The Counterfeit Heiress (31 page)

We divided into pairs. Cécile and Jeremy would search the streets to the west of the avenue Principale, the wide drive that started at the main gate, while Colin and I would focus on the ones to the east. This gave us a larger area to cover, but we thought it best to give Cécile the less overwhelming task. The gravedigger stood, listening silently as we mapped out our strategy. Once Cécile and Jeremy had set off and gone almost out of sight, he approached my husband.

“There is a man, a very good man, who does much work restoring the deserted tombs in this cemetery. He is the one who places these wreaths for which you now search.”

“Could you describe him?” Colin asked.

“His hair is of a ginger color and his mustaches—”

“Farrington Jones!” I did not need to hear any more to identify the wretched man.

“You are a friend of Monsieur Jones?” the gravedigger asked.

“You know him as Monsieur Jones?” I could feel the deepening furrows on my brow. I would have expected another
nom de guerre.

“
Bien sûr.
He is a favorite here. He comes nearly every day, always with fresh flowers, and always to make repairs.” This fully explained the items on Mr. Jones’s receipts that had led me to the cemetery.

“Are there any places in particular on which he focuses?” Colin asked. The gravedigger shrugged.

“He works everywhere in the cemetery. He doesn’t want anyone to lose his space, you see.”

“Of course.” I turned to Colin. “Cécile explained to me that if tombs become too derelict, the bodies are exhumed and the plots sold to someone else. Making repairs when there are no relations left to oversee them ensures that the bodies will remain where they were buried.” I took out the map I had pulled from my Baedeker’s guide before leaving Cécile’s, and held it up to the gravedigger, asking him if there was anywhere in particular he thought we should focus on during our search. The grounds covered more than a hundred acres; without direction, we might never find Estella. Alas, the man only shrugged, and told us that he could offer no advice. He wished us luck, then sheepishly slunk off, explaining that his wife would not forgive him if he were late for dinner.

“What a pity Mr. Dickens isn’t buried here. That would make things simpler.” I studied the map, focusing on the names of the famous personages identified on it, but there were none that struck me as particularly meaningful to Estella. “I don’t suppose you know the names of any famous doll makers?”

“I think it best that we work our way to the end of one street, go over to the next, and work our way back and forth, accordingly. Proceeding in an orderly fashion will in the end save time by allowing us to keep track of our progress.”

I agreed, and his method worked well enough on the central streets that kept to the basic shape of a grid, but many of the others did not, instead forming loops and curves. These were at best confusing and at worst caused us to lose our way, as it was not always a simple task to follow them. Many times we were forced to double back in order to make sure we had not missed a single tomb. Colin kept to the one side of every street, I to the other, and we made notes about each grave upon which Mr. Jones had left a wreath, as well as ones that showed signs of recent restoration. After two hours of this, I was growing frustrated. The shadowy veils of dusk had started to cover the sky. Colin had brought with him two lanterns, and had given one to Jeremy and Cécile. As the sun slipped away, he lit ours, and our search became even less efficient, as we could no longer cover opposite sides of the street simultaneously.

We had fallen into confusion after following the Chemin du Dragon to its end, where it curved off in three separate directions, and we were soon circling section number 28, seemingly over and over. “We have passed the Hertford family vault at least three times,” I said, indicating a stone tomb to our left, large enough to house myriad coffins. “A structure such as that wouldn’t require a crypt, would it?”

“It would not require it, but if the family wanted a chapel aboveground … are you thinking what I am?”

“Yes. If Mr. Jones chose a large tomb, he might not have had to dig to dispose of Estella.” This observation renewed our resolve, and we continued our quest with more vigor than before. We had agreed that when darkness fell, we would meet Jeremy and Cécile at the large chapel that stood on the top of a hill almost in the center of the cemetery. I did not like to stop our search, even for this, but I had no choice. With only one lantern between us, I could not continue without Colin.

Cécile, exhausted and drawn, begged off continuing. She could not face any more tombs. Jeremy wanted to go with Colin, leaving me to sit with Cécile, but my husband thought it best to not leave ladies unaccompanied, so we promised to come for them as soon as we had exhausted the secrets of the cemetery. We returned to section 28, neither of us feeling satisfied that we had finished exploring it. Halfway down a row of graves that stood so close together the effect was almost claustrophobic was one not so large as the Hertfords’, but three times as wide as its narrow neighbors.

“It is not derelict,” Colin said.

“Excellent care has been taken of it, but there are signs of repairs, especially on the corners. The mortar looks newer than the stone.”
Godeau
was carved over the door, which was locked. Holding the lamp up to it, I tried to peer inside, but could see nothing in the darkness.

“I think we should keep moving.” Colin took the lantern from my hand and we stepped back onto the cobbled street.

“Wait.” I pointed to a carving on the step below the door: a pyramid entwined by vines that ended with a flower on either side. It was identical to the image on the bottles of Dr. Maynard’s Patented Formula I had retrieved from Mr. Jones’s drawer. I explained this to Colin, who immediately set about picking the lock to the tomb.

“It is well oiled and clearly used regularly,” he said, as it snapped open. He held the lantern above his head and we stepped inside.

There were no wreaths or flowers here, and the space, approximately ten feet wide, though large enough to have housed numerous coffins, contained none. It was a chapel, grander than those in some of the smaller tombs, having four stained-glass windows and a padded kneeler—its upholstery looked almost brand-new—in front of a marble altar.

“The last burial here was in 1838.” I read the names of the Godeau family off the inscriptions on the wall. “He must have put her here. The careful maintenance would serve two purposes—it prevents the tomb from falling derelict and, hence, from being exhumed, and it assuages his guilt.”

“If he feels any.” Colin was examining the floor, looking for the spot in which he should apply the crowbar he had borrowed from the gravedigger. “The crypt below will be large enough that I may have to descend to inspect the coffins. I have a rope, but there is nothing to which we can safely secure it.”

“You could use it to lower me—”

“My dear, I do not want you—”

“I cannot bear to wait even another hour to find out what happened to Estella. Please, Colin. If we tie it around my waist using a knot that—”

“I am well aware of the best way to approach such a task.” His dark eyes met mine. “You are quite certain you want to attempt it?”

“There is no danger. The dead cannot hurt me.”

He clasped my arm and continued to search the floor. “Here.” He handed me the lantern and went to work with the crowbar, but found the tool unnecessary. The stone was false, nothing more than a theatrical prop attached to hinges. Colin lifted it with ease. The sight—and sounds—of what greeted us will haunt me until my dying day.

“You have kept me waiting longer than I would have liked, Monsieur Jones,” a reedy voice called from below. “I do hope you have my macarons.”

22

My feet stuck to the floor of the tomb as if the icy fingers of Death himself were gripping my ankles. Colin took the lantern from my hand and, lying flat on the ground, held it down into the crypt. “What are you up to, Monsieur Jones? I do not like this, not one bit. You ought not come to me this late at night! What if I had been sleeping? As you’re here you may as well lower the ladder and bring me my macarons. I have decided not to go to the Côte d’Ivoire, and Miss Hexam is quite in agreement. She thinks it a tedious sort of place where there are unlikely to be nice pâtisseries.”

“Mademoiselle Lamar?” Colin called down to her. “We are here to rescue you. Monsieur Jones will not hurt you anymore.”

Sounds of whimpers and scampering came from below. “Who are you? Go away. Bring me Monsieur Jones. You should not be here disturbing me.”

I crouched over the trapdoor, observing that a sturdy stone ledge, which stood out two inches from the hole in the floor, supported it from below. “Mademoiselle, I come on behalf of Cécile du Lac, your dear friend, who has been searching for you. She is most worried—”

“I told her to leave me be! Go and fetch Monsieur Jones!”

Colin and I stepped away from the opening in the floor. “Did you see her?” I asked. “It’s like Miss Havisham gone, well, more mad.” Estella’s hair, which reached almost to the floor, was a mass of untamed gray, her face more pale than that of a corpse, and she appeared to be able to move only with great difficulty. “What should we do?”

“We need a ladder. I have the keys from the custodian—no doubt we can find something of use among the gravediggers’ supplies. They would need something to enable them to reach these crypts.”

“We cannot leave her here. What if Mr. Jones is lurking outside? He is certain to kill her now that she has identified him to us.”

“I agree. You take the lantern. I will stay outside and guard the door from nearby. We should tell her … something.”

I went back to the little door. “Mademoiselle! We are going for help—”

“I want Monsieur Jones and my macarons, you young wretch. You have no business disturbing me in my home.”

These words cut into me like none had before. Her home? “I shall look for Mr. Jones, mademoiselle. Do not disturb yourself. I am sure he will be along with your macarons shortly.” This seemed to calm her. She was sitting in a chair, a thick blanket wrapped around her, and reached down to the floor—carpeted—on which lay a book. She lifted it to her lap and adjusted the lamp on the small table that stood next to her chair.

“Get yourself gone. I am trying to read.”

Colin lowered the trapdoor. “Do you think you can find your way back to Bainbridge?”

“Yes. Need I remind you of my excellent sense of direction?” I thought a lighthearted comment best for the extremely unusual circumstances in which we now found ourselves. We stepped out of the tomb, and Colin embraced me, his arms firm and strong.

“Take care, my dear. We do not know where Jones may be lurking. If anyone approaches you, scream like the devil himself has you. I will come at once.” He kissed me, then handed me the lantern.

“I do not like leaving you here in the dark,” I said.

“Do not trouble yourself. I look forward to another encounter with our villain. He did not fight fair the last time we met—I mean to level the balance when I see him again.”

I followed the cobbled street, moving with deliberate care because the lantern illuminated only the space immediately around me. When I came to a street sign, I lifted the light.
AVENUE TRANSVERSALE NO. 1.
Somewhere, I had taken a wrong turn and wound up north of where I had intended. Remembering that each of the avenues Transverales in the cemetery ran perpendicular to the chapel, I headed east until I could turn to the south. This choice proved ill made as well, as I wound up—how, I could not imagine—once again on the Chemin du Dragon. It was time to consult my map.

I studied it, but to little use. The streets were so narrow, and I was certain they were not all on the map. Although I am assured that is not the case, anyone who has struggled to find her way through Père-Lachaise in broad daylight will understand all too well how difficult, nigh impossible, it is to do on a moonless night. I folded the map, returned it to my reticule, and was about to set off again when a sound startled me, a rustling of sorts, but there was no wind to blow leaves. I felt the uncomfortable prickle of being watched, but there was no sign of anyone in the vicinity. Could Mr. Jones be hiding in one of the nearby tombs? I steeled myself, ready to confront him, and relaxed only when the swoop of bats above my head made me realize their wings had been the source of the sound.

The tombs, with their peaked roofs and ornate decoration, had charmed me during the day, drawing me into the stories of their inhabitants, and the cemetery had seemed a romantic, wonderful place. Now, though, carved skulls and winged creatures danced in the moving light of my lantern, and the squeals of nocturnal animals—owls, rodents, and I know not what else—menaced me. I had begun to feel bats circling above me almost without ceasing, but whenever I looked up to see them, they were not there, and I suspected my mind was falling prey to the evil atmosphere that now seized Père-Lachaise.

When I found the avenue St. Morys, I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that following this road south would take me directly to the chapel, and soon I reached it. My friends were no longer on the bench in front of the building, and I began to panic when I could not find them. I placed the lantern on the ground, not trusting my shaking hand to keep hold of it, and lowered myself to the bench, where I would—somehow—force myself to regain my composure and decide how to best proceed.

No sooner had I drawn a single deep breath than Jeremy came bounding toward me. “Em! Are you all right? Where is Hargreaves?”

“Where is Cécile?”

“She’s in the chapel. This place is creepy in the dark, Em, and I could tell being outside and surrounded by tombs and death was taking a toll on her. The door to the building was unlocked, so I thought we might as well sit inside.”

“We mustn’t leave her alone.” My concern was unnecessary. Cécile had already left the chapel and was upon us in an instant. “We have found Estella,” I said. Cécile closed her eyes and sighed. As she lifted her handkerchief to her face, I reached for her hand. “She is not dead.”