Chapter 9
I faced the four men in both perplexity and growing uneasiness. Brewster had his hands balled, as though he had tried to stop the Deveres charging down the street to haul me, and possibly Claude, bodily from the gendarmerie.
Fernand was the most belligerent of the four. Emile’s father—Auguste—looked reluctant to be part of the contingent, and Giraud was the most worried. The fourth brother, Julien, joined Fernand in hostility and glowered at me ominously.
“I have spoken to Claude,” I said, as though my future in-laws had merely stopped to make conversation. “I am convinced he had nothing to do with Gallo’s death, and I’m certain Captain Vernet will release him soon.”
“Of course he had nothing to do with it,” Julien snapped. He was of a height with Fernand, the two of them a wall of antagonism.
“This is a family matter,” Fernand said. “You do not understand, and you will stay out of it.”
Giraud, at least, seemed relieved at my pronouncement. He did not call off his brothers, however, and neither did Auguste.
“I advise you not to provoke Vernet,” I said. “He might keep hold of Claude out of annoyance with you, if you try to force his release.”
“Vernet is nothing.” Fernand waved a dismissive hand. “He is not even of Lyon.”
“He is the law, assigned here whether he, or you, like it or not,” I said with taut patience. “Now, I do not wish to quarrel with you gentlemen. My advice is to let Vernet decide to release Claude and clear him of this charge. Trying to free him yourselves might indicate you believe his guilt.”
“Never,” Fernand growled. “This may be how things work in your country, Captain, but the gendarmes in France can imprison a man and never let him go. Vernet will regret what he has done.”
I felt Brewster close beside me, his bulk obscuring the wind from the river. I knew he wanted to seize me and drag me to safety, but I stood stoically in front of the four men.
“Vernet seems a reasonable fellow,” I told them. “He heard Claude’s explanation of where he’d been last night, which I believe. I give you my word he will verify the story and send Claude home.”
I knew I was making a promise that the arm of French law could negate. But I bound myself by my word, and any who knew me understood that.
Giraud’s eyes held sadness. He was a widower, I remembered, and Claude was all he had.
“I am willing to wait,” he said quietly to Fernand.
“I am not,” Fernand said. “But I concede that the captain has a point. If we try to storm the gendarmes, we will only be arrested ourselves.” He fixed me with a hard stare, letting me know that he gave in with the greatest reluctance. “I will hold you to your word.”
I bowed to him. “I appreciate your trust.”
Fernand stepped close to me, never minding Brewster hovering over him. “You will not fail it,” he said in English. “And you will delve no further into this matter. It has nothing to do with you.”
I could not promise that. I nodded, agreeing only with his first statement.
Fernand eased from me. His brothers watched the encounter anxiously, as though worried Fernand would seize me and throw me into the river. He might have done, had we been alone.
After giving me a final glare, Fernand turned on his heel and marched away, heading toward the heart of the Presqu’?le. Julien followed close behind, then came Giraud, head bowed. August, Emile’s father, sent me an apologetic nod but drifted after his brothers without a word.
“I agree with ’im,” Brewster rumbled at me as the Devere men faded into the crowded streets. “If Frenchies want to stab each other on the bridges, it’s nothing to do with you.”
“I refuse to let Claude rot in a cell because of his stubbornness,” I said testily. “In any case, Emile asked for my help, and I do not wish to fail him. Now.” I straightened my hat. “Let us explore this place called La Guillotière. I am a bit thirsty, and a large glass would be just the thing.”
Brewster glowered, but he trundled with me onto the bridge while the Rh?ne rushed noisily beneath us, its waters cooling the heated air.
Numerous taverns lined the Rh?ne on its eastern bank.
From what I understood, La Guillotière had once been an independent village, then had been made part of Lyon, but now was somewhat autonomous again, administered collectively with a few other towns in this area.
I wondered how those who lived here kept it all in order.
The main road from Lyon ran east through La Guillotière and wound toward the Swiss Confederation and the passes through the Alps to northern Italian towns. I heard a number of men we passed speaking Italian or its dialects, which made me wonder if Signor Gallo had dwelled on this bank.
Brewster relaxed a bit as we moved from wine shop to wine shop. To be congenial, we had to sample the local drink in each one, or none inside would have spoken to us. Brewster detested wine, but he managed to procure ale in almost all of the taverns, which he pronounced surprisingly tasty.
“Your French colonel chap was right,” he said as he drank his fourth tankard of the afternoon. “They can make a decent brew here.”
I’d managed to put thoughts of Colonel Moreau out of my head as I’d worried about Claude, but I again wondered at the chance that had brought me face to face with my enemy.
Not being a superstitious man, I decided it a coincidence, though not a very surprising one. Moreau and I had both outlasted the wars, and Britons and Frenchmen now freely traveled between our respective countries. I was bound to come across men I’d fought sooner or later.
In the fifth wine shop we entered, we finally found a trace of Claude’s movements.
“Oui, the older Devere lad was here last night,” the proprietor said, after I’d introduced myself.
He hadn’t opened up until I’d explained my connection to the Deveres.
“In a foul temper, but didn’t do much of anything but imbibe wine.
More sulky than anything else.” The bulbous-faced man peered at me.
“You say your daughter is marrying young Emile? I thought he was wedding Auberge’s daughter. ”
“Mademoiselle Auberge is actually my daughter,” I said. “It is difficult to explain.”
The proprietor gave me a wise nod. “Not so difficult. A Frenchman understands. You are English, but …” He spread his hands.
He obviously believed I’d been Carlotta’s lover in the past, and Gabriella was our illicit offspring. Perhaps he thought Major Auberge was being very understanding in allowing me to attend Gabriella’s wedding.
As divorce was ruinous, and in the eyes of Auberge’s church, unthinkable, I’d agreed to let Carlotta’s previous connection to me be vague. Both Auberge and I had kept quiet about the divorce, though I’d obtained one all the same, thanks to the assistance of James Denis.
I did not correct the proprietor’s assumptions. “Was Claude with anyone last night? Or was he sulking by himself?”
The proprietor’s grizzled brows rose. “He was with that man killed on the bridge, wasn’t he? Just outside my door, arguing with him.”
I carefully set down my cup. “Signor Gallo? Are you certain?”
“Mais oui.” The proprietor nodded with confidence.
“They were already arguing when they arrived. Not a violent quarrel, just words. Signor Gallo sneering—he was like that. Monsieur Devere said something about Comte Lejeune I could not hear, and Gallo lost his temper. He slammed himself away, and then young Claude came inside and took to his wine.”
“What’s he saying?” Brewster asked me impatiently.
I quickly repeated the information, and Brewster frowned. “Sounds like Claude told Gallo that his signora was heading up the hill to see the comte,” he offered.
“Possibly,” I said. “Though how would Claude know?”
“Mayhap the signora told him. Mayhap she didn’t forget about young Claude as much as everyone claims she did.”
I could imagine Claude rubbing Gallo’s nose in the fact that Signora Ruggeri had confided in him what she’d planned. Gallo, growing incensed, dashed from the tavern and across the city to burst into the courtyard just as Signora Ruggeri was being led through the ballroom by the comtesse.
“Claude didn’t follow him?” I switched to French to ask the proprietor.
The man shook his head. “No. Ordered another bottle and made his way through it. Oh, shared it with his cousin, of course.”
I stilled. “Cousin?”
“Oui, young Emile. He came in maybe a half hour after Claude arrived. They drank their way through the bottle and left together. That is, Claude drank most of it, and Emile had to help him stumble away.” A smile flitted across his mouth.
“Your daughter has no cause to worry. Emile is not much for being in his cups.”
I tried to return the smile, but my heart hammered. Emile had never mentioned the fact that he’d been with Claude in La Guillotière last night, either when I’d spoken to him at the ironworks or in his hasty note this afternoon.
Claude had spoken about dishonoring someone by giving me his name. Had he meant Emile?
“When did they leave?” I asked.
The proprietor frowned at my question. “You’d better ask them, hadn’t you?”
“It is important,” I said sternly.
The man sighed. “Ten, maybe? Not late. They went that way down the lane.” He pointed to the left. “Home, most like, unless they stopped at another tavern. Emile seemed anxious to get his cousin out of La Guillotière. Wise. Rich boys don’t belong here after dark.”
Had Emile hunted for Claude, fearing what he’d do if he found Gallo, and escorted him home? Emile hadn’t told me he’d taken Claude under his wing last night, only stated that Claude couldn’t have killed Gallo and never would.
Blast the lad. If he’d been with Claude, and neither had been anywhere near Gallo at the time of his murder, why hadn’t Emile simply told me?
“Damnation,” I said out loud.
The proprietor’s scowl deepened. “What is this word?”
“What an Englishman says when he is vexed,” I said in French. “I beg your pardon.” I put coins on the table for what we’d drunk, plus a few extra.
The proprietor whisked the payment into his pocket, gave us a final frown, and moved off, irritably waving at other patrons who were calling for more wine.
“He said something about our Emile, didn’t he?” Brewster demanded when we emerged from the shop. The long summer day was finally waning, twilight touching the sky. “I understand some words, like cousin, and I heard the lad’s name.”
“He did.” I turned my steps to the bridge and gave Brewster a truncated translation of the conversation as we went.
“This looks bad,” was Brewster’s pronouncement.
“I agree. Why the devil didn’t either of them let on they were together?”
Brewster huffed as we hastened toward the stone bridge that crossed the Rh?ne. “Stands to reason, they didn’t want anyone to know. Not you, not their dads, not their uncles, not the gendarmes.”
“Yes,” I said grimly. I halted at the pillar that marked the change from the street’s pavement to the bridge’s. “Why did the proprietor say they’d gone that way?” I nodded downriver. “If they were heading to their own homes, there are no more convenient bridges south of here.”
“Maybe they know a better route than you do. We’re not from here, are we?”
“While that is true, I think they meant to stay in La Guillotière a while longer.”
“What for? Landlord said it were dangerous after dark.” Brewster glanced about, not in fear but in agreement. Dangerous for people who couldn’t defend themselves, he meant.
“I intend to ask them.” I started across the bridge, Brewster falling into step beside me.
Once in the Presqu’?le, I sought a hired hack and asked the coachman to take me south, toward the factory and the village that housed Emile and his family.
I learned from a servant at Auguste Devere’s brick and stucco home that the young master was dining tonight with the Auberges, not far down the road. Auguste himself was still with his brothers, his wife calling on friends.
I debated for a moment, then bade the coachman take me to the farm where my former wife lived with her new husband and my daughter.