Deadly Descent (20 page)

Unperturbed, he turned to Anne. “Miss Cartier, what have you seen in the gallery?”

“Sergell's
Faun,
” she readily replied. Thanks to Pressigny's preoccupation with the work, she knew it well: a reclining figure, caught at the moment of waking from sleep. Blood seemed to surge through his marble veins. His limbs were poised for action. “What vitality,” she observed. “Only the voice is missing.”

“I'm impressed that you appreciate the sculptor.” A hint of wistful regret shadowed the old man's face. “Sergell's patron, Bailli de Breteuil, lent me the
Faun
. Unfortunately, he died last year. The statue will pass to his cousin, our Baron de Breteuil, Minister for Paris.”

The dish of
haricots verts en vinègre
was served while the comte discoursed on the history of the chateau. It was built in mid-seventeenth-century on the foundations of a medieval castle, hence its irregular shape. Certain passageways and vaulted chambers in the basement belonged to the original building. “The seventeenth-century architect cleared out most of the old moat to gain a dry basement, leaving only a pond in front and adding a tunnel to the pavilion in the garden.”

“Why build a tunnel?”

The comte shrugged his shoulders. “The owner's folly. Perhaps he wanted a secret means of escape, should his creditors pursue him.”

“Is the tunnel still in use?”

“We keep it locked,” replied the comte, glancing maliciously toward his stepdaughter, “lest the gardener sneak through it to abduct our Claire.”

A grimace cracked the layer of powder on the young woman's face, but she stared silently at her plate.

Embarrassed, Anne winced at the insult. She regarded Claire with a sympathetic eye. Her marital prospects were indeed bleak. Georges had said she found comfort with René Cavour, the young man in charge of the greenhouse.

The comte turned to Anne. “Your costume should be ready tomorrow morning. See Madame about the final fitting.” He looked at her with a lascivious smile. “I look forward to seeing you wear it.”

Claire stirred, her lips drawn back in a malign grimace. “Why bother with the costume, Mademoiselle Cartier? For the hundred livres he's paying, you'd display the jewels naked.”

Taken by surprise, Anne stared at the woman, then opened her mouth to protest.

The comte stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Ignore my stepdaughter, Mademoiselle, she's witless as well as ugly.” The comte glared across the table at Claire.

“Bastard!” shrieked Claire, gripping the table knife near her plate.

Anne looked on, stunned, as the young woman pushed back her chair and began to rise. Instantly the two waiters standing by the sideboard rushed to her side. She hesitated for a second, then tossed the knife with a clatter on the plate.

“Well, we've had a little tantrum, haven't we.” The comte spoke to Claire in a low, unnaturally soft voice. “These men will escort you to your apartment and see that you stay there tonight.” He turned to Anne as if nothing had happened, smiled thinly, and bade her good evening. He rang a bell. Two footmen entered and picked up his chair to carry him away. His eyes closed; he looked as if he were already a cadaver.

***

At the stroke of nine, Anne and Michou were ushered into Comte Debussy's parlor. They found him seated in an arm chair, expecting them. And, in remarkably good spirits, considering his confrontation with Claire at the supper table. Shortly after supper, Anne had dared to send him a request. Could her maid, a gifted artist, sketch the Chanavas treasure? To her surprise, he had agreed. They should come to his apartment in an hour.

“Let us go to the jewels,” he said, his voice resonant with expectant pleasure. A tall robust footman carried him from the parlor through his adjacent bedroom to a locked door. Anne and Michou followed. With a key from his belt, the comte opened the door to a large round room. Brown mahogany cabinets lined its walls.

The Chanavas jewelry glittered between two lighted candelabra on a low green velvet-covered table in the center of the room. The two women and the comte settled into chairs around the table. The footman withdrew to his station by the door. Michou glanced shyly at the comte for permission to begin. He nodded to the table. She drew closer and contemplated the pieces, her hands clasped tightly as if she were in church. He studied her with cool regard. After a few minutes, she pulled a large pad out of her bag and set to work, intense concentration creasing her face.

Anne went back to the conversation at the supper table, probing into the comte's renovation of the chateau, a topic of which he was fond. The footman brought a portfolio of architectural drawings from a nearby cabinet. They revealed the chateau's interior as it was when the comte bought it, as well as the new arrangements he had planned and executed. At first glance, Anne could make no sense of the old and new walls, ceilings, and floors. But, with his help she gradually gained a mental picture of what lay behind the present surface.

An hour passed, during which they occasionally glanced at Michou, still absorbed in her task.

“Shall we see what she's done?” asked the comte.

Anne looked over Michou's shoulder, gently interrupting her, and took her sketches to Debussy.

“Quite remarkable,” he exclaimed. “She has a draftsman's eye, though her hand needs more training.”

“She has sketched everything except the tiara,” Anne observed, “saving her favorite piece till last.”

“Perhaps she would like you to wear it.” He had Anne bring the tiara from the table and kneel before him. When she held it up for him to take, he leaned forward. “Allow me,” he said, then ran his hands through her hair, as if arranging it for the tiara. His touch was rough, but she decided not to complain. Suddenly he grabbed her hair and snapped her head back. Their eyes locked in a visceral confrontation. A malevolent grin flashed across his face.

Anne gripped the tiara. The urge to strike him welled up within her. In an instant, like a chameleon, the comte smiled pleasantly and adjusted her head to a comfortable angle. “That will do.” He took the tiara from her hands and placed it on her head. She walked back to her chair, trembling with frustrated anger.

Michou shot a frown at the comte, who did not appear to notice, then caught Anne's eye and signed, “I'm sorry.” She gazed thoughtfully at Anne for a moment before going back to her sketching.

As if nothing had happened, Debussy continued to discuss the chateau. “Look up there.” He pointed to the dark semi-circular lunettes of the domed ceiling. “In one of them is a clever mirror. Standing behind it, Krishna can observe whatever happens here—a useful precaution when I display the treasures.” He gestured to several glass cases scattered about the room. “Even distinguished visitors have sticky fingers.” A sardonic grin broke through his mask of pain.

When Michou finally laid down her sketchbook, Anne returned the tiara to the table, promising the comte that Michou would send him a finished drawing. Anne left the apartment, troubled by the malice she had experienced from the comte. At her side, Michou clutched her sketchbook, her eyes focused inwardly on the images she had captured.

In the main hall they stepped into a pool of light from the open door of the art gallery. Hearing a familiar voice, Anne peeked inside. Chevalier de Pressigny was holding forth on François Boucher's palette in a landscape painting. Around him had gathered several guests, evidently Amateurs who had arrived in advance of the next day's reception.

Anne sensed Michou sneaking by her through the doorway. Seeing Pressigny, the little woman froze and began to tremble. At that moment, he started to walk toward them. Anne's heart leapt. She yanked Michou out of sight. Anne peeked again, then breathed a sigh of relief. His eyes fixed on a painting, Pressigny had not seen Michou. He and his guests soon left the gallery by the farther exit.

Anne hugged Michou, calming her, and pointed out that the room was now empty. “Don't worry,” Anne signed. “He doesn't know you or your secret.”

Recalling Michou's love of animals, Anne led her up to the portrait of Pressigny's mother and her “Princesse” on the damask cushion. She stood still before the picture, leaning forward, eyes intent. Then she pulled out her sketchbook and, with a few deft strokes of her pencil, captured the image of the recumbent cat. A pleased expression came over her face. She signed that she would complete the drawing in her room and do a version in color back in Paris. With a start Anne realized Michou was gaining confidence in herself.

Chapter 20

A Stiletto

Georges cooled down in a late afternoon breeze, his back to an open casement window, his hands clasped behind his head. He surveyed the family's common room. Rustic but clean and spacious, a far cry from the filthy cramped quarters of the peasantry or the glittering luxury of the nobility. Large exposed beams supported the low ceiling. The tile floor was level and smooth, the plaster walls freshly whitewashed. Shiny copper kettles and pans stood in good order on shelves near the hearth. The Soucies were simple, honest, hard-working people. He could trust them.

Catching his eye and smiling, Madame Soucie teased him with an apple tart fresh from the oven. “Good,” he told himself, “they appear to trust me.” He knew, however, they would resist discussing Pressigny's wounded left hand.

A few weeks ago, when Georges had asked Monsieur Soucie about working at the chateau, he had said he wanted to ensure the safety of Mademoiselle Anne Cartier during the Amateurs' reception and to search for Simon Derennes, who had threatened her. Georges hadn't mentioned prying into Jean de Pressigny's criminal behavior. Nonetheless, Soucie might have suspected as much. He knew the young man's crooked past. He also knew Georges worked for Colonel Paul de Saint-Martin, the man responsible for law and order in the area. That Georges was an old comrade didn't make it easier to persuade the stablemaster to cooperate. He had a great deal to lose if he angered the comte.

What had convinced Soucie was Paul de Saint-Martin's personal guarantee, relayed by Georges, of full protection for himself and his family and compensation for any loss he might suffer. The colonel did not give such a promise lightly, Georges realized, for it could mean spending considerably from his reserves of money and influence. It indicated how serious his interest in the Dubois case had become.

Georges had further reassured Soucie with a promise to avoid drawing suspicion to him. The balding thickset colonel's adjutant would become a factotum, helping out as groom in the stables, pot-scrubber in the kitchen, and handyman throughout the chateau.

Only the Soucies knew who he was. Equipped with false discharge papers, he had presented himself to Krishna and the rest of the staff as a recently retired soldier in need of temporary employment. For the few days he expected to be at Chateau Debussy, he had a small room in the upper floor of the stable near the Soucie cottage. To get acquainted with the servants, he usually took his meals in the chateau's kitchen.

This evening, however, he had accepted an invitation to share supper with the Soucies. At a call from Madame, he sat with the family around a thick wooden table laden with her own dark bread, freshly churned butter, cheese, liver paté, salad, and wine. Two of their four children, a boy and a girl who still lived at home, ate silently and listened respectfully to the adults.

Conversation revolved around the years they had spent together in the army, an experience that Madame Soucie partly shared. As a young woman, she and her mother had followed her father, assisting in his medical work on campaigns. In varying degrees, they all had known General Saint-Martin, the colonel's father. Madame Soucie had nursed him briefly at the end of the Seven Years War.

After the apple tart the children were dismissed, the table was cleared and brandy poured. Georges led the conversation toward Madame Soucie's medical practice. She was a sturdy, taciturn woman, but he got her to talk about a few recent cases. Then he asked about the wound on Pressigny's left hand. The Soucies glanced apprehensively at one another.

“You can tell me the truth,” Georges said kindly. He went on to remind them of Colonel Saint-Martin's promise of protection and reward in return for cooperation. A man of honor, he would not let them down. But, if they refused to cooperate, Georges hinted ever so gently, they might be accused of aiding and abetting Pressigny's criminal attempt to escape the king's justice.

For several moments, Madame Soucie stared rigidly at the plate in front of her as if her jaw were locked. Then she glanced at her husband, received a signal from him, and sighed. “I recall when Chevalier de Pressigny came to me.” She spoke slowly, measuring her words. “It was this time last year, about eleven in the evening. My husband and I were in bed when the young man pounded on the door. Hurt his hand in an accident, he said.”

She had sat him at the table and cut a bloody cloth away from his left hand. An unusually thick hatpin about six inches long had pierced the palm. He told her he had lost his balance and fallen on it. By the time he reached her, the hand had swollen badly and the pin was stuck fast. Her husband poured him a large glass of brandy mixed with a sleeping potion, while she applied a cold compress to reduce the swelling. He fainted the moment she tentatively pulled on the pin! When she finally got it out, she saw it was no ordinary pin. Its shaft was tempered steel.

“A stiletto?” asked Georges.

“Yes,” she replied.

“An illegal weapon,” her husband added.

“Where is it now?” Georges looked her directly in the eye. “Colonel Saint-Martin is going to want to know.”

The corners of her mouth twitched nervously. She took the last sip from her glass. “When Chevalier de Pressigny woke up the next day, he asked for it. I told him it went with the other medical trash into the lime pit. That seemed to satisfy him. His hand was twice its normal size and throbbing. The pain nearly drove him mad.” She got up from her chair and began to gather the glasses from the table.

As she reached for Georges' glass, he looked up at her with a guarded smile.

“But you still have it, don't you?”

She froze, his glass in her hand.

Monsieur Soucie furtively glanced at his wife and at a wall cabinet near the hearth.

“That's right,” she said at last, then carried the glasses to the sink. She opened the cabinet, retrieved the stiletto from behind a false panel, and brought it to Georges. She sat down again, staring at the table. “At the time, we were sure it wasn't an accident.” She glanced at him defensively. “No one asked our opinion, so we kept it to ourselves.”

“Why?” He leaned forward, fingering the stiletto.

“It's foolish to get involved in the affairs of the nobility.” She spoke with strong conviction.

“A wise rule,” he agreed, then laid the weapon on the table between them. “But there are exceptions.”

He went on to assure the anxious woman she had done the right thing. The colonel would shield her and her husband from harm. Privately, he began to wonder what would happen to them if Pressigny were arrested. Even if they were to present evidence against him now, they might still be charged with complicity in a criminal act for having failed to denounce him earlier. Could Colonel Saint-Martin really guard them from the wheels of a blind criminal justice?

Madame Soucie didn't seem reassured. “We can't win. If we keep quiet, the police will accuse us of conspiring with Chevalier de Pressigny. If we tell our story to the police, Comte Debussy will turn us out in disgrace or maybe do worse.” She paused, reflecting for a moment. “You think he killed the actress, don't you?” She stared at Georges. “Otherwise, why are you here, and Colonel Saint-Martin at his aunt's chateau nearby? And there's probably a brigade of royal troopers in the woods.”

With a calming gesture, Georges rose from the table. “Your best choice is to do as I tell you. Alert me if Mademoiselle Cartier's in danger and help me follow Pressigny's movements. In the meantime, tell no one about the stiletto.”

Outside the Soucie cottage, Georges took a close look at the weapon, balancing it in his hand. Shouldn't be hard to trace, he thought. Its silver handle was engraved with the initials “
L.L
.”

***

Chateau Beaumont was already dark and the moonlit courtyard deserted. A pair of glowing oil lamps drew Georges to the entrance. He had ridden at breakneck speed, giddy with excitement. The Laplante case was breaking open! Hard evidence finally! He rushed into the chateau, only to learn from a servant that the colonel had not yet returned from a meeting with Lieutenant-General DeCrosne. Georges said he would wait. The servant was not to disturb the comtesse. He showed Georges to the reception room and left him pacing back and forth.

Shortly after ten, Georges heard a horse's hooves on the cobblestones outside, then voices at the entrance, and finally the colonel entered, surprised to find his adjutant waiting. “Have you left Miss Cartier alone?” His brow furrowed in irritation.

“The Soucies will look after her.” Georges noticed impatience creeping into his voice. He quickly mastered his feeling, for he saw that the colonel's day in Paris had taken a toll.

“We'll get to that in a minute.” Saint-Martin gestured wearily to sit down. A servant removed his boots, collected his sword, brought him fresh hose and shoes, then went for refreshments. The traveller slid back, stretching out his legs. Meanwhile, Georges sat on the edge of his seat.

“Well?” asked the colonel, folding his hands in his lap. He shot a quizzical glance at his adjutant.

“We've found the weapon Laplante used on Pressigny.” Georges handed over the stiletto.

Saint-Martin sat bolt upright. “Did you find out who treated him?” He drew his fingers lightly up and down the slender weapon and touched its sharp point.

“Madame Soucie,” Georges replied. “Pressigny came to her late that evening, the hatpin still piercing his hand. Before pulling it out, she put him to sleep. He doesn't know she kept it.”

“Good work, Georges.” The colonel bent over the stiletto's handle and examined Laplante's initials under a magnifying glass. “We will need proof she owned it and had it in her possession,” he said, laying the weapon on the gaming table between them. “The Paris police can do that for us later.”

The servant returned with a tray of red wine, fruit, bread and cheese, then left. Saint-Martin beckoned Georges to join him. As he poured for his adjutant, he remarked, “For the time being, the stiletto remains a secret.”

Georges frowned. “We should hold Pressigny for questioning,” he snapped. “Surely we have enough evidence. Soucie's a credible witness. Her story supports Michou's. The police will listen to her.”

The colonel stiffened, his eyes grew dark.

Georges rushed on. “I feel in my bones he's about to make a move. Anne or Michou or the stablemaster and his wife may be in danger.” He paused, glowering at his superior. “Must we wait for another murder?”

Saint-Martin's lips tightened, his nostrils flared. “I should not have to remind you, Monsieur Charpentier, I must win the lieutenant-general's approval
even
to investigate Chevalier de Pressigny or anyone in his family. To attempt to hold him now would be sheer folly. This afternoon, I spent two hours with DeCrosne, arguing that Pressigny should be questioned in connection with Derennes' disappearance. The lieutenant-general refused. He had handed the matter over to the Société des Amateurs. They were not to be disturbed.”

Anger welled up in Georges, overriding the respect he felt for the colonel. The deeper he probed into the case of Antoine Dubois, the more he resented Pressigny and his parasitic kind. “Of course,” he spat, “we must respect noble privilege!”

Saint-Martin rose to his feet, his face reddened. “Indeed we must, not because privilege is right, but because it can destroy any rash challenger.” He glared at his adjutant. “I detest the evil Pressigny embodies as much as you do, but I must survey his defenses and assemble a force that can overrun them.”

Georges shifted in his chair, sullen and unrepentant, wondering who the colonel thought he was talking to, a callow youth?

“If we were dealing with a commoner,” the colonel continued, “we could arrest and convict him with the evidence we have. But, Pressigny is protected by several of the wealthiest and most powerful persons in the kingdom.”

“Like whom?” Georges asked, goading his superior, who was pacing the floor.

“The Duc d'Orléans, the comptroller general of finance, and the foreign minister,” Saint-Martin shot back. “How's that for a start! And, I smell a masonic connection with large amounts of money at risk.”

“Is that all?” Georges retorted.

“That's enough!” The colonel stood silent for several moments, slowly shifting his gaze to the checkerboard pattern on the gaming table between them. He stared as if puzzled. “Why do these people protect Chevalier de Pressigny? If this were chess, he would be a pawn. They would gladly sacrifice him. Unless….” He paused again. “Unless he were essential to some grand scheme.”

Georges yielded gradually, realizing the futility of further protest. The colonel ordered him back to Chateau Debussy to keep a watchful eye on Miss Cartier, Michou, the stablemaster, and his wife. When he rose to leave, he sensed the colonel's mood changing. His eyes seemed to probe gently for hidden wounds his harsh words might have caused.

Slowly, Saint-Martin raised the stiletto with his right hand, as if swearing an oath. “In due course,” he said in a low, calm voice, “Pressigny will pay for his crime.”

***

As horse and rider faded into the night, Colonel Saint-Martin left the entrance and walked to the picture gallery. He felt a strong urge to commune with his father and the philosophers whose spirits inhabited the place. The night watchman locked the front door, then brought a lighted candle and a chair to the gallery.

Saint-Martin sat before the portrait of his father, hearkening to the quiet in the room. The general's features seemed to come alive in the low, flickering light, his brow and his chin still proud and valorous, reflecting the face of battle. He drew a grudging respect from his son sitting silently beneath him.

“Noble privilege.” The contempt in Georges' voice rankled in Saint-Martin's mind. Indeed why should anyone respect nobles, much less their privileges? He glanced up at his father. “You died serving a king who cared for nothing but his own pleasure, in a war that was not in France's interest. Most of your peers regarded your valor as eccentric and your chivalry foolish. They kept out of harm's way, loitering in the boudoirs of Paris and cultivating the fine arts of gossip and intrigue.”