Chapter 29
We made for the other side of the city’s island in Denis’s coach and over the stone bridge to the east bank of the Rh?ne.
The clouds had coalesced into a solid, dark mass. Lightning flickered within, and I was happy that Gabriella’s wedding and party had occurred early in the day. All should be home and snug by the time the storm hit.
No one in La Guillotière seemed to be bothered by the shift in weather. They lingered in the streets and on the bridge or wandered the river’s edge. A sharp breeze blew from the clouds, welcome coolness.
Denis’s coachman let us off at the end of the bridge, and we again navigated the streets too narrow for the conveyance on foot. Without discussion, we made for the dilapidated boarding house that had lodged Vincenzo Gallo.
As at Madame Martin’s, we found the front door open and the place deserted.
We were about to ascend to the rooms above when I heard a faint moan. Moreau heard it too, both of us halting warily.
“Là!” Moreau pointed down the dim corridor behind the stairs.
I headed that way, keeping my footsteps as silent as possible, Moreau following quietly.
Behind a door at the very end of the hall came another groan and then a sigh, as though the person beyond had resigned themselves to their fate.
Finding the door unlocked, I carefully swung it open.
A woman huddled on the bare floor within. Shelves lined the walls around her, filled with foodstuffs, crockery both whole and broken, and piles of cloth that looked fit only for the rag-and-bone man.
The woman did not move when I entered the room, too lost in her own pain. In the little light that came through the doorway, I saw a darker stain on the back of her sand-colored gown.
I limped forward, still guarded. I’d watched a soldier bend over a seemingly wounded compatriot on the battlefield—either to help him or rob him, I was never certain—and the blood-covered man leap up and cut down the other soldier.
I hadn’t been able to reach the first man before he’d died, but I’d shot his murderer with my carbine.
“Madame?” I touched the woman’s shoulder and gently turned her over.
It was Madame Martin. She breathed shallowly, more blood staining her neck.
“Madame, what has happened?”
Madame Martin blinked, frowning as though trying to place me. “She cut me.” The words came in a cracked whisper.
“Signora Ruggeri did this?”
“No.” Madame Martin took a long breath. “She is mad. She took her. Killed me so she wouldn’t have to share the money. Contemptible bitch.”
“Tell me who, Madame.”
Madame Martin’s eyes slid closed. “Ma s?ur.”
“Your sister?” I asked in surprise. “Who is—?”
Madame Martin did not answer, her pain rendering her insensible.
“Is she dead?” Moreau asked, his worry tinged with compassion.
I straightened. “No, but she needs a surgeon.”
I seized a few of the cleaner rags from the shelves and pressed them to the cut in her neck. The gash hadn’t severed the vessel that would have gushed her life’s blood from her, but she’d die without help.
Both of us feared to move her, in case we made the wounds worse, but we found blankets and pillows in other rooms and tucked them around her, rendering her as warm and comfortable as we could.
“We will bring help, Madame,” I assured her, though I was uncertain she heard me.
Moreau and I headed out of the house. I scanned the street for a patroller of some kind, but I saw no one. We’d have to cross the bridge again, to alert the gendarmes and find help for Madame Martin.
The first drops of heavy rain began to fall by the time we reached the bridge. I saw, to my dismay, that Denis’s coachman and carriage were nowhere in sight.
“Bloody hell,” I said, not bothering with French. “I suppose he went to wait out the storm.”
“Go back and stay with Madame Martin,” Moreau said. “I can reach the gendarmes more quickly.”
I saw the sense in this and nodded to him. The cool humidity of the coming storm made my injured knee stiffer, and I’d be slow.
As we turned to take our separate routes, a shriek of terror rose from beneath the bridge.
“Captain! Help me!”
The English words held the unmistakable accent of Manchester. Signora Ruggeri’s second cry cut off abruptly, then came splashing.
Moreau and I hastened to the edge of the bridge and peered down the bank to the Rh?ne.
The river was even more swollen today, with more rains in the mountains filling the riverbed.
Heavy drops now pattered on the water, quickly wetting the light summer coat I’d donned for the wedding and Moreau’s more sturdy jacket.
A small boat rocked on the river’s waves below us, the struggles of the two inside making it pitch and roll.
One figure was Signora Ruggeri. Her hair had come down, curtaining her face while she fought with the more robust woman.
Ma s?ur, Madame Martin had said.
Her sister, the caretaker of Gallo’s rooms, Madame Jourdain.
I’d thought Madame Martin was familiar when I’d first met her, but I simply assumed I’d seen her about in Lyon. I hadn’t made the connection with Madame Jourdain, whose face under grizzled hair had been marred by her persistent scowl.
If Madame Jourdain had realized that Gallo was blackmailing the wealthy and prominent of Lyon, she could have contacted her sister, Madame Martin, in the Presqu’?le for help.
Perhaps she bade Madame Martine suggest to the comte that the townhouse would be a perfect place in which to hide his ladybird.
With their eyes on both Gallo and Signora Ruggeri, the two sisters could scheme get their hands on the blackmail money.
Signora Ruggeri had soon begged the comte to give her another home. Because the townhouse was not up to her standards, the world thought. But perhaps Signora Ruggeri realized the danger that both housekeepers posed for her.
Signora Ruggeri had told me at Marianne’s soiree that she feared for her life. She’d related this with a melodramatic quaver, so I had not quite believed her, but perhaps she’d been telling the truth.
Her fears were proving true. Madame Jourdain was now doing her best to subdue Signora Ruggeri in a boat on the wild river.
Without a word, Moreau started down the bank. I followed, shoving my walking stick hard into the slippery earth to keep myself upright.
The bridge towered beside us as I half-slid, half scrambled toward the river.
This bridge, whose massive arches spanned the great Rh?ne, had been built and rebuilt for the last thousand years.
Floods had regularly torn it down, but the citizens of Lyon had doggedly replaced it each time.
Now it stood solidly, the river forming rapids around its foundations.
The water was high—no cargo ship could have fit beneath the bridge today. The tiny boat Madame Jourdain had commandeered would skim nicely downriver, however. That is, if it didn’t overturn and drown both women.
Moreau reached the boat before I did. Signora Ruggeri cried out to him, begging for help.
Madame Jourdain turned a pistol on him.
Moreau backed away, water splashing to his knees, and Madame Jourdain fired.
The fuse of the ancient gun sputtered feebly, and then rain drowned the spark before it could ignite the powder.
Madame Jourdain cursed and flung the pistol into the boat. Signora Ruggeri lunged for it, but I could tell her it would only be useful as a club in this downpour.
Moreau and I rushed the boat, he reaching to seize Madame Jourdain.
I shouted a warning before Madame Jourdain sank her knife into Moreau’s arm. He hung on to her, blood running from his sleeve to spatter into the water.
Madame Jourdain fought him, clawing and stabbing, and managed to loosen Moreau’s hold.
She leapt from the boat, landing up to her waist in rushing water, but she came on at us, brandishing the knife.
She slipped, fell, and went under.
I plunged my hands into the water where Madame Jourdain had gone down, finding nothing but emptiness.
I groped, teetering dangerously myself, sweeping my walking stick through the current to find her.
She’d drown in moments, and while I was not fond of the woman, I could not simply dust off my hands and let her die.
Moreau called out. From a few yards downstream, he hauled Madame Jourdain from the water, where she hung from his grip like a waterlogged rat.
Moreau dragged her toward the bank. I waded to them and caught the woman under one of her arms, helping Moreau pull her out of the river. Madame Jourdain hung limply, the knife no longer in her hand.
We dropped her on the bank, where she coughed, still alive. I left her to Moreau while I turned back to pull Signora Ruggeri to safety.
Signora Ruggeri screamed as a wave caught the boat and sent it spinning toward the middle of the river. At the same time, the clouds belched forth torrents of rain, and lightning whitened the sky.
I flung aside my hat, jammed my walking stick into the mud, and dove for the boat, blessing my misspent youth sailing anything navigable in Norfolk. The middle of a tumultuous river during a storm wasn’t the same as punting in the Broads, however, and I was no longer a youth.
I stroked for the boat and seized its gunwale before it could careen too far. Signora Ruggeri wept, begging me to take her to shore.
I could stand on my feet in this depth, the water to my chest. It was cold—the river’s source was the Alps—though not the deadly cold the water might have in winter.
I gripped the boat’s side, but the river fought to wrench it from me. The craft rocked and bucked, tearing my gloves as I tried to keep my hold.
I’d need to climb inside and row, but getting the boat to stay still long enough to heave myself into it was the trouble.
The hand Signora Ruggeri extended to me bounced in and out of reach. I kept dragging the craft forward, trying to reach shallow enough water where Signora Ruggeri and I both could climb to shore.