Chapter 20 #2
He pulled out large, oblong book and laid it on a long table behind a sofa. Brewster never stood back and waited for his employers to tell him what to do—he opened the book and began to scan the pages.
It was a ledger, with neat columns of names and amounts, some marked as French francs, some as Venetian coins. A third column held single letters or symbols, which were meaningless to me.
What did have meaning was the name Devere printed in the middle of the page. The number next to it told me they’d given Signor Gallo two hundred francs but not what they’d received in return.
“This is a damning book,” Moreau declared in hushed tones, as Brewster continued leafing through the pages. “Many prominent men of Lyon are listed here. And ladies too. I suppose some names are from other cities as well, wherever Signor Gallo traveled.”
“Yes,” I agreed grimly. “I have to wonder why whoever cleared out the other things did not take this.”
“Could be they didn’t know it was here,” Brewster said. “Could be the they found all the bits and bobs but didn’t realize he’d cataloged it all. Or maybe they couldn’t read, and didn’t know what the ledger was. Not everyone is so lucky.”
“If they couldn’t read the ledger, then they’d not be able to understand the letters and papers either,” I pointed out. “They must not have realized the ledger was here, as you say, or they were nearly caught burgling the place and ran out of time. Madame Martin might have surprised the thief.”
“Or whoever it was believed the ledger was safe enough for now.” Brewster replaced the panel but left the book open on the table.
“No one but an experienced thief would have found this hole. I wager Gallo and the signora received their guests in here, took the cash for their silence, and then totted up the figures without having to run upstairs for the ledger.”
“Possibly.” I reached to touch a page but pulled my finger back as though it would tarnish me. I closed the book instead. “The most likely person to have taken all the documents out of this house was Signora Ruggeri herself.”
Moreau regarded me doubtfully. “You said she admitted that Signor Gallo stashed the papers here but they vanished. Possibly Gallo took them away again.”
“She did say that.” I nodded. “But we must recall that Signora Ruggeri is an accomplished liar. She might have told me the tale so that I’d not attempt to search the house. Unfortunately for her, she did not have a good measure of my stubbornness.”
“Most don’t,” Brewster said.
“When I first saw Signora Ruggeri, she was fleeing a mob,” I said, ignoring Brewster.
“She’d come into the square from a street that could very well lead here.
I did not note her carrying anything, but I couldn’t see clearly.
She might have tried to clear out the house that day, ready to take the things Gallo had left to her villa. ”
“Gallo weren’t dead then,” Brewster said. “Why couldn’t it have been him toting the things back to his own rooms?”
I stared at the paneling Brewster had tucked into place as I pondered. Not a crack or seam betrayed the hiding place’s existence.
“Perhaps once Signora Ruggeri persuaded the comte to move her to more luxurious accommodations, Gallo could no longer enter this house. Signora Ruggeri might have promised to fetch the papers for him, but, once she did, took them to her new abode instead of delivering them to Gallo’s rooms in La Guillotière.
Hence Gallo’s fury when he followed her to the comtesse’s soiree. ”
We’d assumed Gallo had been a spurned lover intending to force Signora Ruggeri to return to him.
But if Gallo had learned she’d stolen his lucrative business from him, he might be even more incensed.
The words I’d heard him shout could have meant rage at Signora Ruggeri for moving the documents out of his reach.
“What do we do with this, guv?” Brewster gestured to the ledger.
I knew he assumed I’d want to turn the book over to Captain Vernet and the gendarmes, but I lifted it from the table. “We keep it safe. Once we find the letters and papers, we inform the people in this book that they are no longer in danger.”
Moreau nodded slowly, his relief plain.
“Then you’d better let me hide it,” Brewster said. “I can make sure no one ever finds the thing. If the signora tries to employ a thief herself, it won’t help her none. There’s no thief as good as me.”
“True.” I handed him the book. “I trust Brewster,” I told Moreau before he could protest. “He’s done me many a good turn, and he’s a burglar not a blackmailer.”
“Disgusting, they are,” Brewster said. “I’m an honest man, me.”
Brewster let himself out the front door with the ledger wrapped in a sack he’d found in a cupboard in the foyer. Once he was gone, I called down the backstairs to tell Madame Martin we were going.
She followed us to the front door, never changing expression when I explained that my man had gone ahead. Madame Martin watched us depart, arms folded, and remained on the doorstep until Moreau and I had rounded the corner.
“I can understand why Signora Ruggeri asked to be moved,” I muttered as we trudged through the narrow lanes.
Moreau acknowledged this with a grunted laugh.
He took me to another townhouse a few streets away that was as modest as the one we’d left, though a bit better kept.
The paint looked fresh, and the wrought-iron grills on the upper windows and latches on the shutters gleamed in the sunshine.
I wondered if the hardware had been made in the Deveres’ factory.
The door opened before Moreau could knock, revealing a housekeeper of the same age as Madame Martin but of much sweeter disposition. She curtsied politely to Moreau and me, told us the lady of the house awaited us in the sitting room upstairs, and led us there.
We ascended past wallpaper filled with flowers, birds, and pagodas framed in moldings painted a soft ivory.
Gilded tables in niches bore vases of fresh flowers or objets d’art of exquisite porcelain.
A year or so ago, I’d been privileged to look over the Prince of Wales’s collection, and these pieces appeared to be as fine as his.
More beautiful trinkets reposed in the sitting room, this chamber decorated in tasteful shades of blue.
The walls held still-life paintings of flowers or landscapes of Lyon, rendered from the perspective of the nearby hills.
I glimpsed the signature of Antoine Berjon on one of the flower still lifes.
This was a very feminine house, and I realized it must be owned by the lady who rose to meet us.
She was no courtesan tucked away on a back street, but a matron who’d settled into this house long ago.
I surmised that either her husband or father had willed the home to her, as France did not have the same primogeniture and inheritance laws as did England.
“Captain Lacey,” Moreau said, pride entering his usually neutral voice. “May I present Madame Paillard? Madame, Captain Lacey.”
“Enchantée, Madame,” I said with true sincerity as I made her a formal bow.
“My, such good manners,” Madame Paillard responded in flawless English. “How do you do, Captain Lacey?”
Madame Paillard was small and plump, the dark hair that peeked from under a lace cap just beginning to gray.
Her gown was cut to flatter her, with flowing sleeves that eschewed the now-fashionable puffs.
The skirt was devoid of ornamentation, nothing to mar the elegance of the striped lavender silk.
The entire costume made the rather plain woman lovely, as did her eyes, wide and thick-lashed, of a rich shade of brown. I wagered those eyes had ensnared Moreau on a moonlit night long ago.
“I do very well, indeed,” I responded. “I am honored to meet you.”
“You did not tell me he was so charming, Nicolas,” Madame Paillard said to Moreau.
“Especially given your encounter with each other during the war. Forgiveness is a becoming trait, Captain, and one I am happy to see you have embraced. Though, if you did come here to exact your revenge on Nico, please do not do so on my sitting room carpet. It has just been cleaned.”
“I would not dream of it,” I said with another bow. “There are plenty of back lanes in Lyon for that.”
Madame Paillard’s smile widened, though Moreau blinked. I let him wonder whether I was joking.
Madame Paillard waved us to sit. I took a chair near the tall window while Moreau escorted his lady to a sofa and settled in beside her.
We spoke about polite things at first, such as my daughter’s upcoming nuptials, and what I had seen of Lyon and the surrounding countryside.
Madame Paillard already knew where I was staying, and that Donata was an English earl’s daughter.
She asked me pointed questions about Donata, without embarrassment.
I answered, also without embarrassment, while Moreau appeared to be uncomfortable with the entire conversation.
While we chatted, a maid pushed a teacart into the room.
The plates surrounding the coffeepot contained sumptuous pastries that I did not refuse.
One was lemon curd inside an envelope of flaky, buttery crust, with just the right balance between sweet and tart.
This was followed by a torte of rich, heady chocolate.
“Your wife’s son inherited his father’s title and lands,” Madame Paillard continued as she served up these treats once the maid departed.
“He did,” I answered around bites. “Peter is a fine little chap, and growing rapidly. He’ll be a man before we realize.”
“And you have two daughters,” Madame Paillard went on. “One with Madame Auberge and one with your viscountess. Yes, Captain, I have heard all the tittle-tattle about you and Madame Auberge in your youth.” Her eyes crinkled with her smile.
I wondered if she knew the entire truth, or only the fabrication that Carlotta had never married before Auberge.
“Indeed,” I said, warming as I did whenever I spoke about my offspring. “Anne, the youngest, is already out-screeching Peter, who can yell like a banshee when he’s provoked.”
Madame Paillard chuckled. “I have two sons myself. Quite a handful they were. Grown men now, in trade in Paris.”
“My felicitations,” I said as she beamed with maternal satisfaction. “Forgive me, but you seem to know much about my family. Information I have not imparted to the colonel.”
“My dear captain, if I waited for Nico to report to me, I’d know nothing.
Lyon is excellent for gossip, as you must have realized by now.
I learned everything about you via my servants and my neighbors before the colonel even told me of your past connection.
The English viscountess on the hill engendered quite a lot of excitement. ”
“Donata will be flattered to learn this.” I set down my half-finished torte, not wanting to stuff myself gluttonously. “We did come here to give you some other news.” I exchanged a glance with Moreau, and he nodded. “We found a ledger of names in the house Signora Ruggeri inhabited for a time.”
“Yours was in it,” Moreau said gently. “Though I saw no sign of the letter.”
Madame Paillard set down her coffee cup so fiercely that droplets splashed out. “Damn her,” she said, switching to French in her agitation. “And damn that paramour of hers. Murder is evil, says the Bible, but sometimes it is justified, is it not?”