Game of Patience (19 page)

“Knowing that love has wounded everyone else at one time or another doesn’t ease the pain.”

“Sometimes telling your sorrows to someone else does.”

“It’s nothing you’ve not heard before.”

“But it hurt you very much, or you’d not take such pains to pretend it was a trivial matter.”

“I was in love,” she said rapidly, “I thought no two people could love each other as we did; and one day not long ago he left me, without a word. Without any warning. One day he simply wasn’t there. Later he sent me a letter, with no address on it, telling me he loved me, but he could never see me again, and that I shouldn’t try to find him. Just like that.” She gazed across the table at Aristide, unsmiling, challenging him. “So have you a woeful story of your own to compare?”

“I?”

He remembered his mother lying where she had fallen, his father standing over her weeping.

“No, not of my own.”

“It doesn’t hurt any less for talking about it to a prying stranger,” she said abruptly, and stalked away. Aristide absently stroked the tabby cat as it wound itself about his ankles, and reflected that Rosalie seemed in a great hurry for someone who led a drab and uneventful life.

François had agreed to meet him late that afternoon, before going on to join Brelot at his cabaret. Aristide found him nursing a glass in the back of a dim, smoky tavern on Rue Mouffetard.

“So,” said François, drinking down the last of his beer and beaming at him through the haze of stale tobacco fumes, “would you like to know how I managed at the Hôtel de Montereau?”

Aristide waved away the approaching barmaid and slid onto a bench opposite him. “Already? You do have a way with maidservants, don’t you.”

“Well, the younger housemaid, Sophie, the plump blue-eyed one, she’s a nice warm armful—”

“I told you to flirt with the maids, not sleep with them!”

François grinned. “Eh, what’s the difference? Little slut practically dragged me into the bed. Anyway, she likes to talk inbetweentimes.” He drew a few bits of dirty paper from a pocket and signaled the barmaid back. “Two more glasses of beer, love. My friend’s paying. So, Montereau has three estates, one in the Limousin, one in Brittany, and one somewhere near Tarbes. The boy Théodore was born in May 1790, while Montereau was in Russia and madame was taking the sea air with her convalescent daughter at the smallest property, the one in Brittany. Sophie says it’s one of those plaster-and-beam manor houses that isn’t much more than a country cottage. Rustic simplicity and all that; only two old servants who live there and keep the place going. What the devil d’you want to know all this for?”

“Never mind.” Aristide permitted himself a brief smile at the confirmation of his guesses. “What about the lady’s maid?”

“Oh, Sophie was fluent on that subject,” François said with a chuckle. “Seems madame was ill-tempered during her pregnancy. It does that to some women, I gather. She kept her own maid, but she dismissed not one, but three maids of her daughter’s during a space of four months.”

“Three? Dear me.”

“Dismissed one who’d been with the girl a year with some feeble excuse, hired another, claimed she was unsatisfactory, and sacked her after a month. And the same with the third, who got the sack because madame said she couldn’t sew a straight seam. The whole household was shaking in its boots, wondering who’d go next. Then the girl fell ill and madame said a maid wasn’t necessary until she recovered.”

“What about Madame Montereau’s own maid?”

“One of those devoted old gorgons, I understand. Been with her since she was a child and would have fought like a she-wolf to protect her. When the mother died, she became Célie’s maid and stayed on till two years ago, when she retired to the country to keep house for her brother.”

Aristide nodded. Everything, thus far, confirmed his guesses about Célie Montereau’s mysterious illness. “And Saint-Ange?”

“The black-sheep relative?” François said. “Well, he was given to inviting himself to the house more often than he was welcome.”

“As a house guest, you mean?”

“Weeks on end, Sophie said. Took all the advantage he could of Montereau’s hospitality. But an aristo like Montereau can’t just show family the door, even distant cousins; it would cause talk. Oh, Sophie also mentioned,” he added with a leer, “that Saint-Ange was a stallion in bed.”

“Sleeping with the servants?” Aristide echoed him, raising an eyebrow. “How vulgar of him.”

“Well, you can see that Montereau would be a target for a sponger; he’s rich, and he has pretty servant girls and a damn fine cook. Anyhow, that was sometime in ’eighty-eight and ’eighty-nine, when everything was in an uproar in Paris. Then suddenly, in the autumn of ’eighty-nine, Saint-Ange announces he’s going to buy a sugar plantation and take up farming, and is off on the first boat to Saint-Domingue, and that’s the last the family hears of him. What
does
all this rubbish have to do with the price of tea in China?”

“That’s none of your affair.” Aristide paused, grimacing and waving away the dense smoke that had drifted toward them from a neighbor’s pipe. “In fact, I think you ought now to forget everything you’ve learned. Did you get anything else out of the porter at Aubry’s house?”

“Nothing much. Aubry doesn’t get many callers. Generally he doesn’t entertain much, being a bachelor, and a clean-living lad like Brelot said; he goes out for his fun. Deschamps does remember a street boy coming to the house and asking for Aubry, a fortnight ago, but Aubry had already gone out, all in a great hurry. When Deschamps said he didn’t know where Aubry was, the boy cleared out without leaving a message. He remembered it because it was just an hour, or a bit more, after some other messenger boy had left a letter for Aubry.”

“A letter? From the post?”

“No, delivered by hand. It was
décadi
, so there was no post that day.”

“
Décadi
?” Aristide said sharply. François nodded. “The tenth, then. And Aubry picked up this letter? You mean Aubry received a letter on the tenth, went upstairs and presumably read it, and then rushed out shortly afterward, before the second errand boy arrived?”

“Looks that way,” François agreed. “I see what you’re getting at—you think he rushed out because of something in the letter.”

“Do your best to pump Brelot some more tonight. I want to know exactly what day Aubry ran out in such haste; and if it was also the day that he didn’t return until very late. See if you can pin him down to a date. He ought to remember what happened on a
décadi
more readily than he’d remember a regular workday.” He reached in a pocket for a crumpled note. “Here’s five livres to tide you over. I haven’t any coin at the moment,” he added when François looked dubiously at the paper. “This will have to do. Although you seem to have enjoyed yourself well enough without running up many expenses; I suppose Sophie fed you, too?”

François winked. “The Montereaus won’t miss those chickens. Will you be at the cabaret tonight, then?”

“You can manage by yourself. I need to see Brasseur.”

#

As he expected, Aristide found Brasseur in his office at Rue Traversine, laboriously composing a report.

“Yes,” he told him as he settled himself in the armchair, “you were absolutely right about the Montereaus’ little secret. François has just told me that the late Madame Montereau had a fiercely devoted maid of her own, but dismissed her daughter’s maid and engaged two others in quick succession during her own alleged pregnancy.”

“Maid?” Brasseur echoed him, bewildered.

“A lady’s personal maid is the person most likely to know her mistress’s most intimate secrets … such as the times of her monthly courses … or the lack of them … or their persistence when they ought not to be present. And to know the shape of a woman beneath her chemise.”

“Ha.”

“But a ‘devoted old gorgon,’ as François put it, is likely to protect her mistress, and her mistress’s secrets, with her last breath. And Théodore happened to be born not in Paris, but at the smallest and most remote of the family holdings. It’s obvious, if you think about it. Toward the end of Célie’s ‘illness,’ her mother—allegedly pregnant—whisks her away, well muffled in shawls, to recover in the healthful country air.”

“And during the country holiday,” said Brasseur, nodding, “madame gives birth to the boy, or so everyone is led to think, with the collusion of the faithful maid. But instead it’s the ‘convalescing’ daughter who produces the kid, in deep secrecy, and they go home with the new heir, and it’s all worked out to everyone’s satisfaction and everything’s covered up nicely … until Saint-Ange turns up again. You do think he was the father?”

“It adds up. François reports that he was a frequent, though unpopular, house guest at the Hôtel de Montereau in 1789. Sometime during the summer Saint-Ange seduces Célie, who is straight out of the convent and making sheep’s eyes at her father’s handsome secretary, who barely notices her. Saint-Ange keeps on amusing himself with Célie right under her father’s roof until the poor child discovers she’s pregnant … September or October, I suppose, if Théodore was born the next May… .”

“And as soon as she tells him she thinks she’s in trouble,” Brasseur said, glancing at the notes in his dossier, “the swine conveniently disappears and makes tracks for Saint-Domingue.”

“Yes. Whether or not he ever went to the West Indies is another matter, but you can be sure he wouldn’t have shown his face in that house again.” Aristide sighed. “Somewhere in Brittany, I’ve no doubt, lives a rustic midwife, who was once paid very well, six years ago, to attend the lying-in of a young girl whose name she never knew. And somewhere else is a closemouthed old woman guarding a family’s secrets. I expect it happens more often than we’d like to think. So,” he added, “imagine Saint-Ange threatening to tell the world that Montereau’s beloved son and heir is, in fact, his bastard grandson by way of his unmarried daughter.”

“How do you suppose Saint-Ange learned of it?”

“All he had to do was look at young Théodore,” Aristide began, and stopped in mid-sentence. “
Théodore
. I am a complete fool. The name means ‘God’s gift.’ A welcome gift indeed, to a couple who’d given up hope of more children.”

“Ha,” said Brasseur again.

“Saint-Ange probably encountered the boy by chance. If you’re from a certain level of society, you can take a stroll in the faubourg Germain on a Sunday, or a
décadi,
and you’ll meet everyone you ever knew. I expect he’s scattered his seed here and there, and could recognize his offspring when it resembled him, as well as count on his fingers. He begins squeezing Célie …” Aristide paused, scowling.

“No,” he continued, after a moment’s reflection, “I’m sure Montereau never knew the truth about Théodore. If Montereau had known the truth, Célie wouldn’t have tried so hard to pay Saint-Ange off without her father’s knowledge. She’d have gone to Montereau straight away and he’d have confronted Saint-Ange; probably given him a fat purse and told him to get out of France. I expect he could have persuaded a friend in high places to make the fellow’s life extremely uncomfortable. And we know he couldn’t have killed Saint-Ange.”

“I never,” said Brasseur. “Until I joined the police,” he added, ponderously, “I never dreamed what sort of dirty secrets people want to hide. So what do we do about it?”

“I’d say absolutely nothing. Montereau knows nothing of his wife and daughter’s secret … and neither do we, not about Théodore. Let it remain a simple matter of a girl led astray and desperately trying to preserve her reputation.”

“Well, it’s none of my business who inherits Montereau’s fortune,” Brasseur agreed. “But are you any closer to knowing who killed the girl? Was it Aubry?”

“I believe so.”

“What did you get out of the servant?”

Aristide poured himself a splash of wine and swiftly repeated what he had learned about Aubry’s letter and his subsequent behavior. “If the dates are right, it might have been something in that letter that set him off like a firework,” he concluded. “He could easily have been across the river on Rue du Hasard that evening, committing the murders. And since that day, he’s been nervous, distracted, as if something is gnawing at him.”

“Excellent,” Brasseur muttered, scribbling notes. “Looks like we’ve got enough here to present a case to a magistrate, once François gets the date out of this Brelot.”

“Yes, I think so.”

Some quaver or hesitation in Aristide’s voice must have betrayed him, for Brasseur gave him a hard stare. “Here, you look like you’ve a case of nerves yourself. Something disagree with you?”

“It’s nothing.” Aristide shook his head, thinking,
God grant that we’ve found the right man.

#

While Brasseur visited Montereau to pass along the most recent intelligence about Célie’s murder, Aristide returned to Rue des Cordiers and the Maison Deluc. The same middle-aged maidservant showed him into Madame Deluc’s frigid salon and sent a scullion running upstairs to fetch Rosalie from her fifth-floor room.

She paused, hand on the door handle, as she saw him. “I thought you would care to know that they’ll probably make an arrest within a few days,” he told her.