Belle (40 page)

‘You mean someone could have done it purposely?’ Gabrielle said in horror.

‘Such things have been known, if someone steps out of line,’ Lisette said, looking around her furtively as if afraid she might be overheard.

Both women fell silent for a few minutes. Lisette finished her coffee and said she had to go. ‘I do have an address for Noah though,’ she said as she signalled to the waiter for the bill.

‘Really?’ Gabrielle gasped. ‘Will you let me have it?’

Lisette nodded. The waiter came over and Gabrielle paid him. The two women got up and began to walk away from the café. ‘I’ll slip in and get it for you,’ Lisette said. ‘I imagine your news will only make things worse for her family, but if Noah comes to Paris to see you, which I’m sure he will, please make him understand I can’t be involved.’

As the two women were talking together in La Celle St-Cloud, Belle was lying on the bed in the small locked room, trying very hard not to give in to complete panic.

She could only guess at the time by looking at the one tiny hole in the board over the window. It wasn’t even large enough to put her little finger through it. When she put her eye to it she could see nothing but a spot of sky. She didn’t know the hole was there until daybreak when a pin-prick of light came through it. She had searched the room for something sharp to make the hole larger, but without success. She had removed the thin mattress from the bed only to find there were no springs, just rope criss-crossing the wooden frame, and she had felt all over the floor with her fingertips hoping to find a nail or screw, but there was nothing.

The tiny beam of light was brighter now, so she had to assume it was afternoon and the sun was shining on it. But time didn’t have much meaning anyway, not as the rumbles of hunger increased steadily in her belly. There was water in the jug on the washstand, and she had drunk some of it earlier, but as she didn’t know when Pascal would come back, she had resolved only to take a few sips now and then.

She fervently hoped he would come back tonight. But what was he going to do with her then? She doubted he would let her go, he’d be afraid she would go to the police or the manager of the Ritz. But he couldn’t keep her here indefinitely. Was he planning to take her somewhere else? Or would he kill her?

She had dismissed that thought as preposterous earlier in the day; she’d even imagined him coming back and apologizing, or saying he’d done it just to teach her a lesson. But as time went on it seemed much less ridiculous, for it was the only sure way to guarantee her silence.

Who did the house belong to? She felt it was unlikely that it belonged to Philippe Le Brun as there was no possible reason why he would want her imprisoned in it. She was sure it wasn’t Pascal’s; a mere concierge would not be able to afford such a place. Was he in league with the owner, and the pair of them planned to sell her to another brothel? Or send her overseas again?

These thoughts went round and round in her head until she felt she would go mad with them. She’d tried banging on the walls and stamping on the floor. She’d listened intently, hoping to hear someone, if not in this house, next door, but there was just silence. She suspected this house was taller than its neighbours, and perhaps the walls in this room were not joined to another house.

She felt Gabrielle must have been concerned when she didn’t return home, especially after the warning she’d given her. But would she do anything about it? What could she do? She didn’t know who it was that arranged Belle’s meetings with gentlemen.

She wondered though how long it would be before Gabrielle searched her room and found the money hidden in the space beneath the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe. There was one thousand, seven hundred francs there. Enough to deter any hard-pressed landlady from reporting her guest missing.

It seemed to Belle that she was jinxed, for whenever she thought her life was about to take a turn for the better, something horrible happened.

Back in Seven Dials she’d been so happy to meet Jimmy, but that very night she witnessed Millie’s murder. After the hideous ordeal in Madame Sondheim’s brothel, she thought it was all over when she found herself in the nursing home with Lisette looking after her. But then she was sent to America.

There was that small window of happiness with Etienne in New York and on the way to New Orleans, but it wasn’t long before she found herself trapped at Martha’s and believing Faldo Reiss could be her ticket home. That turned out to be another form of imprisonment, but working with Miss Frank at the milliner’s made her feel hopeful yet again. Then Faldo died, and Miss Frank turned against her.

She trusted Madame Albertine in Marseille, but she had betrayed Belle by setting her up with Clovis.

Then finally, just when she was about to go home to see her mother, Mog and Jimmy, Pascal did this. Why did he? He must have made a lot of money out of her, why wasn’t that enough for him?

Would it have turned out differently if she’d been enthusiastic about going to bed with him?

Somehow she doubted that. He knew this room was up here, he must have planned to lock her into it. Maybe he’d been getting frightened that he’d lose his job if it got out about what he’d been doing on the side?

She should have known after that evening in the café in Montmartre that he wouldn’t just give up on his desire to have his way with her. She’d felt deep in her bones that there was going to be trouble ahead. So why hadn’t she acted on her instinct and left France then? What sort of a fool was she to think seeing Paris in the spring was so important? But if it had really been just that, she could have stopped accepting engagements and moved to another hotel so Pascal would think she’d gone for good. She had enough money, but she wanted still more because of her stupid pride and not wanting to go home empty-handed.

A sick feeling welled up inside her as she faced the truth about herself. She knew many prostitutes had been forced into the work in the beginning, and others got into it through desperate need or even plain stupidity, but every whore she’d ever met had remained one because they were either lazy or greedy.

She began to cry then out of shame. She was an innocent when she was snatched by Mr Kent and sold to Madame Sondheim, but why on earth did she allow Martha to corrupt her into believing it was fine to service ten men a night? Why did she lose her moral code?

She had always prided herself on being brave, but the brave thing to do would have been to have gone to the police in New Orleans and told them what had happened to her and why. This would have been so much better than striving to be the top girl and patting herself on the back because she’d learned a dozen ways to make her clients ejaculate quickly so she could move on to the next poor sod who hadn’t got a woman of his own.

How many other girls’ lives had been ruined by Kent and his associates? How many mothers and fathers were grieving over lost daughters? If she had only found the courage to speak out, she might have saved some of them.

It occurred to her then as she cried out her shame that it was all of this that had made her mother cold and seemingly indifferent to her child. Belle had no idea how and why Annie became a whore, and now she probably never would. But she could see now that Annie had done her best to shield her from what she did. All those rules about never going upstairs after six, keeping her away from the girls and encouraging her to read books and newspapers, were so she’d know about the bigger world beyond Seven Dials. Even allowing her to think of Mog as another mother was an act of unselfishness. For kind, gentle and loving Mog was the best of influences, teaching Belle right from wrong, good manners and to speak well, so that she wouldn’t go the same way as her real mother.

‘I’ve let her down,’ Belle sobbed into the mattress, and the thought of that was worse than anything Pascal could do to her.

Chapter Thirty

Gabrielle looked thoughtfully at the address Lisette had given her as she rode home on the train. If she was to write to Noah Bayliss at that address it could be a week or longer before it got to him. That was too long, she’d have to send him a telegram.

But what would she say in it? ‘Help needed to find Belle’ wouldn’t be much good if he’d already tried to find Belle and failed. ‘Belle in danger come quick’ would be frightening for the girl’s mother. Yet whatever she put, whether she frightened him or not, it was still going to be another couple of days before he got here.

She would send a telegram anyway, but meanwhile what she needed was someone, preferably a man, who knew the smartest hotels in Paris and those who procured girls for their guests and might even be able to identify the initials on that note Belle had been sent.

There was a time when she had known half a dozen such men, but not any more. She felt certain that Belle’s Etienne would have been ideal too, but if Lisette didn’t know how to find him, what chance had Gabrielle got?

It was a stroke of amazing luck that Lisette had nursed Belle, yet perhaps not such a coincidence as she first thought, for after all Lisette was employed by people who bought and sold young girls. Gabrielle thought that once Belle was found she must persuade Lisette to get away with Jean-Pierre and sever all links with those terrible people.

Out of the blue, just as the train was slowing down and puffing into the station, Gabrielle suddenly remembered that Marcel, who ran the laundry two doors away from the Mirabeau, was from Marseille. By all accounts he’d had a chequered life before going into laundry work. She was a good customer of his, so even if he didn’t know Etienne, he might be able to give her some advice.

Gabrielle went straight to the post office and sent a telegram to Noah. ‘Contact me for news of Belle’ she put and added the address of the Mirabeau.

‘The pretty, dark-haired girl?’ Marcel asked after Gabrielle had told him she was concerned about one of her female guests who had disappeared. ‘Yes, I’ve seen her go past the window.’

As Gabrielle began to tell him she suspected foul play, Marcel ushered her into a tiny office just off his laundry. It was very hot and steamy in there but she was glad to talk to him in private, as people kept coming in and out of the laundry on the street.

Marcel was short and rotund, almost bursting out of his shirt. His round, shiny face glistened with sweat, and his receding black hair and drooping moustache were oily.

‘She told me she had a good friend from Marseille, and knowing you were from there I hoped you might know him. His name is Etienne Carrera.’

Marcel’s eyes widened. ‘I know of him,’ he said in a tone that suggested Etienne was to be treated with caution. ‘But your young guest, how would she know such a man? He has a bad reputation.’

Gabrielle explained as briefly as possible about Belle’s abduction and how Etienne escorted her to America two years ago. ‘She told me she trusted him, so that would mean he was good to her. I don’t care what kind of man he is, I just hope he may be able to help me find her.’

‘I heard from my family in Marseille that he lost his wife and family in a fire,’ Marcel said thoughtfully. ‘It was the talk of the town some eighteen months ago, for most people think it was no accident and someone wished to punish him.’

‘I heard that too. But do you know where he is now?’

‘I could telephone my younger brother and ask him. They were friends as boys. I know Pierre went to the funeral of his wife and sons.’

Gabrielle put her hand on Marcel’s arm. ‘I would consider that a great kindness,’ she said with sincerity. ‘If he does know, will you ask him to tell Etienne that I believe Belle is in danger and that she gave me his name as a friend and someone she could trust?’

Marcel patted Gabrielle’s shoulder in understanding. ‘I will come along to see you just as soon as I have spoken to Pierre. I can see you are very worried about this girl. You liked her?’

‘Very much,’ Gabrielle admitted, suddenly aware that apart from Henri, Belle was the first person since Samuel died that she had cared about. ‘She has had very hard times. I wish to see her reunited with her family. I think this man Etienne would wish that for her too.’

Marcel nodded. ‘Leave it with me.’

Mrs Dumas opened her front door and blanched to see a telegraph boy standing there holding out a telegram. ‘It’s for Mr Bayliss,’ the boy said.

Mrs Dumas felt relieved it wasn’t for her. ‘He’s not home, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘But he will be very shortly.’

She took the telegram and closed the front door, looking at the envelope and wondering what it contained. Was one of his parents sick or even dying? She fervently hoped not for she had grown very fond of Noah and he was doing so well now he’d been taken on to the staff of
The Times
.

Just half an hour later Mrs Dumas heard a key in the door, and rushed out into the hall to check if it was Noah. It was. He looked hot and bothered for it was a warm day and he must have walked home from Fleet Street.

‘I’m afraid there’s a telegram for you,’ she said. ‘I do hope it’s not bad news. But I’ve got the kettle on, dear.’

Noah looked anxious, but smiled after he’d read it. ‘I don’t think it is bad news. Someone in Paris has news of Belle.’

Back in the days when he used to rush home hoping for a letter from Lisette, he had given his landlady a censored outline of Belle’s story, omitting that she was brought up in a brothel and had been sold into prostitution. But that hoped-for letter never came, and once he’d been taken on as a reporter for
The Times
and worked longer hours, gradually his visits to Mog, Garth and Jimmy had become less frequent too.

Last time he went to the Ram’s Head Garth had told him he and Mog were planning to get married soon. They wanted to find another public house somewhere in the country, and as Jimmy was virtually running the Ram’s Head now, he could take it over if he wanted to.

Jimmy had grown into a strong, steady young man, honest and forthright, and he rarely mentioned Belle any more. Yet Noah knew he still thought about her, for though he had walked out with two or three young women, it was clear his heart still belonged to Belle.

Mog hadn’t entirely given up hope of finding her, but she did her best to hide the core of sadness within her. She had a good life with Garth and Jimmy and filled her days with baking, cleaning and sewing. She had told Noah once that she felt deep inside her that Belle would reappear one day, and that thought sustained her.

As for Annie, her boarding house had become so successful she’d taken over the house next door too, but she had little contact with Mog now. Noah had written another article about Belle and the other missing girls just last December, hoping that after such a long time someone might come forward with new information. He had interviewed several of the mothers for this article, Annie included, and it had struck him that although she appeared hard and cold, in fact she probably grieved for Belle as strongly as Mog, but just couldn’t articulate her feelings.

From time to time Noah had heard whispers about the Falcon. A young girl was found dead in a field on the outskirts of Dover, her death attributed to a large dose of sedative. She came from a village in Norfolk and was last seen at a local fair, talking to a man who fitted the description of Mr Kent. Noah had managed to get a look at the inquest report, and there had been rope marks on her wrists and ankles as if she’d been tied up, but the rope was removed after her death. Noah was convinced Kent was responsible and that he’d been planning to get her over to France the same way he had taken Belle, but when he found she’d died he just dumped her body and hoped the police might think she’d killed herself.

There were other girls missing too, several of them from Suffolk and Norfolk. Many of the policemen Noah talked to were in agreement that Kent was involved, and that he’d just moved his operation to a different area. But there was no evidence, and on the several occasions they had taken him in for questioning, he always had a watertight alibi. One senior police officer had told Noah that if they could just find one of the missing girls and get her to testify against him, he was sure other people would come forward with further information about his crimes.

But now this woman in Paris had news of Belle. Noah knew
The Times
would happily pay his expenses to go over there, and also get their French counterparts to offer him every assistance in the hope that he would find her and bring her home to testify about Kent and his operation. Noah’s heart thumped with delight, not only at the prospect of seeing her reunited with Anne and Mog, but also because of what it would mean to him personally to get a lead story of human trafficking that every newspaper in the land would want.

And maybe he’d see Lisette again too.

In less than an hour after opening the telegram, Noah was on his way to Charing Cross to catch the last train of the evening to Dover. He considered stopping off at the Ram’s Head to tell Mog the news, but decided against it in case things didn’t work out as he hoped. He had telephoned his editor who, as he had expected, gave him his blessing and promised to telegraph ahead and ask the office in Paris to stand by to offer him assistance and an interpreter if necessary.

Gabrielle was laying up the breakfast tables at nine in the evening when the bell on the front door rang. She hurried to it, to find Marcel there.

‘Did you find out anything?’ she asked, and beckoned for him to come in.

‘My brother does know where Etienne is, but it’s a few miles from Marseille out in the country. Pierre promised me he’ll go out there on his bicycle at first light tomorrow to see him and give him your message.’

‘Bless you, Marcel,’ she said, and impulsively leaned forward to kiss his cheek. ‘Did he think Etienne might come?’

‘All he said was that Etienne was the kind of man who would always help a friend. But he added that he hasn’t been himself since the fire. So all we can do is hope.’

‘Stay and have a glass of something with me?’ Gabrielle asked. For the first time in years she didn’t relish being alone. She had grown more and more terrified for Belle as the hours passed. She had pictured her body being thrown in the Seine or lying in a back alley. Even if Belle was still alive she couldn’t bear to think of what might have been done to her. She had been down on her knees in front of a picture of the Virgin Mary praying for her to keep Belle safe, but her faith wasn’t sufficiently strong to truly believe that was enough.

Etienne stood at the door of the tumbledown cottage he lived in and watched Pierre cycling back down the rutted lane towards the road to Marseille. It was a beautiful spring morning, warm sunshine had made wild flowers spring up all along the lane, and the sound of birdsong all around him made him feel a little less despairing. It had been good to see Pierre again, they’d shared so much innocent fun as small boys, and even though their paths had taken them in such different directions as grown men, there was still a connection between them.

Etienne had wished for his own death after burying Elena and his boys. He’d hidden himself away in this cottage and spent the entire winter drinking himself into oblivion, barely eating anything, not bathing, shaving or even changing his clothes. The only time he went out was to get further supplies of drink.

It was only as the weather improved in early March that he noticed his surroundings. He woke one morning on his straw-filled mattress, and the sun shining in the window highlighted the filth he was living in: empty food cans and wine bottles everywhere, the table covered with mouldy bread, unwashed plates, the floor unswept since he moved in and covered in ash from the fire. He noticed an evil smell – whether it was coming from him, or from food that had fallen to the floor and rotted, he didn’t know, but he knew it was time he did something about it.

He was so weak that he could only tackle the mess in small stages, resting in between. Just getting enough water from the pump outside, filling the old copper and lighting the fire beneath it left him breathless and aching. But he didn’t open a bottle, and that night, after sweeping out the rubbish and burning it, bathing himself and washing his clothes, was the first that he’d fallen asleep sober since the fire.

He was physically strong again now; long, hard days of clearing the ground around the cottage had built up muscle. Mending the roof, cutting wood for the fire and making new shutters for the windows had stopped him drinking and eased his grief.

There were still days when rage consumed him. He wished he knew for certain if the fire in the restaurant had been set deliberately to punish him for daring to tell Jacques he wouldn’t work for him any longer. If he could be sure he would have killed Jacques. But there was no proof – the source of the fire appeared to be the cooker.

The question Etienne had to ask himself now was whether it was wise to go to Paris and look for Belle. He’d made the break from Jacques, he could feel his old spirit gradually returning in just the way green leaves were unfurling in the hedgerows. But returning to Paris would undoubtedly bring him back in contact with the kind of scum he’d turned his back on.

Yet he could picture Belle’s sweet face as she nursed him when he was sick on the steamer, he could hear her gasps of delight as they explored New York, and he remembered only too well how tempted he’d been that night when she got into his bunk.

She had crept into his mind so often in the months after he left her in New Orleans. He’d hoped he would be sent back there so he could check on her, and he’d felt pangs of guilt when he looked at Elena, for surely such thoughts of another woman were as much adultery as the physical kind?

But just the knowledge that Belle had cited him as the one person she trusted meant he must go to her aid. What did he have to lose? Everything he held dear was gone.

He turned to go back into his cottage. If he left now he could be in Paris tonight.

Belle sobbed when the heel of her shoe clattered to the floor. She had spent hours hammering on the board over the window, trying desperately to make a hole in it. The heel broke on the first shoe, and then she’d begun again after a sleep, but now the second heel was broken too she couldn’t go on. It wasn’t as if she’d even made any headway – all she had to show for her efforts was a slight indentation in the timber. But at least while she was hammering there was a glimmer of hope. Now that was gone.