The Counterfeit Mistress (10 page)

M
arielle knew only one person in Dover. After a teeth-chattering ride that took forever, she stretched herself in the yard of the coaching inn and debated how to find him.

She did not like to visit the eastern coast. She did not care for the damp of it, nor the mix of people in the towns. Dover in particular always seemed gray to her, and its houses appeared bitten by the sea. Too many men loitered about, many of them sailors waiting for a ship.

Fewer could be seen this time. The press gangs must have come through recently. A smart sailor made himself scarce when unemployed, else he might find himself serving His Majesty under conditions little better than that of a galley slave. Thus did England remain a power at sea. Of course, with conscription into the army allowed now, France was no better.

She walked to the shop she sought, trying to battle the emotions provoked by these streets. Mostly she disliked Dover because it was the first English town she set foot in after climbing off a longboat up the coast some miles. Her first knowledge of Dover had been full of fear and exhaustion and the kind of cold that only wet shoes in winter can create. She had been past gratitude for being alive by then, and devoid of the alertness that comes when death tracks you. Numb and alone and sick at heart, she had lagged behind the others and found a doorway where she sat down and cried.

Dominique, who had been on the same boat, had noticed and taken pity on her. It had been the first kindness anyone had shown her in over a month. She felt that motherly arm around her now, as if Dominique once more walked beside her, helping her take the steps to safety.

There was no Dominique with her now, however. After the intrusion on the house, they dared not risk another by having only Nicole be there at night. She hoped the intruders did not come back while she was gone. It would be self-defense when Dominique killed them, but that would not avoid the attention and disruption of a magistrate's inquiry.

She found the stationer's shop that she sought. The proprietor recognized her at once. He returned to his patron while she stood back and pretended interest in his fancy papers. When the patron left, the shop owner barred the door so there could be no unexpected interruptions.

“It has been a long time,” he said. “Over a year.”

Had it really been that long? She had perhaps been negligent in her duties, and lacked constancy in her goals. The life she had built distracted her with its many details. She had become Marielle Lyon, French refugee, perhaps too thoroughly.

“Éduard and Luc did not meet me as planned last time, Monsieur Farmen,” she said. “So I have brought my things to you to pass on to the men with the boat.” She set down a roll of prints that she had carried with her. Not a fat roll, like the one she lost in the alley. Even paying the printer for the use of his press all night, she had only been able to make a dozen good impressions.

Monsieur Farmen looked out his window, as if checking to make sure no one peeked in. “I'll see they get it. You have the coin for them?”

She set down over four shillings. They would sell the prints in France to a bookseller or print shop, and make more money yet. The smugglers did well for their efforts, but they also took the risks.

“Do you know where I can find Éduard or Luc? I want to know if they have chosen not to come to London in the future. If so, I must find others.”

“I do not think they will be doing this anymore. I think— I do not know for certain, but I think they are dead.” He watched her carefully. Perhaps he thought she would swoon. “There's two men laid out in that French tailor's house—Lebois is his name. He took them, since no one knew their families. That is what I heard at least. Also that one is named Éduard. I think it is our Éduard, see.”

“You have not gone to check?”

“Would be odd if I did. How do I explain it? Say I have come to pay my respects to a man I hired to transport goods to and from smugglers up the coast?”

“You could say you had become friends with him, and shared some ale at times at the tavern. No one will question you, least of all a tailor who is not his family.”

“Best if that is not commonly known that we had a friendship or business together, I think. Others probably know what he was up to. And there is more to it that says best to stay away.”

“Where is this tailor? I will go and see if it is the Éduard we knew. I will say . . . something. I will be one more Frenchwoman with whom he flirted if necessary.”

“Best you stay away too. See, like I said, there is more. It was no accident, how these two died. They were knifed up, and beaten badly I hear. Maybe they helped themselves to someone's goods and he came looking for them. Anyway, you stay away if you are smart. I'll be finding others to take their place. English this time, I think. Safer. Three weeks from now you go to the meeting as you used to, and they will be there.”

He appeared resolute. He would be no help. Marielle left, still carrying her prints and her shillings. She would find this tailor on her own. Then she would find the smugglers too. She would not go back to London and wait three weeks. If Éduard and Luc had been killed, she might not have that long.

K
endale swung off his horse in front of the tailor's shop. Beechem the magistrate did the same.

“He has them in a shed in the back. Wants them out soon, though. No one claimed them, and they are getting very ripe,” Beechem said. “We'll be planting them today, so it was fortuitous you came now.”

Kendale had not come for this. However, as long as he made the ride to the coast, he had called on the magistrate to learn about these murders that had been reported by their watchers. He would look, find nothing, and carry on with his real mission.

The tailor greeted them in the shop. A short, slightly built man with an unexpected mustache, he did not hide his disappointment that the bell had been rung by Beechem instead of a patron looking for a coat.

Beechem explained that the bodies would be gone in a few hours. The tailor appeared relieved.

“Did anyone come to pay their respects?” Kendale asked.

“A few the first days. Then nothing until one of the bigger man's cousins asked after him. Seems his name was Éduard Villon. She thinks the smaller one's name was Luc, but she did not know his surname.”

“Éduard Villon. Well, that is something,” Beechem said. “Why did it take her so long to come here?”

“She said she lives west of here, and only learned of these deaths several days ago. Her cousin had gone missing, so she thought to come and see if he was here.” The tailor shook his head. “Pretty lady. So sad she was when she saw him. Despite the smell she stayed in there a half hour. I left her to her grief. Eventually she came out and sat outside for a long while. Many hours.” He shrugged. “Perhaps she knew those others would come, and waited for them.”

“Others?” Beechem asked, suddenly interested. “Other relatives?”

“I do not think so. They were English and these two here—well, from their garments they were French, and some on this lane had seen them about and heard them speak, so. . .”

“Did these men go inside the shed?” Kendale asked.

“
Oui.
A moment only. It is foul inside, of course, and—”

“Did she speak with them?”

“I do not know. Perhaps. I think so. The men did not leave the garden at once.”

“But she did soon after them?”

“It was getting dark.”

“Describe these men,” Beechem said.

“No, describe the woman,” Kendale interrupted.

The tailor described both. His memory of the woman far exceeded that of the men. The latter had been rough, with the appearance of laborers, and of no interest. The woman, however, had been pretty enough to be memorable down to the shape of her nose.

Medium height, very slender, golden brown hair down around her shoulders, elegant fingers and face, and a long, old, patterned silk shawl that hung to her knees—the tailor all but glowed as he painted a picture of Marielle Lyon.

“So sad she was,” he said again. “So sad and pretty as she sat in that garden, so still, as if lost in her memories of her dear cousin.”

Cousin, hell.

“Wish he had noticed more about those chaps who came by,” Beechem said after they left the shop. “Sounds a bit like West and Garrett, but not so close as to be able to do much with it. They do a bit of smuggling, and I'm thinking they were wondering what happened to their runners who bring it inland. The two rotting corpses in there were known here in Dover, sounds like, but did not seem to have ties to this town, so they may have been in the employ of West and Garrett, seems to me.”

With no one to swear down information, least of all the pretty cousin, there was nothing Beechem would do with his suspicions, Kendale knew. If anything the disruption of a smuggling ring would be welcomed by the authorities, even if it were brief and two men got murdered in the process.

As for the mourning cousin . . .

“Where would I find West or Garrett?” Kendale asked. “Since I am not an official, I can ask questions that you cannot.”

M
arielle wished Monsieur Garrett would hurry up. He took forever to tie his horse. He walked slowly down the quiet lane with a loose but tired gait. A wiry man with sandy hair, he still had a bit of youth in him that showed in the way he moved his body.

She waited for him in front of a weathered house covered in graying whitewash at the southern edges of Dover's outskirts. He noticed her and stopped while he examined her, his body suddenly tight and alert. Then recognition unwound him again and he walked on with a big, flirtatious smile.

“You don't take your time,” he said. “I said I'd be here today, but you arrived first. You must be very eager to see me.” His thick eyebrows wiggled with insinuation while he opened the door. “Have you been waiting since sunrise?”

“I have not been here long. Let us talk out here.” She would be stupid to enter this house alone with a man she knew to be a criminal, especially one with such a hungry look in his blue eyes. “I need to know this will get to the boat.” She slid her shawl away to reveal the roll of prints.

“More of those, eh? I looked once. Seems to be an odd thing to pay to get into France. But maybe there are secrets in 'em that I can't see.”

“Would it matter to you if there were?”

“Not to me. To some, perhaps. This ain't my war, and it is bad for trade, is how I see it.” He reached for the roll. “Tomorrow it will be on the boat.”

“You need to bring it to its destination. They will not know to meet you this time.”

“Well, now, that makes it more dangerous, don't it? I'm not fond of staying there overlong. Will cost you.”

“I will pay. If you put in north of Granville, the bookseller is only a few blocks away at the end of the main lane.” She gave him the shop's location and name.

“I'll not be walking even a few blocks until night.”

“He will not care if you rouse him at night.” At least she hoped not. She dug into her pocket and withdrew six shillings. “This is twice what I would pay Éduard and Luc, and they in turn kept much of it before paying you, so it should be more than enough.”

Garrett laughed while he took the coins and prints. “Must be some secrets after all, if you pay that much not to mention the cost of the journey here.”

“I am paying for more than your transporting those papers. I also want information.”

He leaned against the door frame, curious and cautious. “Men in my trade don't last long if they talk too much.”

“I do not care about your trade, or about who helps you. I seek other information. Do you know who did that to Éduard and Luc?”

He shook his head. “I've a mind to return the favor if I find out. They had their uses and could be trusted. Not easy to find honest men. I felt real bad when I saw what is left of them and knew it was them for sure.”

“Did you ever see two other Frenchmen with them? One fat and dark haired and the other tall and lean.”

“Not with them, but I may have seen the ones you mean. A few weeks ago a French boat came over with some of those fancy types. We keep an eye on those. Don't want it to become a habit on our coast and don't want 'em taking goods back and stealing our trade, do we? Those two were with them, as I remember. Not so fancy as the others, so they stuck out.”

“Were they alone, or with another man?” She tried to keep the desperate worry out of her voice. “Maybe a fancy one.”

She held her breath while she waited for his reply.

“Nah. We watched them get out and walk up the beach. Those two were alone then. Not talking to others, or even walking alongside another man.”

A heaviness lifted off her heart. It was not proof that Lamberte had not come to England, but it was enough to allow hope that he had not.

“I wonder if—” She sought the right words for her next query. “The fancy man I speak of may have come before or after. He is noticeable. Taller than most, with thick dark hair.” She tried to picture Lamberte now, years after she had last seen him. Had he thickened? Had he cropped his hair? “He is very fond of wearing coats with a military cut. He might have a beard, but well groomed in its shape and length. Have you seen such a man on other boats, or in any villages or taverns?”

“Nah.” He wiggled those eyebrows again. “If I do, should I let him know that you seek him?”

“No.” She said it too forcefully. Garrett raised his eyebrows. “I would like to know if you see him, however. I will pay well for the information.”

He looked at her differently, as if she presented some risk he had not realized before. “If I see him, I'll send word with whoever comes to get your next roll of images. We should have the net repaired by the next time that is due.”