The Alchemy of Murder (43 page)

“There’s one more thing,” Jules says. I can tell by the lift in his voice and the twinkle in his eyes whatever he has to say amuses him. “The village we are going to is very small and poor. There is only one inn, one room for rent.”

“Really … you telegraphed the inn?”

“The driver told me.
One room.
And it’s available because he has not taken anyone out to the village since Perun left.”

“There’s only
one
room in the whole village?”

“Yes … one small inn, one small room.” He purses his lips and contrives a studious expression. “There’s one other thing.”

“Yes…”

“We shall have to register as husband and wife. Otherwise they will not rent us the room.”

Poor Jules, he is expecting—no, I believe eagerly waiting for some sort of womanly shock from me. Instead, I bat my eyes demurely. “That will be fine, dear.” I let that sink in and then expose my cruel streak. “But, you will get awfully wet if they don’t have a stable.”

*   *   *

P
OVERTY IS PERVASIVE
in the countryside we cross. People are smaller than in the city, as if their growth has been stunted. I say as much to Jules.

“Most French farmers are as prosperous as their British or American counterparts. But you’re right, this is a poor area and the people here must scrape for bare subsistence. They probably enjoy meat only on holy feast days.”

Outside a mud hut, I see a girl, probably no more than fourteen or fifteen, pretty as young girls are, but already looking haggard. She probably has not had a bath in her life nor owns a change of clothes.

“She probably sleeps on a bed of leaves,” Jules says, following my gaze, “and will be ancient by the age of twenty-five—if she survives ten pregnancies between now and then.”

“These people are still in the medieval age. I can see why the revolutionaries want to have a new social order.”

“There are regions in America where people are as poor as these. Do you advocate revolution in America, too?”

*   *   *

I
T
’
S DRIZZLING BY
the time we approach a narrow, wooden bridge leading into the village. In the dusk it appears barely wide enough to hold our carriage. I hold my breath as we cross.

The village is a cluster of mud and straw houses with thatched roofs. Candlelight flickers in some windows, but most are dark. Cows and goats stand wet and motionless in the pastures, while a scarecrow hops around, ignoring the drizzle as he pokes at things on the ground. A few horses raise their heads to see what is coming. Scattered about are enormously large oak trees.

Planted at the end of the dirt road, like an afterthought, is an inn. It’s small, lacking in any grace, and as uninviting as its environs. Music filters out from the tavern as the door opens and a man staggers out. He takes the steps with drunken grace and sloshes in a mud puddle as he walks away. Peering from the windows are faces. The windows are dirty. So are the faces. About a dozen plain, drab cement headstones are stuck in the ground off the road to the right.

“Charming,” is all I can muster as I step down from the carriage and into the mud.

Off on a hill to the left, barely visible through the mist, are the ruins of what appears to be a medieval tower, built by some knight to defend this miserable little realm. The crumbling stone edifice is a gloomy sentinel looking down on the village.

I inch closer to Jules. “We should have gone back with the carriage and returned in the morning. This place looks like it fell out of the pages of Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein
.”

“He’ll be back to get us at noon tomorrow.”

“That might be too late.”

“It’ll give us a chance to investigate the matter thoroughly.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

It starts raining and I awkwardly step over Jules’ bags that were deposited on the porch and enter. The smells of musty wine, moldy food, and dirt hit me. Seven or eight men are inside, a couple at the short bar and others around the two tables. The men are dull-faced, numb appearing, as if they have lost life’s battles and are now prisoners without hope. I regret to say that some of them appear rather dense, if not downright stupid. I suppose Mr. Darwin would say centuries of intermarriage is responsible for developing less than desirable specimens. Perhaps their brains have suffered the same malady from inbreeding as did the legs of Toulouse.

No one offers to help bring the bags in, or acknowledges we have entered—except to silently stare.

The innkeeper comes out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on his apron. He shouldn’t have bothered. The apron is fouler than his hands. He has a fat head, almost no neck, and eyes and lips that are lost in the heavy wrinkles of his face. His arms are short, like overstuffed sausages, and his stomach is as wide as it is long. A replica, about eighteen, I take to be his son, stands nearby pouring a mug of wine.

Jules enters and begins negotiations for the room. I have seen cows sold with less discussion. I meet the stare of three men at a nearby table. They’re lifeless. I smile politely. The lips of one of them quiver, but are unable to form a smile. I feel sorry for these people in this village without cheer.

Finally, we follow the innkeeper up a gloomy flight of stairs to a door at the top. He pushes it open and heads back down, brushing by, squeezing me between him and the wall. I gag from the smell of garlic and sour wine. He murmurs something that I take to be an apology. Poor Jules, he must follow him to retrieve the luggage … if it is still there.

“No dinner will be necessary,” Jules says to the man as they are going down the stairs. “We had a late lunch.”

That’s a big lie. My stomach is well aware that we had an early lunch. However, the thought of what might pass as food in this place, well … I’d rather starve.

Our room is small, with a single tiny window. I would open it to get the dank, musty smell out, but rain savagely beats upon it. A yellowish, brown stuffed chair, frayed and stained, sits by the window. I cringe at the thought of sitting in it. A small round table is next to it. A cockroach—creatures I hate—walks across it. I decide to continue holding my valise as I examine the bed. The mattress is frumpy, stuffed with rags and hay. What color the bedding might have once been is a mystery. I choose not to even think when it was last washed. I know it’s ridiculous, but I sense bedbugs looking up at me, licking their lips—tiny vampires starving for fresh blood—
my blood.

I will not sleep on that bed or use their dirty lice-infested gray blankets. Nor will I sit on that chair. I’ll stand up all night if I have to. I fight down a heat of anger starting to boil in me.

It was poor planning on Jules part to bring us into this disgusting place so late we have to stay the night. He should have known how primitive it might be. But I must keep my temper in control. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and start coughing to death. I must have inhaled a billion little dust bugs! No need for dinner, I think I just had mine.

Reluctantly, I set my valise on the floor and open the dirty window. Fresh air should change my mood—besides this room needs a wash.

From the window I see the innkeeper’s son hurrying toward a barn. He comes out riding a skinny, swayback old nag that looks like a candidate for a glue factory. The boy and horse head off in the direction of the rail station. They’re stopped by an old woman. I can’t make out the words, but from the body language the old woman appears to be pleading with him. He shakes his head no and urges the horse to pass her. When she turns toward me, I’m positive she’s crying. The door bangs open and I jump back startled.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Jules is huffing from carrying both pieces of luggage up the stairs.

“I’m going downstairs and insist upon clean blankets.”

Jules has the bad grace to laugh. My jaw sets and I clinch my fists.

“Do you really think that creature downstairs would understand the meaning of fresh linen? Or have such a thing?”

He’s right. I’m deflated and with no place to sit down.

“I, on the other hand, Mademoiselle, am a seasoned traveler.” Jules opens one of his suitcases. Inside are clean, fresh, soft white blankets bearing the embroidered name of his hotel and two beautiful pillows.

“
Jules!
You’re a genius!” I clap my hands with delight. “I don’t suppose you have dinner in the other bag?”

“A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, a little cheese, some sausage, and thou.”

“And I see you have fresh towels and a bar of soap.” I’ve never been so happy. I curtsy. “Monsieur, you are truly a man for all seasons. I am forever in your debt.”

He comes so close I can feel his male aura. “Yes, you are…” He gently straightens the collar on my dress.

I look into his eyes and see a man that I know I want to love.

His arms go round me and his lips meet mine. I find myself wanting more. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, deeper into me. I’ve lost all thought and senses. All I know and feel is this kiss—this incredible kiss that I never want to end. I feel his hands on my cheeks and he slowly pulls us apart. Our breath mingles with each other’s.

“Jules…”

“Hush…” He gently caresses my cheek and then kisses my lips again. As his lips caress my neck, my breathing becomes labored, my body ignites. Oh, I do want him. His hands separate my clothing from my breasts and I find myself shuddering from delight as his tongue wraps around my nipple. I want more and find myself bending down and kissing the top of his head as he sucks my nipples.

My knees go weak and he gently holds me and brings me down to the floor. I don’t know when or how he had done it, but one of the soft white blankets is laid out on the floor—ready for me. That’s when I guess one could say, “my senses came to,” and a phrase my mother repeated many times shrieks in my brain as if to snap me to attention. “Remember, Pink, making love is making babies.” But, much to my surprise, I find myself pushing aside all those years of indoctrinated rules.
I want Jules to make love to me.

Jules brushes a piece of hair away from my face. “Nellie…”

For what seems like forever we lock into each other’s eyes—he, searching for an answer from me, while I battle with desire and morals, and the consequences it will bring.

“I don’t think you’re ready.”

Tears start pouring down my cheeks. He was right. “Love makes babies,” echoed in my head. I want to … but I can’t.

“Nellie … it’s okay.”

Jules gently puts a pillow under my head and takes the other blanket and covers me and then starts to get up, but I grab his hand, “Please, lie here with me…”

He gets the other pillow and joins me under the blanket.

“Hold me.”

His strong arms embrace me and I nuzzle my cheek into his chest and wrap my arms around him. I can feel his chest rise and fall and hear the beating of his heart. His heart is beating rapidly against mine—what could be more beautiful. We hold each other tight and I feel as if we are melting into one. That’s when I kiss him and look deep into his eyes—
consequences be damned
.

58

I awake in the morning to find Jules gone and a note laying on his pillow, “
I’ve gone for a walk to mingle (if that’s possible) with the town folk.—Jules.
” I smile and snuggle deeper into the blanket. I’m grateful to Jules for not being here when I awoke. This is all so new to me—I need time alone to think, digest what happened.

I gave myself to him last night.

It encompasses so much—I am now a woman. I am no longer a young girl or a virgin. I made love to a man and I’m not married. Oh my … I sit straight up in our floor bed. I really hate it when reality strikes me in the face. I could be pregnant. And my dear mother … what will she think?! But what is surprising me, in all honesty, is that I’m not ashamed.

“
I’m not ashamed,
” blurts out of my mouth and I start laughing. “I’m not ashamed.”

It’s a wonderful relief, nothing like I thought I would experience. I had all these ideas on when it was going to happen and how I would feel. And I must say this scenario never entered my thoughts—especially with a married man. Why don’t I feel guilty and embarrassed and all those horrible things the church says I should feel if I made love out of wedlock? Because my heart tells me otherwise.

My father was right. He told me always to listen to your heart. You can never go wrong. I take the pocket watch my father gave me and hold it tight. Even though I listened to my heart and feel okay about this, I have a funny feeling when I see Jules … just the thought of seeing him sends a thousand butterflies in my stomach. What I need to do is stop thinking, get up, get dressed, and pay the piper. And pray to God, I don’t act like a fool.

*   *   *

O
UTSIDE
, I
FIND
the sun desperately trying to brighten up this dreary little village, but too many clouds block its way. I had hoped with the light of day the village would transform into a quaint, charming place. It doesn’t. The place is as bleak as it was on a rainy night.