Chapter 12 The Memories of Angels #2
Oste raised a brow. “It’s possible, but navigating the underground is usually a fool’s errand.
Nobody really knows where all the old Roman tunnels go.
” Oste shrugged and itched the back of his head.
“Some people are just made for sneaking around. Even my father can surprise most anyone, bad knees and all. Hunter’s trade. ”
“Mmh. You think the murderer could’ve had the training?”
“From somewhere? Absolutely. His cuts on Frances were precise. I’m more inclined to think he’s a proper military man compared to a volunteer watchman. Infantry, even gendarme.”
“I still think the waterways might have a part.” Dorotèa continued to probe.
She finally looked up and twisted around to meet Oste’s gaze.
Her brow was taut and serious. “I mean, well, both were in Cordeliers around the thermal neighborhood. Jeanne thinks we only know half of the entrances and routes out there. Hard to get caught if your getaway is an underground river.”
Oste inclined his head. “Not all of them are attached.”
“No, but enough of them are, and no one has ever mapped them proper. At least, I don’t think anyone has. And it’s not like anyone could, considering how many are sitting under private homes and businesses…”
“It’s worth bringing up with Jehan, at least.”
Dorotèa’s expression brightened. The smile she returned earned one of his own, even when he flipped over another paper containing the contents of horrors that would have been more comfortable to never know about, if only they were ignorant people.
Oste ran a finger down the list containing the names of the watchmen who patrolled Cordeliers and had a firearm.
Two had been ruled out on account of their confirmed presence outside of the city, which left five watchmen, and the Cordeliers captain.
Those six, and then a host of arquebusiers in service to Provence, and a pile of others who had thrown in their lot with the Huguenots and may very well have obtained the means somewhere along the way.
Any of them may or may not have been in the city.
Such were the fickle ways of a country that had taken on the essence of a powder keg.
“I want to believe one of these is our man,” Oste said on a steady exhale. He trailed his finger down the list. Gigale. Tirel. Paneton. Camsas. Bouchier. Duperat.
“Who?”
“The watch.”
“Can I see?”
Oste handed over the list of names. He watched Dorotèa scan down them, then freeze and double back to an earlier one. Her expression shuddered momentarily, her eyes dark with a concentrated unease.
“I know one of these men. Or… did. Monsieur Camsas.”
This surprised him, and it was audible in his reply. “How’s that?”
Dorotèa shrugged a little too quickly for his taste. “He was just some bore from a while ago. I don’t know. He liked wine and baths, and he’d go wherever he could find them.”
“That doesn’t tell me where you know him from.”
She chewed on her bottom lip. “It’s not polite talk.”
Oste adjusted his body to curl closer towards her, and slid out his hand as though he had the means to find hers and squeeze it.
They still clutched the papers in front of her, but he tried to exude the warmth of his closeness regardless.
“Have I given off the impression that such a thing bothers me? Especially coming from you.”
Dorotèa shook her head and sighed. “No. And I know you know the half of it, but I take no pleasure in recounting my failings.” She tucked a lock of hair back—a wayward, silky curl—but seemed to catch where Oste left his hand and paused before letting hers settle down on top of his.
“A lot of the soldiers like to boast, so I knew his name from here or there. I’d been hanging around some friends—attendants, you know, from one of the baths.
He mistook me as one, is all. Started to take me through the motions before I—before I got my bearings back enough to act accordingly for my dislike and disinterest.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Did he…?”
Dorotèa soothed his fears with her repeated gesture. “When I told him to stop, he stopped, and I went along home. I still don’t think highly of him; he deserves some disdain of mine, I think.”
He looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? It was so forgettable I hardly recalled it until I read his name just now.” She laughed delicately, and despite its sweetness, the trace of melancholy in accompaniment broke his heart.
“Boudiou, how common that seems, from what I hear. But I’d take forgettable over bad.
Mediocrity doesn’t demand for more, or hurt. ”
Nothing she said lessened the blow. He’d been so busy with medical school then, but he’d known everyone in their congregation of once-innocence was anything but by then, when they all began to have their troubles.
He was drowning in studies and his own experiments in the hospital and out.
Bodies had taken on so many different meanings, and feelings—but still he felt he ought to have been there somehow for Dorotèa. Surely he could have managed more.
“I’m still sorry.” Oste set his jaw and quieted. “I can’t think of any words besides those.”
“Then say nothing else on the matter.” How quickly she’d moved on with an imperceptible shake of her head and already sing-song voice. “You’ll only work yourself into a fit that I don’t want for you.”
He shuddered. “At least tell me if he offered a murderous impression?”
She barked out a laugh. “I don’t rightly know. I’ve only been sure of one of those, and Flassans has that honor.”
“I have no protest to that,” Oste mused, then nodded back at the paper. “I know two of those men as well.”
“Do you?”
“Capitaine Tirel.” Oste pointed at the name.
“He’s run with Flassans’ lot before, but has seemed a reasonable fellow.
He’s donated to the hospitals now and again, and left a nice basket on my desk when I returned to work.
” He shrugged. “More decency than I expected. Now, Monsieur Bouchier I'd liken to dog excrement on the bottom of my shoe. He cut himself open when drunk once and assaulted the barber-surgeon we had on duty. When I stepped in to stitch him up myself, he said a great many rude things and required another constable to hold him in place. As Jehan has written here, his superiors say he makes up for his unpleasant attitude by being an excellent shot.” He scoffed. “Rest assured, he’s a suspect.”
“I swear Melchion joked about that incident once at a meeting.”
“He did.” Oste rubbed his face. He was growing increasingly angrier with himself and this cold, bloody trail. “I’m actually starting to feel for the lieutenant.”
“How stern were his interrogations?”
“They’re considered honorable men from good backgrounds. Take a guess.”
“But if someone were to—”
“Dorotèa. It won’t happen. This is what we have.”
She loosed a sharp exhale. “What if one of them is lying? The viguerie is more afraid of offending them than they are of getting another dead woman.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“So, what of it? Do people just… just keep their eyes open and hope nothing else happens?”
“Jehan can revisit conversations with more information. That’s all anyone would officially do.”
“Clau?” Dorotèa asked. She rubbed her brow. “He’s the only family of any of the two girls. Does he know those men? Does he have opinions?”
“I…” Oste flipped through more papers, but shook his head. “I don’t think Jehan has asked him about that.”
Dorotèa leaned in. “Then that’s a lead.”
“I’ll mention it when I bring up the underground. I’m sure he’ll get to it.”
“When?”
“I… I don’t know. When he can. The city has had its troubles; I know he’ll see to it as soon as he’s able, certainly.”
“But what if another girl dies?” Dorotèa asked, more frantic this time. She pushed off the floor to turn her body entirely to face Oste. When her hand moved off his, he was taken aback by how cold its absence was. “This isn’t a matter of ‘when people can get to it’.”
He frowned. “I’m worried too, Dorotèa. Everyone is.”
She shook her head. “Couldn’t someone else see to it? There’s more men in the viguerie than Jehan. And what about the watchmen? Are they being watched?”
“I… I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
“I can’t just sit on my hands.”
“What could you do?” Oste asked, exasperated. “What could either of us do right now? We’re doing the best that we can, all of us.”
“That’s not true.” Dorotèa balled her fists at her sides, then stood up. “That’s simply not… it isn’t…”
“I’m recovering,” he retorted, “and you… you’re…”
Tears stung her eyes. “A woman?”
Oste clenched his jaw. He was thinking that, and it showed on his face. It was there along with many other labels that came to mind, and the principal other came out in a low tone. “Someone I don’t want to see harmed.”
“I don’t want your concern.” Dorotèa was petulant now. Even though her volume was contained, it was hard to miss the bite in her tone. “I don’t need it. Again.”
“Dorotèa—”
“You could have Saint-Mitre members out and about. Lord knows we haven’t been politicking and being truly useful for a while. But we’re helpers. We help.”
“Dorotèa! For God’s sake, stop being a hypocrite!” She rocked back, eyes ablaze. Oste was just as surprised by his pointed jab. “I’ve given this another try. I’ve let you worry about me, and let myself be helped. Can you not for one second allow for me to feel concerned for you?”
She recoiled again. “Why? Why would you do that? Because I’m a defenseless wo—”
“Because I care about you. You could be the best soldier in France, and I’d still care, and worry enough to want to protect you.
Boudiou, the duelist can wipe the floor with me, but I still pray every night that he’s safe out there just as I do for you, and the others.
I care so little for his prowess or lack of it compared to the respect and joy he’s given me, and I only hope you’re aware that you have this in common.
Strength has nothing to do with my love and respect.
You’re important to me. That’s all it comes down to. ”
Dorotèa blinked. He’d have believed someone if they said she was turned to stone. She answered him in a horrified whisper. “Don’t say that. Oh God, say anything but that.”
“Why?”
Dorotèa straightened her skirts and choked. It sounded dangerously close to a sob by Oste’s standards. “I need some air. I’ll—I’ll be back.”
“Dorotèa, please, stay.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve been—I’m sorry for myself again. I’ll be back. I promise.”
She spun on her heel and made it to the door as quickly as she’d stalked to the bed when he’d first bid her to remain.
Oste reached towards her and scrambled to give chase, but the mess of papers and his weary body set him on a path of failure.
He’d only gotten his legs over the edge by the time she’d departed into the noise of the hallway.
He didn’t understand her, but he wanted to.