The Red Necklace (24 page)

“How are you going to pay him?”

“The duchess very kindly said she would loan us the money, and that she would pay this Mr. Tull for us.”

“Mr. Tull, did you say?”

Sido nodded. “Do you know of him?”

Yann remembered Mr. Tull only too well. How was it, he wondered, that he was in Paris helping émigrés escape?

“Have you met him yet?”

“No, but we’ve had a message telling us to contact him when we’re ready.”

Yann said earnestly, “Please don’t. Let me get you out instead of Mr. Tull. After all, that’s what I’m here for.”

“I don’t think my father would consider it. The duchess suggested Mr. Tull, and so Mr. Tull it has to be.”

In spite of the clamor in the café, they could hear the church bell chiming the hour.

Sido wished, as they shopped together for food, that she had the power to slow down time, even to stop it altogether, or at least never to forget each passing moment. They walked back slowly toward the Place Royale. With every step that took them nearer to her front door she wondered if she would ever see Yann again.

As they parted Yann said, “I will be here at the same time tomorrow.”

He walked back to the theater floating on air. The colors all around him looked brighter than they had two hours ago. Never could he remember feeling so alive. Why should that be? he wondered. He smiled at himself. As if he didn’t know! It was because she had been thinking about him all this time.

He jumped up in the air, hit the sky with his fist, and laughed out loud. She loved him. It was so simple. At that moment he realized something that he hadn’t dared whisper even to himself, something that Orlenda had seen so clearly in the palm of his hand: There was only one person for him, and that was, and always would be, Sido de Villeduval.

The gravity of this realization made him once more aware of his feet upon the street, Didier’s words a pebble in his happy thoughts: “Like a ripe cherry waiting to be plucked from the tree.” A sudden and terrible dread overcame him. He was now certain that the involvement of Mr. Tull did not bode well.

chapter twenty-five

Têtu was waiting impatiently in the wings of the theater, watching a couple of tumblers practice their moves and a juggler throw his unlit torches up into the air.

“Where is Yann? Curse the boy,” he said under his breath.

On stage Monsieur Aulard was shouting loudly and without much effect at a singer whose rendition of the Marseillaise left a lot to be desired.

“No, no, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Aulard bellowed. “We want to stir the audience to a patriotic fervor, not send them screaming from the theater.”

Têtu turned around to see Yann slip through the shadows.

“At last!” he hissed. “I thought you’d forgotten our appointment with the lawyer.”

“Quiet!” shouted Monsieur Aulard. “How’s one expected to work when there’s bedlam going on backstage?”

"I saw her,” said Yann.

Têtu took his arm. “Come on, you can tell me about it on the way there.”

Once out of the theater they set off toward the Left Bank.

"Well,” said Têtu as they walked along, "did you tell her our plan?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And did she agree?”

“No. She told me that they had made a previous arrangement. The Duchesse de Lamantes had recommended that they use Mr. Tull.”

"Mr. Tull,” said Têtu. "Why Mr. Tull?”

“He was the one the duchess had employed to take her to London. She left disguised as a governess.”

“Now that’s interesting. I’d heard that Mr. Tull was working in Paris. By all accounts he’s doing good business.”

“He speaks terrible French, and he’s not very bright. I have a feeling he must be working with someone here.”

"Maybe,” said Têtu. "But he has done this many times before.”

Yann kicked at a stone. “I don’t like the idea of Mr. Tull being involved.”

“If it is of any comfort, it was Mr. Tull who took you safely to London. Why should he not do the same for Mademoiselle Sido and her father?”

“I don’t know.”

“He must have gotten the necessary papers. Anyway, I can tell you this much: We would never have been able to get both of them out. The girl, maybe; the marquis, impossible.”

“I still feel uneasy.”

“Tell you what we’ll do. The minute we’re finished here I’ll get Didier to make inquiries for us as to Tull’s credentials, so that when you see Mademoiselle Sido tomorrow you can advise her what to do for the best.” He stopped walking and looked at Yann. “You will be seeing her tomorrow, I take it?”

“Yes.”

“Good, very good. You never know, by then she may have changed her mind and decided to go with you by herself.”

“I doubt it,” said Yann.

The lawyer’s house was near the Sorbonne, down a dingy covered passage off the rue St. Jacques. It was so dark that the lanterns hanging in the niches were all lit. Yann and Têtu stood there waiting in the gloom for the door to open, sensing eyes peeking out of all the buildings, spying on them. In the window of the shop opposite, a solitary candle dimly illuminated its macabre contents, waxwork heads stuck on pikes. One was of Louis XVI, another was of Marie Antoinette. Yann felt a shiver go down his spine.

"My word,” said Têtu. "A glimpse of what is to come.”

“Yes?” said the maid, opening the door.

"We have an appointment to see Maître Tardieu.”

The girl took them up a narrow, dark staircase that led to a room of miserable proportions. Lit only with a few candles, so used was this room to the perpetual gloom of twilight that the outside world seemed almost divorced from it.

The lawyer reminded Yann of a mole. He was dressed in a worn-out black velvet coat, his face gravestone gray, worry etched into every feature, thick heavy spectacles stuck firmly on the bridge of his nose. He did not look a well man. He was sitting at a table piled high with papers. Next to him stood an inkstand and a stone jar of quills, beside which were the remains of an unfinished meal. He seemed lost for words as they entered the room, not knowing what to make of this pair, while the maid fussed with the plate and straightened a forlorn-looking chair.

"That’s all, thank you,” said MaîtreTardieu firmly, and the door clicked shut behind her. Never for a moment had he imagined Cordell sending him a mere youth and a dwarf, apparently from the circus. He had been expecting two serious and well-connected gentlemen to help him. Had Cordell no idea of the urgency of the situation?

“We live in strange times indeed, sir,” said Têtu, reading the lawyer’s thoughts.

“No, we live in terrible times,” said Maître Tardieu. “Who would think that I would live so long as to be rewarded in my old age with such times as these.” He took off his glasses and nervously wiped them on his sleeve, with the effect of evenly coating the already smeared lenses with more grime. “I take it you’ve heard about the marquis’s château?”

“About the fire?”

“Yes. What a dreadful business. The last of the marquis’s great fortune gone up in flames.” The lawyer sighed. “He wrote to me a few days ago instructing me to break off Mademoiselle Sido’s betrothal, said she wouldn’t be marrying the devil.”

“Have you informed Kalliovski?”

Tardieu mopped his forehead. “I have, sir.”

“Have you had a reply?”

“None,” he said, absentmindedly moving papers from one pile to another for want of something to do.

"I am aware, sir,” said Têtu kindly, "that we are not what you had in mind when you asked Monsieur Cordell for help.”

"Quite,” said Maître Tardieu. "Quite.”

“But whatever else you may think of us, we are to be trusted, of that I can give you my word.”

“Yes, Cordell wrote and told me as much . . .” He stopped, then started again. “But sir,” said the lawyer, standing up, “I didn’t expect—”

"A dwarf,” interrupted Têtu.

“Quite, quite.”

“My size, sir, is of no importance to me, though I see it more often than not reflected badly back at me in the eyes of my fellow man.”

“This, sir, is a most sensitive matter. I am afraid it is for Monsieur Cordell alone.”

"That is not possible,” said Yann. "He is away in Coblenz.”

For a while the silence in the room felt almost tangible. Then Maître Tardieu said, "This goes against my better judgment, but I see there is nothing else to be done.” He put his hand under his chin as if to prop up the weight of his head, and lowered his voice. “Something very distressing has come to light. Oh dear me, yes, very distressing indeed. I have received a packet from a Monsieur Giraud, a lawyer of my acquaintance who lives in Normandy. He was called in to help identify the remains of a body found on the marquis’s estate, near where Mademoiselle Sido’s mother was killed. Monsieur Giraud concludes that this ring, found amongst the bones, was the property of the marquis’s half brother, Armand de Villeduval, who disappeared about the time of the accident, and that the remains were his.”

He tipped the contents of the packet onto the table. Out fell a ring and seven bloodred garnets.

“The ring,” continued Maître Tardieu, “bears, as you can see, the coat of arms of the Villeduval family. I remember that Armand de Villeduval used to wear it on his left hand. The garnets . . .” He paused. "Will you wait here? There is something else I must show you.”

When he left the room, Têtu picked up one of the garnets and studied it.

“Does it remind you of anything?”

“Yes. The red necklace I found in Kalliovski’s room.”

Upstairs they could hear the lawyer shuffle across the floorboards as the ceiling creaked above them.

“How can anyone live in this place?” said Yann.

“Moles like the dark.”

The lawyer came back carrying a velvet drawstring bag.

“This,” he said, “belonged to Mademoiselle Sido’s mother. She instructed her maid that if anything happened to her she was to give the purse to me.”

He emptied it onto the table. The brightness of the jewels that fell out shone even in the darkness of the gloomy room. In amongst them lay a red ribbon studded with seven garnets.

Maître Tardieu brought out his handkerchief and mopped his brow again, the heat a sticky, unwelcome visitor.

Têtu picked up the red necklace. "How did this get in amongst such valuable jewels?” he asked.

“The maid told me that she had taken the necklace off her dead mistress, along with her rings. She had no idea if it was valuable or not, and just added them to the other jewels. Does it signify anything?”

“The seven garnets found with Armand de Villeduval’s ring were once attached to a red ribbon identical to this,” said Têtu. “It is the signature that is left on every one of his victims.”

“Sir,” said Maître Tardieu, “you are alarming me greatly. Please, in heaven’s name, explain yourself. Whose victims?”

“Kalliovski’s. I think it proves that Armand de Villeduval and Madame Isabelle de Villeduval were murdered, but the question—and one you might have the answer to—is why?”

“We must call for the police,” said the lawyer.

“That would be unwise,” said Yann. “It would be as good as signing your own death warrant.”

“Oh dear, oh dear, what is to be done?”

“What we want to do is get Mademoiselle Sido to London, where she has family and will be out of Kalliovski’s reach.”

“I agree that would be best. If Kalliovski were to marry Mademoiselle Sido, he would be in control of her inheritance. Can I ask—how do you plan to get her out?”

“We have been told that a Mr. Tull is to take her and the marquis to England,” said Têtu.

“Not the marquis. The man, you know, is quite mad. If anything will scupper the plan, he will. Do you really believe this Mr. Tull is up to the job?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” said Yann.

“But, young man, I don’t want anyone but yourself taking these jewels back to London, is that understood?”

“Yes,” said Yann. “I will make sure that Mademoiselle Sido receives them safely.”

“I can’t tell you how delighted I shall be to see them with their rightful owner at last. I am an old man: I don’t like keeping such valuables in my house, not in times like these.”

“Then, sir,” said Têtu, “we will make the necessary arrangements to relieve you of the jewels.”

They left the lawyer’s house with two vital questions still unanswered. If Kalliovski had murdered both Sido’s mother and Armand de Villeduval, what was his motive? And what part had the marquis played? The questions hovered there angrily, like stormclouds in search of thunder.

The next morning Yann was back at the Place Royale, eager to tell Sido of her unexpected good fortune. He took up his position as before, not wanting to draw attention to himself. There were spies all over Paris, looking out for potential émigrés.

By half past one, Yann had to acknowledge that something was wrong, and the unpleasant image of Mr. Tull came back to haunt him.

Yann moved nearer to the door, wondering if he could have missed her, hoping beyond hope that she would still come down. As he leaned against the wall, he could hear the women nearby gossiping.

“That poor girl! There she was, trying to stop him from shouting, and he kicked her in front of everybody.” The woman folded her arms and huffed. “Most probably that’s how she got that limp in the first place.”

“Well, he’s not right in the head, is he?” said her friend. “You could see that. Mad, like the lot of them. Too much inbreeding, I say. That’s what’s wrong with all these stinking aristocrats.”

At that all three women chuckled.

“He was a sight for sore eyes, wasn’t he? Did you notice that one side of his powdered hair was stuck to his head, as if he’d been sleeping on it?”

“Telling us all to keep away because he was a marquis and shouting out at the top of his voice that the devil was coming to get them! I thought the National Guard would come and arrest him, the noise he was making.”