Chapter 13
None of us answered Brewster, but we regarded him in disquiet. My gaze went to the window and the view of the house across the back court from this. La Guillotière was a maze of streets, and many more of them filled Lyon.
“How will we find this other hiding place?” Emile finally asked.
“We will have to narrow it down,” I said. “A task for another day, I think.”
Moreau did not answer, and Brewster nodded glumly.
We decided to quit Gallo’s lodgings and retire for the night.
I took the box of jewelry with me. I’d hand it over to Donata, who could discover which ladies had lost something to Gallo and discreetly return it. Marianne, who would know the demimonde while Donata circulated among the beau monde, could also help.
Brewster said not a word when I tucked the box under my coat, and neither did Moreau. Emile regarded me in worry, but I pointed out that the housekeeper would simply pocket the trinkets if she found them. She’d discover them sooner or later if we left them, I had no doubt.
Darkness had descended fully by the time we went down the stairs, making the going precarious. I noticed Moreau slip out when Brewster trudged along the ground floor hall to return the key to the landlady.
Moreau had never offered explanation of how he’d gained entry, but I gathered that he’d somehow entered the house unnoticed and had likely picked the lock to Gallo’s rooms.
I put Emile into the coach, which had lingered at the end of the bridge at my request, and sent him back to the Auberge farm.
“Tell Gabriella everything,” I advised. “But only Gabriella at this stage, please.”
Emile nodded, ready to obey. Not that there was much to tell. Aside from the box of jewelry, we’d found only a few cryptic papers, which would mean nothing until Grenville translated the letter or we discovered the owner of the name on the note.
To my surprise, Moreau had waited for us while we sent off the coach. He turned and walked with us across the Pont de la Guillotière to the Presqu’?le.
“We’re no closer to knowing who did for Signor Gallo,” Brewster said as we went, both men slowing their steps for my labored pace. “If the bloke liked to try his hand at blackmail, and he were knifed in the middle of a public bridge, then anyone in the whole city could have done it.”
“On the face of it,” I said. “The only way to learn the truth, I suppose, is to find someone who actually witnessed the crime.” I turned to Moreau. “You were the first upon him. Did you see anyone running away? Melting into the shadows? Anyone at all?”
“I cannot be certain.” Moreau frowned in thought.
“The sun had risen but had not yet come over the buildings on the east side of the river. The shadows between it and the hill were long. I did not notice any furtive movements or hear footsteps hurrying away. The vendors opening their stalls a few streets over made a clamor, but on the bridge it was very still. Barely a breeze. No one approached from either end until you came across.”
“Very observant,” I stated.
“I was in the army a long time. Habits are difficult to shake.”
“Gallo might have been lying there a while,” Brewster pointed out. “Done over in the pitch dark and then left.”
“The physician for the gendarmerie will know approximately how long he was there,” I said. “It was not raining, and the bridge was dry, as were Gallo’s clothes, so that tells us nothing. There was no dew either—it has been too warm, so the absence of it on Gallo’s body is not remarkable.”
“So it were a nice, warm summer night,” Brewster growled. “Where does that leave us?”
“Nowhere,” I admitted.
Moreau bent a sharp gaze on me. “You truly do not believe I killed him?”
“I’d have preferred it to be you,” I said.
“I might have felt a sense of justice if you’d been arrested for murder.
But I know it was not you, for the reasons I stated to Vernet.
Also, you’d not have left Gallo on the bridge.
You’d have gutted him stealthily in the dark, tossed him and the knife into the river, then gone home to rid yourself of any clothes he’d bled on. ”
Moreau gave me a nod. “As you say.”
“So why didn’t whoever killed his bloke heave him over the side?” Brewster asked. “The river’s running heavy from all the rain that happened before we came. He’d have washed down into the what-you-call-it—confluence. Be a long way down the Rh?ne before he bobbed up again.”
We’d reached the plaza by that time, which while dark, had plenty of evening walkers strolling its expanse. We pressed through it and into the narrow streets on its other side to emerge onto the bridge in question.
The Pont Tilsit, made of solid stone, had lasted longer than its namesake treaty Bonaparte had broken when he’d made his fateful march into Russia. A stone balustrade, as high as my chest, guarded pedestrians and carts from tumbling into the river below.
We moved to that balustrade, and I peered over, the rush of water wafting cool air over me.
“A man, or maybe two, might have heaved Gallo’s body over the side,” I conceded. “But he’d need strength and time.”
“A woman killed him, then,” Brewster said. “Gallo were a fit bloke, hard to drag anywhere.”
“Possibly.” I leaned my back against the balustrade.
“I can think of three reasons the killer dropped the knife and ran instead of disposing of it or the body. Either he or she heard someone coming and fled, or was horrified by what they’d done and fled, or left Gallo and the knife to incriminate the next person who came along. ”
“Which happened to be me,” Moreau said dryly.
“If you had arrived a few minutes later, it might have been me,” I answered in the same tone. “I’m certain Vernet would have been happy to arrest a foreigner and be done with it.”
“Not the first time the captain’s nearly been nicked,” Brewster informed Moreau. “You get used to it, like.”
Ignoring Brewster, I scanned the houses on the western end of the bridge, which were fairly solid buildings with plenty of windows.
Anyone glancing out could have seen the culprit fleeing, though it likely had been plenty dark when the deed had been committed.
The Presqu’?le side also had buildings crowding the bridge, but they were further from the spot where Gallo had been killed.
“It is a beautiful place in the winter,” Moreau said, following my gaze along the riverbanks.
“Especially during the Fête des Lumières. We place candles on our windowsills, in honor of Holy Mary, who drove plague from the city in sixteen hundred and something.” He shrugged.
“People had simpler ideas then, but the tradition transforms the city every December.”
I was surprised at the sentimentality that tinged Moreau’s voice, incongruous with the brusque man who’d dragged my body into the brush and tramped away, leaving me to my fate.
Forgiveness ought to emanate from me—it had been long ago, after all—but the fear, pain, rage, and helplessness of that night and the many days after still haunted me. I would not weep on the man’s shoulder because he found candlelit houses in December pretty.
“I wonder if Vernet has questioned those with rooms overlooking the river,” I mused.
“You ain’t suggesting we do it, are ye?” Brewster asked in alarm. “It’s only a week or so to your daughter’s wedding, innit?”
“I was more thinking I’d suggest it to Vernet if he hasn’t. Someone must have seen something.”
“If this city is anything like London, they won’t have,” Brewster said darkly.
Moreau nodded. “I agree with your friend. Most people want nothing to do with the gendarmes. If they witness a crime, they might dive in to fight off the assailant, but won’t want appear at anyone’s trial.”
“That early, who’d be peering outside anyway?” Brewster asked.
I did not press my argument, as both made good points.
“I’m off home for now,” I told them. “My leg aches, and I’m certain my wife has planned several rounds of outings I must escort her to. Good evening, sir.” I made a cursory bow to Moreau.
“And to you,” Moreau responded.
We resumed our way across the bridge, as Moreau had indicated his lodgings were on the west bank of the Sa?ne, in the medieval city. None of us spoke, the wind springing up to bathe us in a sudden chill.
I again parted cordially with Moreau once we’d reached the far side, the cathedral looming over us. Moreau tipped his hat and walked unhurriedly along the lane that would take him to the cathedral and beyond to his lodgings.
Brewster and I continued up the hill, I regretting giving the coach to the young and agile Emile.
“By the bye, Brewster,” I said as I limped onward, each step becoming more difficult. “When we were at the comtesse’s chateau, did you notice other ways in and out besides the main entrance?”
“Other ways in and out?” Brewster repeated with incredulity.
“Huh. Place is a warren. Cellars with tunnels leading out into the fields, or doubling back into the house. Stands to reason—an old place like that, with all the wars what have happened around these parts. Lords and ladies want to make sure they can get things in and out while everyone is shooting at their front door, don’t they? ”
“Then someone could slip out of the house unnoticed?”
“Course they could, if they knew the way. It’s why the comte has so many guards. I wager the local thieves know their way about.”
But would Signora Ruggeri? I wondered. She might, of course, have had an accomplice to show her the way. But Signora Ruggeri never intended to spend the night in that house, at least not as the guest of the comtesse, so would she have had time to put the accomplice in place?
What the devil had been Signora Ruggeri’s intentions? To embarrass the comte or the comtesse? To stake her claim to the comte’s riches? She must know by now that the comte would never marry her unless the comtesse was deceased. Even then he’d likely hesitate because of Signora Ruggeri’s origins.
Had her intentions been more sinister? Perhaps to somehow eliminate her rival?
The comtesse appeared to be a very shrewd woman, and I hoped she’d considered this possibility.
“You truly believe Gallo had another hiding place for whatever secrets he’d gathered?” I asked as we trudged on.
“He were a foreigner, weren’t he?” Brewster said.
“The police here get into everyone’s business, so he’d never know when they were going to come in and toss the place.
Or if his landlady would come snooping. She looked like a right villain herself.
So Gallo hides his things where a casual search ain’t going to turn up much.
He likely had a good clear-out at some point, and moved whatever he kept there somewhere he thought was safer. ”
“But didn’t have time to take away the letter and paper he’d stashed in the fireplace?” I asked. “Or perhaps he thought them secure there?”
“Could be. Or could be, if they were found, they wouldn’t mean nothing. A name none of us recognized. I’m thinking the letter won’t give us much clue either. Gallo left those for last, because they weren’t important.”
“Or they belonged to a prior inhabitant of the rooms and are nothing to do with Gallo.”
“Not very likely, is it? A man like Gallo would have found all the hiding places in those chambers or maybe even made a few himself.”
“What you say makes sense,” I conceded. “I bow to your expertise.”
“It’s great expertise, guv. There’s not a nook or cranny made for hiding things I can’t find. Been doing it since I were a lad.”
We spoke no more after that, I saving my breath for the climb. I let out a whuff of relief when we reached the flat space outside the villa and turned in through the gate.
The gatehouse was lit with lanterns, and they also surrounded the front door, which stood open, letting the cool air into the house. Light poured from the doorway, and I saw Matthias nip through the hall carrying a tray. Grenville must have arrived.
Bartholomew took my hat, gloves, and coat at my entrance. Brewster said his goodnights and disappeared, either to find his bed or a well-deserved pot of ale.
I bade Bartholomew carry the box of trinkets to my bedchamber and followed Matthias’s trail to the salon in the back of the house that overlooked the city. Matthias was just pouring out a dark amber liquid for Grenville. Donata, also present, stood to meet me as I entered.
“There you are, Gabriel.” She rose on her tiptoes to kiss me lightly on the mouth before taking my arm. “Do trickle some of that brandy into a glass for me, Matthias. I imagine the captain would also appreciate a portion.”
Matthias good-naturedly filled two more goblets, which he handed around.
“No soirees tonight?” I asked Donata, who sank into a gilded chair from the reign of the fifteenth Louis. She was dressed splendidly, as always, but I’d learned to differentiate her costumes for balls, the opera, or a quiet night at home.
“A gathering with a friend later,” Donata replied, taking an elegant sip from her goblet. “You are released from duty tonight. You do look tired.”
“Too much walking.” I put myself on a settee that was more pretty than comfortable and stretched my aching leg. “I had a coach, but gave it to Emile.”
“He must have been having adventures,” Donata confided to Grenville. “Depend upon it. Now you must regale us with them.”
“I will.” The brandy loosened my muscles nicely, and I drank deeply. “After you tell me what you have been up to. Did either of you discover anything interesting, today?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” Grenville looked pleased with himself.
“I found the comte’s hunting lodge—a rather rustic place, but I can see why he enjoys it.
However, he was not enjoying it last night.
He was not there, and the gamekeeper informed me he hasn’t darkened its door for at least a week. ”