands. “I’ll dance with you,” she declared.

  The bizarre sight took the venom out of the air. Melodie quickly saw that she was not about to be taken seriously in this atmosphere, and she took her cue to exit stage right in a huff.

  I went to Monsieur Daucourt and smoothed down his hair for him while I clucked soothingly at him, then rang for Monsieur Georges to bring another dinner. Meanwhile, it was good luck that Mademoiselle Marchand was here, as she set to cleaning up the mess that Melodie had made.

  “Dear Monsieur Daucourt,” I said soothingly, “you know how upset Melodie must be about all of this.”

  “But she can’t continue to blame Lauriane,” Monsieur Daucourt insisted. “I simply refuse to believe that any charges will stick. After all these years, I know her well—entirely well. I know she would never do such a thing. No matter what Jean might say.”

  “Oh, what did Jean say?” I asked. I escorted Monsieur Daucourt to a settee, and Mireille brought a deck of playing cards and began to shuffle them.

  Monsieur Daucourt took advantage of a bottle of scotch at hand and poured himself a drink. “My son,” he declared bitterly, “has made a serious error in judgment.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” I said. “What happened?”

  “Jean came to me this afternoon and asked whether I wasn’t going to write Lauriane off. Cast her out, you see. And can you believe—I think he had my will in mind.” He sounded heartbroken. He sat down and took the hand of cards that Mireille handed him, but did not seem to have the heart to look at them.

  This fact about Jean added to the stack of facts that were assembling against him.

  In a flash, it all seemed to come clear to me. Jean wanted to be with another man and it was forbidden by his mother. He sought to eliminate his mother from society and then to inherit so that he could go away with his lover.

  “Care to place a little wager?” Mireille asked, eying Monsieur Daucourt sideways with her beady little eyes. She no doubt guessed he would be in no shape to bluff.

  “Mademoiselle Patrix, I absolutely forbid you to prey upon this poor man,” I said. “Don’t even think of it.”

  Mireille cast me a very disapproving look, but I matched her gaze and then raised her one degree, and she looked away again.

  I turned back to Monsieur Daucourt. “Do you know what relationship your son has with Monsieur Valentin Adnet?”

  “With whom?” he asked gloomily, still distracted.

  “Do you think your wife would object if Jean were to take an interest in a fellow gentleman? You know... a romantic interest?”

  “Why in the world would you think so?” he asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

  “Just out of curiosity. Would she object? Or you yourself?”

  “No, that means nothing to us. Is it the case?”

  “Oh, I suppose not,” I said. Mentally, I snapped my fingers in frustration as my theory dissolved into nothingness. “Forget it. I think recent events have addled my mind.” I returned to his prior subject. “I don’t mean to pry, but I suppose, from what you said, that Jean stands to inherit? Does his mother stand in the way of that somehow?”

  “His stepmother. Lauriane is his stepmother. And yes. As it stands, if I were to die, Lauriane would inherit everything. But if she were out of the way somehow…” Suddenly Monsieur Daucourt paled. “Surely Jean would not have been the one to…”

  “You don’t think he would do such a thing,” I filled in.

  He rubbed his hands across his face. “It’s not at all like Jean to talk to me about casting out Lauriane, let alone... He’s always been a good boy, very conscientious. His heart wasn’t in it. You could see he had regrets even as the words were coming out of his mouth. And yet he seemed to feel that it was something he had to ask.”

  “As if someone had put him up to it?” I asked.

  He looked forlornly at his hand and played a card on the tea table. “Perhaps. I don’t know. He’s been acting odd lately altogether. As if he had a guilty conscience. Perhaps I wouldn’t be wrong to suspect him of setting all this up to get at Lauriane.”

  Just then Monsieur Georges did his usual trick of silently appearing at my shoulder. “Yes, Monsieur Georges?” I asked.

  “A word with you, Madame,” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  I went out with him into the hallway where, to my surprise, the night cook, Monsieur Gachet, was lingering along with the night maid, Mademoiselle Marchand. The two of them were close, and Mademoiselle Marchand was the usual interpreter for the dark, gangly Monsieur Gachet, who was, from birth, unable to either hear or speak. It was quite the conference with the household staff.

  “Yes?” I asked, puzzled.

  “It’s a fact we have about Monsieur Valentin Adnet,” said Madame Marchand, her gaze on the floor in front of her. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying in the other room, and it put me in mind of something Monsieur Gachet told me about the other day.”

  “Go on,” I urged.

  “Well, it’s just that the other day, when the attack happened… Monsieur Adnet had been standing around in the courtyard with a shifty look about him, and then he was in the kitchen when he had no call to be. Monsieur Gachet says that he was in a great hurry to wash his hands just moments before Mademoiselle Bouvier’s scream.”

  “To wash his hands? And he chose to do this in the kitchen?”

  “The kitchen is closer to the courtyard than any of the salles des bains,” she reminded me, her eyes still on the floorboards.

  I let out a sigh. The washing of hands was a small fact on which to hinge an accusation of murder, and yet it did seem peculiar. “Where was Jean during all of this?” I asked no one in particular.

  “He was in the drawing room the entire time,” reported Monsieur Georges, “waiting for his father to turn up. Mademoiselle Bouvier expected him. Although in fact Monsieur Daucourt was caught up late in business and did not come.”

  Monsieur Gachet had been watching our faces closely all the while, and now he tapped at Mademoiselle Marchand’s shoulder and performed some frantic signing which I could not follow. The maid watched attentively, and at last reported, “He doesn’t trust Monsieur Adnet. That’s really all it comes down to, I think. He thought he was acting suspicious. Loitering around and then his washing his hands that way. But he ignored Monsieur Gachet’s presence. Many people assume that Monsieur Gachet has little brainpower.”

  “All right,” I said. I spoke clearly to the cook, knowing he had some facility with reading lips. “Thank you, Monsieur Gachet. I will give it due weight.”

  He nodded and gave me a slight bow, and the staff returned to their responsibilities.

  I saw Mademoiselle Bouvier at the end of the hallway at the balcony, and I went to join her. She was still seething over her fight with Ludovic Daucourt. I could tell by the set of her jaw and the tight way she crossed her arms across her chest.

  I simply stood next to her and she began to pour out her grievances. “That awful woman tried to have me killed, and yet Ludovic won’t divorce her. He believes she’s innocent. It was her handwriting! How can he ignore what that woman tried to do to me? Doesn’t he care for me at all?”

  “She might actually be innocent, you know,” I said calmly. “In fact, it may be that Jean set the whole thing up in order to get at Monsieur Daucourt’s money.”

  “Oh! Ludovic told me that, too, but it’s nonsense. Jean would never do it. You can tell by looking at him that he’s not got the heart for such a thing.”

  I
would have agreed with that, but someone had to be responsible for this situation, and I didn’t know of a single person involved whom I suspected of anything so awful.

  Actually, the least likeable and most probably malicious person in the entire situation was Melodie herself. And for a moment I wondered whether she could have set up the entire situation—poisoned Pascal Lemare, forged the letter and left it at the scene, given herself the bruises on her neck. It would be an elaborate plot indeed to provoke Ludovic to divorce, but I decided I wouldn’t rule it out.

  But meanwhile another concerning idea had occurred to me. What if the person who wanted Madame Daucourt framed had a greater plan—to take Monsieur Daucourt out of the situation as well? If it were Jean, this would be his ultimate goal, as he would not stand to inherit until both his parents were deceased.

  If it were Melodie herself, of course, then there was no further risk to anyone—unless Madame Daucourt were to go free.

  The question was, were the Daucourts in danger even now? Was it possible that someone would attack either or both of them?

  I suddenly felt an increasing sense of urgency, and I decided then that meeting with Monsieur Escoffier could not wait until later—especially since, as I was just now realizing, he could possibly be involved if there was a conspiracy afoot. It was time for me to have a visit with the chemist. But first I would have to draw him to this side of the Seine.

  8

  Anaelle De Gall was exactly as cross about my idea as I thought she might be, but I was her Madame, and so she reluctantly agreed to go along. I figured that Monsieur Escoffier would not be able to resist a call from his regular client.

  She placed call after call to him—as he was dead asleep—until he finally answered, then she apologized for the lateness of the hour, and, with a false quaver in her voice, she said she was afraid she had taken too much of her regular “medicine” and needed him to come.

  She hung up the phone with a resentful stare for my benefit, but it barely masked a gleam of pleasure. I made note that she had a disposition toward trickery—it could come in handy some future time.

  I thanked Anaelle, bade her to go hide herself in another girl’s room, and then made myself comfortable and waited.

  It wasn’t even twenty minutes before Monsieur Georges, unaware of my plan, escorted a sleepy and rumpled Monsieur Escoffier to where I waited in Anaelle’s room.

  The handsome chemist had a youthful appearance despite his middle years, with honest features set in a wide face, and his wavy brown hair sticking up in spots. He stared at me unrecognizing as I stood up and gestured to Monsieur Georges to close the door on his way out.

  Escoffier’s fatigued brain finally informed him as to my identity, and he blanched and made as if to leave the room before catching himself and making a stab at a poor apology. “Excuse me, Madame, I fear I am in the wrong room.”

  His patently guilty response was all I needed. I flew to his side and activated all my charme as I took him by the shoulders and stared deeply into his brown eyes.

  “Confess, Monsieur Esteban Escoffier. Tell me why you provided the poison for Pascal Lemare.”

  The man wavered and perhaps would have fallen were it not for my strong hold on his shoulders. He tried to look away, but he could not—I held him in my spell. His will faltered and he succumbed. His voice weak, he said, “Valentin forced me to do so. He said he would turn me in for everything I did if I didn’t give him the poison he asked for.”

  “Valentin Adnet?”

  “Yes, the very man. He forced me, Madame, I swear it. I would never have done it otherwise. And I didn’t know he was going to kill Pascal, I promise.”

  “Why did he want to kill Pascal?”

  “I don’t know, Madame. He didn’t tell me the purpose of the poison, he simply required it of me. He asked for a dose of a poison that would be powerful enough to make a man susceptible to suggestion—derange him, even. I didn’t know he would give Pascal too much and that it would kill him.”

  “He did not intend to kill Pascal?”

  “No, Madame, I do not believe so.”

  He was fully under my sway now, so I had no reason to keep hold of him. I allowed him to sag onto a settee while I stared down at him.

  “How many doses of poison did you give to Valentin Adnet?”

  “Three.”

  “Why three? Was he going to use it on anyone else?”

  “I don’t know, Madame. Please don’t tell him I told you, Madame.”

  The poor man was sweating now. I took pity on him. “I won’t tell him it was you, but Monsieur Escoffier, nothing good is going to come out of all of this.”

  “I know,” he whimpered.

  “You say that he blackmailed you. What was he threatening to say? What are your crimes, Monsieur Escoffier?”

  The man wiped at his brow with his sleeve. “I was going to help him with his little business endeavor—at first. But I got nervous. I wanted to withdraw. But I’d already submitted some designs and Valentin said he’d turn me in for it.”

  I felt at a loss. “What business? What designs?”

  “He’s starting a business of manufacturing fake parfum. I have the necessary skills.”

  At last, it had all come clear. I did say the French take their parfum seriously. Manufacturing fake parfum was a crime.

  “Monsieur Escoffier, all your secrets are safe with me.” I sat down next to him and leaned forward until I could have kissed him—and in fact I had a moment’s temptation—but I merely stared deeply into his eyes. “You will forget that we ever had this conversation.”

  He nodded slowly, my magic working on him.

  “Instead, you will remember that you came and saw to Anaelle and with some of your medicines, you counteracted her reaction. She was happy for your help. And now you can go home to your wife and back to bed.”

  “Yes…” he murmured. His gaze flickered down to my lips, and I pulled away before he could make the attempt. He would forever have a bit of a crush on me now, but it couldn’t be helped. I lifted him to his feet and set him out into the hallway where Monsieur Georges awaited. “Please escort him out,” I said.

  While Monsieur Georges obeyed, I went out to the balcony at the landing to check on my ladies and the status of the evening while I let all that I had learned percolate in my brain.

  So if Monsieur Valentin Adnet were the real culprit, the question was, why had he attempted to set up Lauriane Daucourt?

  In a flash, I had it. Monsieur Adnet was also hiding a close association with Jean Daucourt. And if that association were with the intent of creating an illegal business manufacturing fake parfum, then perhaps the business was in need of capital that Monsieur Adnet hoped to gain from money that Jean Daucourt would inherit.

  Which meant…

  … that the Daucourts were still in grave danger.

  Immediately, I rang the bell for Monsieur Georges and told him in a rush that he needed to phone Inspector Thibault Baudet and report that the Daucourts were both in danger, and that he needed to be watchful especially for poisons added to the food of Madame Daucourt, and then I hurried to my private balcony.

  I cast a glance around to be sure that no one was watching me, and then I transformed into a bat and flew out into the night.

  9

  I had to assume that notifying Inspector Baudet about the danger to Madame Daucourt would be sufficient, especially given that she was held in a jail cell where, presumably, it would not be difficult to keep her secure. Monsieur Daucourt, I felt, was the one at greater risk at this moment.

  When I arrived at the Daucourts’ home, the front door hung half ajar. I prayed that I was not too late.

  As soon as I hit the threshold, I transformed into a human again and then stepped silently and carefully into the house. I didn’t know if Monsieur Adnet would still be present, or if he had already completed his evil deed.

  I tuned in carefully with my supernatural senses and listened for all I was
worth. And indeed, in some distant room I could hear the sounds of footsteps and a voice. Then a louder voice—and the crash of a body hitting the floor.

  I ran, letting my senses guide me to the right room. I stopped at the threshold and took in the scene.

  Monsieur Valentin Adnet knelt beside the unconscious body of Monsieur Daucourt, who had a bleeding gash in his forehead. Monsieur Adnet was even then picking up a small vial, with the apparent intention of pouring it into Monsieur Daucourt’s open mouth.

  I flew to Valentin with all my strength, knocking him over the way a charging warhorse would knock over a foot soldier, and then I dragged him with me out of the room—for the sole reason that I didn’t want Monsieur Daucourt to awaken and see me with my powers in action.

  Once in the other room, I held Valentin Adnet’s slim, pale face close to mine and stared deep into his eyes until I held him in my thrall. “Confess, Monsieur Adnet. Confess everything.”

  He whimpered once, his eyes wide and frightened, and then he began to whisper quickly, the hoarse words rushing out of him in a torrent.

  “I needed more capital for the parfum business. We completed some successful test runs, but then the costs went higher than I’d anticipated. Stupid Jean was supposed to be my investor, but he ran out of money. And he didn’t want to lean on his parents in the right way.”

  “Was Jean in on the plan to kill his parents?”

  “No, stupid Jean had nothing to do with that plan. He would never be capable of something like that.”

  That explained Jean’s reaction to the letter that was supposed to have been written by Madame Daucourt. He must have suspected his friend then but was too afraid to confront him.

  Valentin saw my glare and whimpered again. “I never meant to kill Pascal. I used a little extra to be sure it would work. I didn’t know it would kill him. I wanted to derange him so that I could set him on Daucourt’s girl. He was supposed to kill her and drop a letter framing Madame Daucourt for the assassination. And then once Madame Daucourt was behind bars, we could have Monsieur Daucourt remove her from the will, and then I would kill him. Jean would inherit, and I’d push him right over and take his money. Stupid Jean has no backbone. But then it all went wrong.”