Deadly Descent (13 page)

“On that occasion last September,” she said, carefully articulating the words, “I recklessly ignored the warning of my friend, Harriet, and paid dearly. I should have spent the night with her.” She looked at Georges, clear-eyed and direct. “I count you also as my friend. I shall accept your advice. Staying in the provost's residence over the weekend is certainly the wisest thing to do.”

Georges took her hand and stroked it. That confession had cost her a great deal. He felt honored.

***

The visitor's apartment reminded Anne of a small fortress. The back wall's thick stone blocks shut the provost's property off from an alleyway. She walked through the rooms, opening louvers to catch a slight breeze. It was a warm night. She would have liked to sleep outdoors. The place was safe enough. The bedroom, kitchen, and parlor faced the garden. An older married couple, living in a similar apartment next door, watched the back entrance during the day. Their terrier guarded it by night. She was also under Georges' vigilant eye. From his apartment in the main building, he could survey the entire garden.

Throughout the day, she had had little reason to fear Derennes or anyone else. Guarded by one of Georges' agents, she had kept herself busy at the Tatar Puppet Theater most of the afternoon. The agent watched over her also during her short evening engagement at the variety theater. Chevalier de Pressigny was there with several Amateurs, patrons, and courtesans. Handsome devil! He had stared at her and winked.

Now, however, she sat by herself in the parlor. It was late. Several oil lamps gave off a warm golden light, but the shadows they cast on the walls looked menacing. After the loud music of the theater and the raucous noise of the streets, the room seemed unearthly quiet, its atmosphere heavy and threatening. She felt uneasy. Derennes' attempted deception recalled to mind Roach's assault. The ground she had to cover to clear Antoine appeared more treacherous than she had imagined. She wished for a companion with whom she could share her feelings.

She got up from the chair, threw a thin scarf over her shoulders, and stepped out into the fresh air. Bending over the fountain, she splashed cold water on her face. The terrier approached silently out of the darkness, sniffed and licked her outstretched hands, then disappeared. For several minutes Anne strode back and forth, breathing deeply, and dismissed Roach and Derennes from her thoughts. She looked up. Bright stars patterned the clear night sky, their magnificent display telling of their creator, who wisely governed the affairs of men as well as nature. Her nerves calmed. When she went to bed, she was lulled to sleep by the faint rippling sounds of the fountain.

***

Monday morning, Georges was sitting in his office, reading the mail. He had not yet spoken with Colonel Saint-Martin, who had returned home late at night and left again early in the morning. A door slammed. Georges looked up, hearing a familiar voice.

A minute later, Saint-Martin walked in. “I've just come from a conference with the lieutenant-general. He says Chevalier Derennes is missing. He was last seen several days ago at the Amateurs' theater party.” The colonel shed his coat and sat down at the desk across from Georges. “The duke's upset. He doesn't want another scandal.”

“Does the lieutenant-general suspect foul play?” Georges pushed a pile of letters to the side. “Would he care? Derennes is the worst of a bad lot.”

“The lieutenant-general suspects the Amateurs might have decided to get rid of him.”

“In that case, they've done a favor to the young women of Paris.” Georges crossed his arms on his chest, slouched back in his chair.

The colonel looked down, then slowly pulled off his gloves. “Do you know anything about Derennes that I might relay to the lieutenant-general?”

“As Martha said about Lazarus,” Georges replied, lifting his hands, “I know he'll rise on the last day.” He smiled inwardly. He enjoyed a game of cat and mouse with his superior.

The colonel pursed his lips. “The lieutenant-general may already know that.” He slapped the gloves lightly on his thigh.

“What I have to say may not be for the lieutenant-general's ears.” Georges paused, observing the colonel begin to sit up. “Derennes attempted to seize Miss Cartier while she was investigating the Amateurs' reception at the Palais-Royal.” With an apprehensive eye on the colonel's face, Georges related what had happened that night at the palace. “When I returned later to question Derennes, the pit was empty. I've searched all the likely spots but found no trace of him.”

“And how is Miss Cartier?” The colonel's brow furrowed.

“Fine.” Georges smiled guardedly. “But if Derennes's free, she's in danger. I've arranged for her to stay in the garden pavilion.”

Saint-Martin hesitated, as if about to make a remark. But he appeared to change his mind. He rose, clutching his gloves, walked to the window and looked out over the garden toward Anne's apartment. Georges sat in respectful silence.

After a few moments, the colonel cleared his throat, then turned around. He reached for his coat, frowning. “The Amateurs may have rescued Derennes and concealed him. And that corpse you saw in the pit is a matter for the Paris police. But we can't go to them yet. They would realize we are prying into the Laplante case.” He paused in the doorway. “My aunt, Comtesse de Beaumont, must know Chevalier de Pressigny. I'll pay her a visit. And you, Georges, try to get better acquainted with Monsieur Robert LeCourt.”

***

The colonel walked through the garden and knocked on Miss Cartier's door. He waited nervously. His imagination conjured up Derennes' iron poker, its white hot point darting like a snake at her face.

The ghastly apparition vanished when Miss Cartier opened the door, a surprised smile on her lips. Saint-Martin bowed, then held her hands for a moment. “Would you step out into the garden with me? I've just learned from Georges what happened Wednesday night at the Palais-Royal. I'm thankful you weren't hurt.”

As they strolled between beds of roses, the gravel crunching beneath their feet, Miss Cartier told him her story. Her voice was firm, unruffled. He glanced at her sideways and could detect no damage to her spirit. If anything, she appeared a little more sure of herself, like a promising young officer who has just passed the first test of battle.

At the fountain they listened to the soothing sound of water and enjoyed the warmth of the midmorning sun. The delicate scent of roses in bloom enveloped them, triggering Saint-Martin's chivalrous instincts. From infancy he had been taught to protect women. And
this
was a woman he was growing to like.

“I can imagine the dreadful prospect of that dungeon, what horror might have happened. I would understand if…” He groped for words. “If you decided to be less involved…”

She cut him short. “Colonel Saint-Martin!” Her voice failed momentarily, struggling for words. Her eyes narrowed with resolve. “You can't push me aside. After all,
I
found the source of Antoine's so-called confession in the office.”

Startled by her vehemence, he fell silent, then nodded. “Georges just told me. I'm pleased.” He added, “I'll give the manuscript to an expert reader.” He walked her back to the apartment, keenly alert to the swishing of her gown, the heaving of her chest. He sensed in himself a stirring of affection, a yearning for her. As they approached her door, she turned to him, her jaw taut. “If I must, I'll carry on alone.”

“No need to do that,” he said gently. “I understand how you feel.” She searched his eyes, her expression softened, she moved a step toward him. He reached out his arms and embraced her. “We'll carry on together.”

Chapter 15

Chevalier Jean de Pressigny

“Miss Cartier fell into a viper's nest,” said Saint-Martin to his aunt. He had ridden into her courtyard at Chateau Beaumont while she was instructing her groom for the day. The sun had barely risen above the trees. The cobblestones glistened with dew. She had just returned from exercising her horse and was dressed in a maroon riding suit. A black leather crop hung from her wrist.

“Viper's nest?” She searched his face, as if she couldn't under-stand what he meant. She told the groom to care for the colonel's horse. When man and horse were out of earshot, she asked her nephew what had happened.

“Simon Derennes tried to abduct Miss Cartier at Palais-Royal,” he replied, then went on to describe Pressigny's conflict with Derennes, the discovery of the latter together with a corpse in the dungeon's pit, and Derennes' disappearance.

“How
is
Miss Cartier?”

“Unharmed and more determined than ever. For safety's sake, she's moved into my garden apartment.”

“I didn't expect anything like this, Paul. What have you stumbled upon?”

“It appears that Lélia Laplante and Antoine Dubois were victims of a double murder. That's the theory Georges is pursuing. Secretly.” He cautioned his aunt. “For the time being, the Paris police must be kept in the dark.”

“Paul, I trust you know what you are doing. Baron Breteuil would be displeased.”

“Georges thinks Dubois' death was made to look like a suicide. Miss Cartier's inquiry might have led Derennes to fear she would discover evidence incriminating him, either in killing Laplante and Dubois or in some other unrelated crime. We have the word of a trustworthy witness that Derennes injures and perhaps also kills for the pleasure it gives him.”

“Poor Miss Cartier,” exclaimed the comtesse shuddering. “So nearly in the clutches of a human beast.”

“Whose fangs must be pulled before he can harm her.” Saint-Martin's voice threatened to break. He drew a deep breath. “The Amateurs may have saved us the trouble. Derennes had become a potentially serious embarrassment to them. Think of the scandal if the police were to investigate that corpse in the dungeon and arrest Derennes. So, he has vanished, possibly with the connivance of the directeur, Jean de Pressigny, and the principal patron, Robert LeCourt.” The colonel paused, seeking his aunt's eye. “We need to know more about these men and what they may have done with Derennes—and the corpse.”

For a long minute, Comtesse Marie studied the cobblestones, digesting what she had heard. Finally, she looked up, swinging her riding crop a full circle. “We'll have a bite to eat, then ride over to Chateau Debussy, twenty minutes from here. That's where Jean de Pressigny lives.”

***

“Impressive view!” said Colonel Saint-Martin to his aunt, reining in his horse. They had approached from the east. The morning sun behind them tried fitfully to break through a bank of clouds. Chateau Debussy lay below at the bottom of a long green slope. Four cylindrical towers anchored the corners of the main building, a large gray square structure, flanked by two pavilions and covered with a dull red tile roof.

Beyond the chateau, the land rose gently to the western edge of the estate where it reached a steep chalk ridge partially covered by dark woods. A river, the Bièvre, snaked through the fertile valley, fed a glistening pond in front of the chateau, and went on its way north-eastward toward Paris and the Seine. At least from a distance, the estate appeared well-managed. Near the chateau stood a large greenhouse surrounded by gardens. Stables and work shops seemed busy and in good repair. At midmorning a dozen men were tilling the fields, driving wagons up and down the lanes, and tending cattle and sheep.

The comtesse beckoned her nephew to a grove of trees on a knob of land overlooking the chateau. They dismounted and tethered the horses, then walked to a small shaded clearing facing the chateau. From this closer vantage point, the chateau took on a sinister appearance. The pond now appeared deep and dark, a barrier to entering the building. Its gray walls seemed thicker. It would be easy to hide Derennes there. Or bury him.

Saint-Martin turned to his aunt. “What can you tell me about Chevalier Jean de Pressigny?”

“I have met him a few times, and we have mutual acquaintances.” She explained he was a gifted young man with a troubled past. As an infant, he lost an impoverished father who bore one of the great names of the French aristocracy. A few years later, his mother married Comte Philippe Debussy, a man of obscure lineage but much wealth recently acquired in India. “Debussy then bought this property at a bargain price.” Comtesse Marie raised her arm in a sweeping gesture over the valley. “He renamed it after himself.”

She went on to describe the neglected upbringing of Jean and his younger sister, Claire. The comte never legally adopted them. When their mother passed away, she left her modest estate in her husband's hands. As Jean grew older, he fell into gambling and other costly vices. He demanded his inheritance. Servants reported fierce quarrels. The rascal even spread rumors that Debussy had stolen his legacy.

“I've heard he killed Chevalier Richard de Boisvert in a duel,” said Saint-Martin. “For what reason?”

“Jean treated young women like oranges, eating the fruit and throwing away the peel. Boisvert accused him of dishonoring his sister.” She sighed. “The king imprisoned Jean in the royal fortress at Vincennes. He was mysteriously released shortly afterwards.”

“For a fatal duel, Pressigny should still be in prison,” the colonel observed. “He must be connected to a person with great political influence.”

His aunt could not name such a person with certainty, but shortly after leaving prison Pressigny joined a masonic lodge that met at the Palais-Royal under the protection of the Duc d'Orléans. Whatever the connection, the young man's behavior seemed to improve. He gave up gambling, became directeur of the Amateurs, and even began enlightened work on the Debussy estate. She pointed toward a marshy area along the Bièvre. Two men were laying a drainage system, using tiles and brick from the old kilns at the foot of the chalk ridge.

Drainage ditches and old kilns, Saint-Martin thought darkly. Convenient for disposing of an unwanted person like Derennes. “I need to get someone into that place,” he said as they mounted the horses.

On the way back to Comtesse Marie's chateau, they agreed it was unlikely Pressigny had undergone a religious conversion. “Let's give him the benefit of the doubt,” she said with little conviction. “Perhaps he realized his behavior was self-destructive and followed the example of Emperor Joseph, the queen's brother, and nobles who aspire to be socially useful.”

“I would be very surprised,” he remarked, then asked her, “Would it surprise you to learn, dear Aunt, that Chevalier de Pressigny may have hidden Derennes or his body at Chateau Debussy?”

“No, it wouldn't,” she replied with a sigh. “He's a cunning man and a talented actor. He may be cleverly playing a new role.”

***

That morning, Anne was in the garden apartment by the window, writing the script of a marionette play for Abbé de l'Épée's institute. She usually devoted these, the freshest hours of the day, to improving her skills for teaching the deaf. She would work at the puppet theater in the afternoon and the variety theater at night.

There was a knock on the door. She looked up startled. Few people knew she was staying at the provost's residence. A young page stood outside with a note from Chevalier de Pressigny.

Would you please meet me at the fountain in the garden of the Palais-Royal at noon. I would like to discuss a project that might appeal to you. Perhaps we could do this over lunch. The messenger will wait to receive your reply.

Anne retreated to her parlor and paced the floor, glancing askance at the note. She felt a tremor of anxiety. How had Pressigny found out where she was staying? He must have had her followed. Was he trying to trap her, to find out what she knew about Derennes?

Or did he have something else in mind? She read the note aloud. Its tone was courteous. Reason enough to suspect him. She recalled his preening among the women in the palace theater's dressing room, his scrutiny of her body. Like Jack Roach, he considered women no more than instruments of pleasure. He was elegant and attractive, but she couldn't trust him.

She walked to the window and leaned out, her arms resting on the sill, mulling over the invitation. She could cope with Pressigny. True, he had killed a man in a duel, but he wasn't a deranged murderer like Derennes. He posed a threat to her virtue, not to her life. If he tried to seduce her, the harder she made it for him, the more he would enjoy the effort. She could perhaps trick him into revealing his dealings with the actress Laplante. He had surely known her.

She rose from the sill, nodding thoughtfully. After all, his proposal might be aboveboard. And the fountain, neutral and public, was a safe place to meet. But she would ask for a later date. He shouldn't be allowed to think she was at his beck and call. On the other hand, she
was
free at noon.

Glancing across the garden window toward Georges' office, she wished he were there. He and the colonel wouldn't be back until later in the afternoon. She might as well find out what Pressigny had to say. She sat down at the table and took a plain sheet of paper. “I shall already have eaten lunch,” she scribbled, “but I'm willing to hear about your project. I'll meet you at the fountain at noon.” She folded the note, handed it to the page, and sent him off.

***

Chevalier Jean de Pressigny stood by the fountain five minutes before noon. Mademoiselle Cartier's note had been impudent, but he had received the insult to his rank with amusement. He had discerned her spirit the moment they met in the dressing room. Proud bitch! No fluttering eyelids and simpering smile like the others, but a cool, direct, and steady gaze. No doubt she could play the part his stepfather expected, regal but free of pretense and pomposity.

What a challenge, to break through her facade, to take her down to raw instinct. He imagined subtly enticing her with deference, treating her like a lady. Yes! Then there would be a meeting of minds. He would pretend to long for a simpler, more authentic life, closer to nature. Having won her trust, he would play upon her hidden desires. Yield to nature, he would say, even while dissolving her inhibitions with the artifices of love. In the end, she would come crawling to him naked!

The satisfaction of conquering her would be all the greater, knowing she was the mistress of that prig, Paul de Saint-Martin. Free of danger as well, for the colonel refused to duel! Pressigny shook his fists, amazed by his good fortune. What a prospect to look forward to! He nearly quivered with pleasure, indulging his fantasy to eke out a few more moments of venery.

His eye caught her as soon as she stepped out of the shaded arcade into the open space of the garden. She wore a simple robe, her face shielded from the sun by the brim of a light straw hat. Erect and rather tall, alert and self-assured, she walked toward him with unaffected grace. “Perfect,” he murmured to himself. “But, of course, she's an actress and knows I'm watching her.” As she drew near, he bowed. “Good day, Mademoiselle Cartier, I'm pleased you could come.” She greeted him with polite reserve.

“I'll get right to the point,” he said, as they strolled on a graveled path southward toward the palace. “On behalf of the Société des Amateurs, I invite you to join our next production.”

He paused slightly to register her reaction. She gestured for him to continue.

“It will take place in five weeks at Chateau Debussy, my step-father's estate near Paris, to honor the high-born and wealthy notables who patronize us during the year. We offer them a superb meal in the dining hall, followed by entertainment in the chateau's own theater, and conclude with fireworks, games of chance, and other diverting amusements. Since many of our guests prefer not to stay overnight, our program begins early in the afternoon and ends an hour or two after sunset.”

“And what would be my part?” she asked with a bemused smile.

“To play a queen.”

“What?”

“Yes,” he continued, “but not in a drama.”

He explained that her role would be to wear the priceless Chanavas jewels, made in India for a very rich and powerful potentate. Comte Debussy had seized them during a colonial war thirty years ago and brought them to France. They were now in the chateau's treasure room, the centerpiece of the comte's remarkable art collection. Because of their value, they were rarely displayed, and then only under glass.

The heat of the day grew uncomfortable, clouds gathered, and rain threatened. They sought the shelter of a row of chestnut trees. Pressigny gestured toward a bench and they sat down, keeping a suitable distance from one another.

Patting his damp brow, he began to explain that recently, while discussing the Amateurs' production at the chateau, Comte Debussy had made a most unusual request. In all the years he had owned the jewels, he had never seen them at their full glory. Chanavas Khan had commissioned them for himself to wear in public. But, insisted the comte, they were really best suited for a beautiful woman in a splendid but intimate setting. The chateau's dining hall and theater were the right places to display them. The Amateurs and their patrons were the right people to see them. What was needed was the right woman to wear them.

“Why me?” exclaimed Mademoiselle Cartier, disbelief written large on her face. “I'm no beauty!”

“True, you have too much spirit in your eyes and too little soft flesh on your bones to have posed as Venus for Monsieur François Boucher. But you have the mind and body to wear the Chanavas jewels. Trust me. The comte does—at least on this point.”

“If I accept this offer, what would I need to do?” Her voice was heavy with suspicion.