Chapter 18 #2
The wedding would take place next Saturday, one week from today. If the Deveres behaved until then, all would be well.
I penned more correspondence, leaving the letters with Bartholomew to deliver. Then Brewster and I walked down the hill for our breakfast and coffee.
The wine tavern had returned to its usual tranquility, with the few men who bothered to acknowledge me nodding as I entered. Beaumont served me, Brewster went shopping, and I settled in. The misstep I’d made yesterday might never have happened.
The quiet gave me time to ponder all I’d learned so far.
Gallo, the blackmailer, had been killed, presumably to keep him quiet about whatever secrets he knew. One of his victims would be the most likely suspect.
Or, I thought with disquiet, the dear friend of one of his victims, trying to find a letter to save his lady-love embarrassment.
Signora Ruggeri had met Gallo in Padua, became his lover, and started to aid him in his schemes. His extortion might have been lucrative, and Signora Ruggeri likely had seen no reason not to profit from it.
They left Padua for whatever reason—their sources of income had dried up? Or they’d fled for their lives, as Signora Ruggeri had implied?—and decided upon Lyon. La Guillotière was home to many an Italian émigré, so why not?
Soon after their arrival, Signora Ruggeri caught the eye of Comte Lejeune, who placed her in a townhouse he owned in the Presqu’?le.
Signora Ruggeri told me that Gallo had hidden his papers there, which could mean he’d been a frequent visitor.
The housekeeper or landlady of that abode might be a good source of information in that respect.
I speculated that Signora Ruggeri had tired of Gallo once she was firmly established with the comte, which was one reason she cajoled the comte into providing her better accommodation.
She’d earned the wrath of the Lyonnais in doing so, but Gallo had retreated to La Guillotière and the unprepossessing rooms we’d searched.
That landlady, Madame Jourdain, might also be worth questioning, though I’d guess Vernet had asked her all about Gallo already.
Claude Devere had been accused of murdering Gallo, and had feared that either his father or his uncles had actually done so. He and Emile had searched Gallo’s rooms for whatever secret the man had held about the Deveres but found nothing.
Moreau, Brewster, and I had found little more, though we’d uncovered the name of Lucien Potier and an unusual letter in Italian.
Signora Ruggeri claimed that Gallo’s papers had disappeared from the townhouse, but she might have removed them herself and spun me a tale that they’d vanished.
I hoped whoever did have the papers would simply burn them, though I supposed we would find out sooner or later. If others, including Colonel Moreau’s lady, began to be threatened about them, we’d know the letters still existed.
I also pondered the pure rage Potier’s name caused in the city, along with his abrupt disappearance. Recalled to Paris, Beaumont had speculated and Moreau had agreed was most likely.
That a man so much hated had been here one day and gone the next led me to conclusions I did not like.
I tried to put the last thoughts aside as I finished my meal, fetched Brewster, and walked home.
When I entered the villa, I was informed, to my surprise, that Grenville awaited me in the ground-floor sitting room. I’d assumed he’d be fast asleep in the house he’d let with Marianne, recovering from the lively soiree.
“The revelry is still going,” Grenville explained when I asked.
He reposed tiredly on a cushioned chair, stifling a yawn.
“Marianne’s friends are robust, I must say.
I decided I needed a rest and went home only a few hours after you did.
Marianne laughed at me, calling me an old man, but I thought I shouldn’t embarrass her by falling asleep in a corner. ”
“I felt the same.” I seated myself and accepted coffee from Bartholomew. “Did Signora Ruggeri remain all night as well?”
“Not at all. She departed rather early. I saw her out and into her carriage, which is driven by a ruffian I’m surprised she’s not terrified of. But I suppose she pays him well. I heard her tell him to return her to her villa, as speedily as he could.”
She felt safe there, I concluded. I hoped she was correct.
“Awaiting the comte?” I asked.
Grenville chortled. “As to that, I have discovered where he was the night of Gallo’s death. One of Marianne’s friends told me.”
“Oh?” I prompted when Grenville paused, enjoying himself. “Do tell me without prevarication, if you please.”
“Forgive me, my dear fellow. I have spent a night trying to match wits with those who are witty for a living, and it has made me vacuous. The comte was not at his hunting lodge, as I have said. That was the story for his wife and also for the grasping Signora Ruggeri. He was with another lady entirely. An older, more stately woman with whom he’s had a continuous affair for twenty years.
And interesting development, is it not?”