Deadly Descent (9 page)
In response to her signs, the students were moving small square metal tiles. They paused for a moment as the visitors approached. The priest touched Anne's arm and pointed out an older boy.
Bending over his shoulder, Anne saw on each tile a letter of the alphabet. The student glanced at her, then rapidly spelled, “How are you this morning, mademoiselle?” Sensing he could read her lips, she faced him and replied, “Very well, thank you.” She quickly learned he was André Le Blond, sixteen years old and very bright.
“That young man will soon be going to work in a print shop,” the priest remarked. “We place many in that trade.”
Looking toward André and two other boys at the table, Anne asked, “May I join them?”
The priest shrugged. “Are you easily embarrassed?” He smiled at the eager faces of the boys. “They look forward to beating a hearing person at this game.”
“I'm happy to take on that risk!”
“Good. They'll give you a taste of my system.”
For half an hour, perched like a cat on the edge of her chair, Anne watched the shifting tiles. Then, with a broad smile of encouragement, Mademoiselle Arnaud gave her a set. She soon mastered several signs to the obvious pleasure of her young companions. Meanwhile, the priest left the room to speak with Comtesse Marie.
At the end of the lesson, Anne met Mademoiselle Arnaud at her desk and introduced herself, again taking care to face her and to enunciate clearly. The instructor's eyes widened with interest as Anne spoke of puppetry and Braidwood. After a few minutes, Abbé de l'Ãpée and Comtesse Marie returned and joined the two women.
“Mademoiselle Cartier grasps so quickly!” remarked the young woman in good French. “She has encouraged my students.”
The priest studied Anne thoughtfully. “To learn my system you need someone to teach you.” He glanced at the instructor, then back to Anne. “If you wish, you may ask her.”
Anne turned slowly and faced Mademoiselle Arnaud. “Would you please teach me?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “I would like that.”
Anne gently drew the young woman's hand to her heart.
***
The evening meal came to an end in an intimate private dining room at Rue Traversine. Candle light from the chandelier, refracted by smooth crystal pendants, gave a warm tone to the pale green panelled walls, on which gilded garlands faintly glowed. A servant cleared the small round table, leaving its centerpiece of yellow tulips. Another filled the brandy glasses. It was a quiet Sunday, more than a week since Anne had arrived. The next day, Comtesse Marie would depart for Chateau Beaumont.
She raised her glass to Anne, who responded in kind. For a few seconds they sipped silently, then exchanged wistful smiles. The years had been bridged, the social distance narrowed. Anne sensed they might now become friends.
Comtesse Marie placed her glass on the table, glancing sideways at Anne. “You've seen Abbé de l'Ãpée's institute several times this past week. What do you think?”
“I don't know how he manages. He has at least seventy students, many of them penniless, and not enough rooms for instruction. The students lodge in three or four different residences. They might learn better, living together in a larger institute.” She paused, feeling her remarks might have sounded presumptuous. But the comtesse was nodding in agreement.
“As a novice,” Anne continued, “I find the abbé's method⦠frankly, cumbersome. But, I see it works. His students read intelligently and learn to think. He helps them earn self-respect. In sum, a wise and skillful teacher.”
The comtesse looked thoughtfully into her glass. “Yes, a rare man. He cares for each student, and they return his love.” She looked up, her gray eyes now warm with feeling, then gazed at Anne. “Have you thought of where to live?”
“Nearby. I've looked at a room on Rue Richelieu.”
“You could live here. The building is usually empty.” The comtesse spoke in an offhand manner. “Since my husband's death, I seldom leave Chateau Beaumont. When I come to Paris to visit old friends or the shops in the Palais-Royal, I use only the ground and first floors. You could keep the apartment on the second floor with its own stairway and entrance.”
Anne felt a rush of pleasure. “It would suit me very well.” She added hesitantly, “I wish to pay rent for it.”
“As you like. We can settle on a reasonable sum, I'm sure.” Comtesse Marie smiled, taking Anne's hand. “You are doing me a favor. I need to have a person I trust living here.” She met Anne's eye. “One whose concerns I share.”
A Private Investigation
A heavy dew had fallen early Monday morning. Paving stones glistened underfoot in the bright sunlight as Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin walked briskly into Place Vendôme. Midway through the vast open space, he stopped in the shadow of the bronze equestrian statue of Louis XIV. As he surveyed the colossal cream-colored facades of the buildings and sensed the unity and regularity of their architecture, he felt lifted by the grandeur of the place. For a moment, with the misery of the poor out of sight and the corruption of the rich out of mind, Paris seemed more than the sum of the people living there.
From Place Vendôme, Saint-Martin made his way to the bureau of criminal investigation on Rue des Capucines. He found the inspecteurs and their staff housed in a warren of small dingy rooms on the ground floor off an inner courtyard. Cabinets and tables crowded the reception room. A thin light seeped through the windows, so dirty they were barely translucent. Unwashed for decades, he thought. He wondered if the inspecteurs gave more careful attention to their cases.
He announced to a clerk that he had come to study Antoine Dubois' dossier. “I have permission from Lieutenant-General DeCrosne.”
“You'll have to speak to Inspecteur Jules Mauvert. He had charge of that case.”
Mauvert's name rang a bell in the colonel's mind. An inspec-teur who prowled among the rich. “Being of service,” he was rumored to have said. Hypocrite, thought Saint-Martin sourly. The man was more likely digging up scandal and then selling it, trying to recoup the ten thousand livres he had paid for his position.
A few minutes later, the door opened again and the inspec-teur entered, followed by a clerk carrying two boxes. A short narrow-shouldered man, Mauvert wore a black silk suit of the finest quality. From the shop of a society tailor, Saint-Martin surmised. A client, perhaps. The inspecteur's hair was expertly coiffed and powdered. His small beady eyes, protuberant nose, and receding chin reminded the colonel of a crafty rodent.
As the clerk laid a file box on the table in front of Saint-Martin, the inspecteur remarked, “Nothing of interest here, Colonel.” He patted the box. “Still, we keep journalists and other hacks from prying into the case. Baron Breteuil's orders. The Duc d'Orléans, owner of the theater where the crime took place, doesn't want any notoriety.”
“Rest assured, Inspecteur,” Saint-Martin replied, pulling the box toward him, “I shall respect the baron's wish.”
Mauvert clasped his hands deferentially. “May I ask why you wish to study the Dubois file?”
“I'm looking for clues. Lélia Laplante and Dubois may have performed at country houses in my district where jewelry was stolen.” He lifted a few files, fingered through them, then returned them to the box. “May I bring it to my office? I'll return it soon.”
The inspecteur agreed, then pointed to the other container. “You may also examine Dubois's things. Odds and ends. Keep them if you wish. No use to us, and no one has claimed them. My clerk will carry both boxes for you.”
Mauvert started to walk away, hesitated, then stared suspiciously at the colonel. “The Minister has also ordered us not to reopen old closed cases without his permission. But, there's no reason to look at Dubois again.”
Saint-Martin curbed a surge of impatience. “I understand, Inspecteur. I spoke with Baron Breteuil yesterday.” He had explained to the colonel that the resources of the Paris police were committed to ongoing investigations and to the affair of the queen's necklace. Its agents were chasing the thieves all over Europe and were still looking for the jewels.
As he crossed Place Vendôme on the way home, doubt began to stir in Saint-Martin's mind. Mauvert was a clever man. But greedy. A “crime of passion” involving a poor actor like Dubois would have offered little to intrigue him. He could have been hasty, overlooked evidence. The “closed case” might spring open, in spite of the Minister's orders.
***
At three o'clock that afternoon, Anne Cartier hurried through the courtyard of the colonel's house on Rue Saint-Honoré, stepping carefully to avoid the places where the pavement was uneven. How convenient, she thought, taking in the building with a glance. A large stone town house, three stories high, just a few steps from the royal garden of the Tuileries and a ten-minute walk east to the Palais-Royal. It was also where he worked, she had learned. Once a week, on Fridays, anyone could speak with him. Otherwise, he received people by appointment. Today, he was expecting her, and she was a few minutes late.
He met her at the door with a polite bow. Watching for her, she thought. They hadn't seen one another in over a week. He smiled easily as he ushered her to his office on the ground floor. He was in uniformâblue coat with broad red cuffs and lapels, buff waist coat, and buff breeches. His brown hair was groomed but unpowdered. There was energy in his movements, a bounce in his step that she liked.
She glanced about the room while he gave instructions and a handful of papers to a clerk. Detailed maps of Paris and its environs covered the walls between tall cabinets of speckled mahogany, their brass fixtures embossed and gilded. A large conference table to the right of the entrance and a desk to the left matched the cabinets. From his chair, the colonel had a clear view over the courtyard to the front gate.
After ordering a clerk to fetch coffee, he led Anne into a parlor facing a back garden. Ivy covered the windowless walls of buildings to left and right. A low pavilion closed the garden at the far end. She caught the fresh scent of blooming lilacs. He showed her to a table near a large open window and gave her the view over the garden. The coffee arrived; the clerk poured and left.
“The flowers will be lovely,” Anne said, her eyes wandering over carefully tended beds of budding roses. “A diligent gardener works here.”
Saint-Martin gestured modestly to himself. “This is where I feed my spirit.” He gazed fondly at the garden and pointed out a damask rose nearly in bloom. “It may be my favorite this spring.” He turned back to Anne. “Comtesse Marie stopped here on her way to Beaumont. By her account, you've adjusted well to Paris.”
“She's been very helpful.” Anne paused to sip from her cup. “She's probably told you I'm going to work at the variety theaterâto learn what I can about Antoine.”
“A good place to start.” His face took on a serious cast. “We'll deal next with Antoine's affairs.”
They finished their coffee and went back to the office. A clerk set a small open box on the conference table. On top lay bundles of playbills and manuscripts. “Your father's thingsâwhatever the police and the magistrates thought had no value,” remarked Saint-Martin. “They're now yours.”
She lifted the box as if its contents were precious, then peered in. “Most of these are from engagements since he left England,” she said, browsing quickly. “That's his handwriting.” She pointed to a page of dialogue from a comic skit. “He would write out a part even when he planned to improvise.”
Opening an oval silver case, she gasped softly. Inside were two miniature portraits, one of herself, the other of her mother. She held them up before her eyes, tenderly regarding her mother's features. Sudden pangs of grief surprised her. She choked. Tears trickled down her cheeks. The portraits were a priceless legacy from Antoine.
She carefully closed the case and put it in her bag. Drying her tears, she glanced again into the box. At the bottom were his pens, ink, blotters, and a small box of blank stationery wrapped in a paper folder. She fingered through the items, then looked up. “His watch and his ring are missing.”
Saint-Martin grimaced with disgust. “Snatched by whoever found the body or by police agents. Neither watch nor ring appears on the inventory of his confiscated property.”
“Poor Antoine.” Anne sighed, her feelings numbed by this petty indignity to her stepfather, robbed in death.
About to close the box, she decided to take a few sheets of the writing paper. Fanning them in her hand, she noticed one sheet was written upon. She pulled it out, stared frozen for a moment, then read aloud:
9 August, 1785, Paris, Palais-Royal:
Dearest Annie, partner and friend, you will be reading this, God willing, on August 19, your birthday. I wish you good health and many more years. I am well but have lately wondered if I should stay here. Something strange is going on with Léliaâ¦
“The birthday greeting I should have gotten,” said Anne, her throat thick with feeling. “He wrote it the night he died.” She handed the letter to Saint-Martin and walked to the courtyard window, dabbing at her eyes.
“The police might not have noticed it.” The colonel studied the letter for a moment, then pointed to the last line. “â
Something strange is going on with Léliaâ¦'
This would seem to confirm their conclusion. The woman was doing something that provoked Antoine to kill her.”
With a start, Anne turned from the window. “He didn't kill anybody!” She glowered at Saint-Martin. “Where's Antoine buried? I want to visit his grave.”
“I wish that were possible.” A pained expression came over the colonel's face. “His body was burned and the ashes scattered.”
Anne's eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Was he dishonored?”
“As the law prescribes for a murderer and a suicide, his body was first hanged, then burned.”
“Where?”
“Place de Grève, in front of the Hôtel de Ville.”
Anne stared blindly at the city map on the wall. This insult to her father's corpse could not hurt him. The law meant to punish her, the dead man's only family and friend. Dreadful images rushed to her mind. A limp body tied to a stake. Antoine's lifeless, bloodied face, his mouth open in a soundless scream. Flickering flames. Anne pressed her temples as if her head were about to burst.
“Are you well, Miss Cartier?” The colonel rose from his chair and hurried around the table toward her.
She stopped him with her stare. “How
can
you be part of such a barbaric system?”
He stepped back, his lips quivering, as if he had been slapped. They tightened to a sharp, thin line. “I'm
in
the system, not
of
it.” He paused, mastering his feelings. “If I discover that Antoine Dubois was condemned unjustly, I will do everything in my power to clear his name.”
She looked away from him toward Antoine's things on the table. The colonel had brought them to her, had spent the morning studying the dossier. Earlier, he had brought the news about Antoine to her in Wimbledon. With a twinge of shame she drew a deep breath and faced him. “Forgive me, I shouldn't blame you for the evil others have done.”
He bowed slightly. She saw hurt in his eyes. He hesitated, then handed her the file on Antoine's case. “Unfortunately,” he said in a subdued tone, “It supports the verdict the police have reached. I've found very little in the file that I could challenge.”
They sat at the table across from one another while she leaned forward, reading from the file. Suddenly she grew distressed. “Here's Antoine's confession! Or so they claim!” She held up a sheet of paper and began to read aloud:
The woman I loved has betrayed me, so I've killed her. I can't bear the shame of it.
A.D.
She dropped the paper dismissively. “Those are Antoine's initials, but it's not like him at all!”
“That's a copy. The original note is also initialed. Experts in handwriting compared it with other samples of his writing and convinced themselves it was authentic.”
Anne protested. “In the note he says he killed her because she was unfaithful. But that doesn't ring true. He must have known long ago what she was like.”
The colonel shrugged his shoulders, then gestured toward the open file on the table. “The police culled together whatever supported their first impressions. A crime of passion, they thought. The evidence seemed convincing. Since they hadn't discovered any reason for doubt, they decided the case was solved. And closed.”
“Do
you
think the case must remain closed?” Anne was unconvinced.
“New, compelling evidence could force it open. The city police will not search for it. And they will not allow the Royal Highway Patrol to do so.” He paused, then measured out his words. “I believe something could be done in private.” He rose from his chair. “I'll call in Georges Charpentier. He has studied the matter.”
The colonel was gone for a minute, then returned with the short, stocky adjutant. Eyebrows arched, eyes eager, he sat himself at the table, next to the colonel. Anne greeted him with a friendly smile and he replied in kind. At a word from his superior, he began: “There are only two reasonable solutions to the case, a crime of passion, followed by suicide. Or, a double murder by one or more persons known to the victims. There's no evidence of a burglary or a forced entry at the theater. Nor, in the case of Dubois, of any struggle.”
Georges reached for the file box. “The police chose the first alternative. Dubois killed Laplante, then jumped out the office window.” For a few minutes the adjutant fingered through the file box. “Ah!” he exclaimed, pulling out a paper. “The medical report.” He rapidly scanned its contents. “Cause of death,” he read aloud, “was massive trauma to the head.”
He looked up at Anne. “Do you really want to hear this?”
“Yes,” she replied reluctantly. “It's painful but necessary.”
“Dubois fell head first from the top floor of the theater into an open outdoor stairwell, fracturing his skull. That probably killed him instantly. As his body tumbled down to the basement landing, his body suffered other fractures and bruises. The examiner identified them without comment. That was enough for Inspecteur Mauvert.”
With a sigh Georges shuffled the examiner's report back into the box. He slid down in his chair, folding his hands on his chest. “I wish we could take a closer look at those fractures and bruises than the police did. The examiner lists a bruise to the back of the head that
appears
to have occurred when the body tumbled down the stairs. But it could have been caused by an assassin's clubâsomeone who then threw the unconscious man out a window.”
