CHAPTER SEVEN #2
Before he could question this further, Grace turned and led the way upstairs, taking her time and clunking dreadfully in an effort to cover any possible sounds emanating from the lean-to.
She took them first to her own room, recommending acidly to Loriot that his men should look under the bed.
That they did, and also checked behind the open curtains, unnerved her. Would they check everything?
“Your spare chamber, mademoiselle?”
It had come. Her heart beating fast, Grace moved as slowly as she dared across the landing to Henri’s door, hoping desperately Jemima had managed to eradicate all sign of his habitation.
“This is where we put the wounded fellow while he was here,” she said loudly as she moved into the room. Her eyes swept frantically about, and the heavy rhythm of her heart abated. The maid had done her work well.
There was nothing left lying about, not that Henri had accumulated much beyond the borrowed nightgown, apart from snatches of torn sheet to serve him for dressings and a sling.
Those books she had loaned him were piled to one side on top of the chest of drawers.
The coverlet was folded and stacked, along with the blankets and pillows, to one end, as if the bed was unused.
A horrid thought assailed her. Henri’s greatcoat!
For the life of her she could not remember whether Jemima had brought it up here.
If not, she could only hope to heaven one of them had the sense to conceal it in the lean-to, where it must have been left.
The chest along the opposite wall dragged at her consciousness, but she dared not let her eye stray towards it.
If Jemima had thrown things in there pell-mell…
Loriot was moving to the window. He stood to one side of it, motionless, looking out. Just so must Henri have stood upon the last occasion these men had come here. Did Loriot suspect it? Etienne was kneeling on the floor, checking under the bed, while the stockier Augustin headed for the press.
Her back to the wall by the door, Grace watched them, her heart in her mouth, willing herself not to look at the chest. She felt Loriot’s eyes, and turned her own upon him, summoning what she hoped was a supercilious expression.
“I trust you are satisfied?”
Loriot eyed her in silence. He spoke in rapid French. The two others paused, one in the act of slamming open drawers, the other standing on the bed and checking on top of the wooden tester. Both looked to Grace and their leader’s tone was soft.
“Explain to me how it was, mademoiselle, that this man severely wounded was able to escape the house in the night with none to hear him?”
Grace let out a laugh. “It wasn’t difficult.
My maid sleeps in the attic, and certainly heard nothing at all.
As for myself, with this —” she gestured towards her boot — “once I have removed it, I cannot easily walk about, so I am hardly likely to go investigating any particular sound in the night, even had I heard anything, which I did not. Besides, who said his wound was severe?”
“It is what I have heard when I have questioned in these parts.”
“Well, you heard wrong. And since only myself and my maid saw the man —”
“Also the apothecary, and the men who have helped bring him up here.”
Grace let out an exaggerated snort. “If you are to take the word of country people, sir, I am afraid you will be disappointed. He had lost a lot of blood, it is true, but it transpired the wound was but slight.”
She saw disbelief in his eyes and remembered Henri saying Jean-Marc was a crack shot.
For one horrifying moment, she wondered if Dunmow had boasted too publicly of removing the bullet.
There was no saying who might not have heard him and given it away to this Frenchman.
Loriot was no fool, and it was evident he knew just what questions to ask.
She closed her mouth upon further detail.
But the fellow was not done. He gave a rapid command to Augustin, who crossed the room swiftly and walked past Grace to the door. She trod after him a step and turned to Loriot. “Where is he going? I won’t have him wandering around the house without me there.”
“He will look in the maid’s room upstairs,” said Loriot, and Augustin vanished up the narrow stairway that led to Jemima’s attic, and a box room stuffed with all manner of unused impedimenta Grace had felt unable to get rid of and brought here from the Barking home.
She breathed more freely. There was nothing incriminating to be found up there. Etienne had resumed his search above the tester, and Grace dared to hope the chest might be forgotten. Loriot was walking towards her. She braced herself, lifting her chin.
“Where was it you found the man?”
Grace was ready for that. By this time, everything would be in readiness downstairs. “In the lean-to at the back of the house.”
“Let us go there.”
What, did he take her for a fool? “Not before your man comes back. I will not have anyone wandering about up here alone. For all I know, the fellow may steal something.”
For a first time, a thin smile crossed the Frenchman’s lips. “Have no fear, mademoiselle, we are men with honour. But we will await him, if that is your wish.”
To her relief, he moved across and engaged in a low-voiced conversation with the other man.
The chest had been forgotten! It was the only uncertainty she had, and it took all her resolution not to cross the room and stand before it, in case Jemima had not thought to conceal whatever she had thrown in there underneath the clean linen.
Footsteps coming down informed them Augustin had finished searching upstairs. At the door, he gave a gesture indicating failure. Loriot nodded and came towards Grace again. Etienne began to follow, and then abruptly turned and crossed swiftly to the chest. Grace held her breath.
The lid was lifted. The man’s eyes swept its length within. One hand went down, rummaged, and came out again. The lid dropped with a thud and Etienne straightened up. Grace let her breath go.
“Shall I lead the way?”
The clatter from the lean-to, sounding as they came down the stairs, was accompanied by Jemima’s high-pitched singing. Grace hid a smile. They were obviously ready, which was a relief, but the danger of the undertaking threw waves of horrid sickness into her stomach.
She took her time, clumping down the stairs with her dot-and-carry step, and taking satisfaction in the impatience she could feel above her.
It was especially noticeable as the noise from below grew, accompanied by murmurs in French above, which got louder with the augmentation of Jemima’s performance.
This ceased upon Grace opening the door to the back of the house, to be replaced with a cheery greeting: “Almost done with your undergarments, Miss Grace, and then I’ll get to them sheets. As well to have them —”
The maid broke off artistically as the Frenchmen began crowding in behind Grace, who moved to the open outside door. It was a scene of workmanlike domesticity.
On a little stool sat Jemima, sleeves rolled up and a voluminous apron over her black stuff gown, her hands immersed in the tub bubbling with soapy water, which was set between her spread knees.
A washboard was sticking out of one side, and a profusion of whites were semi-visible, apparently in the process of being pummelled clean.
All about the floor, in the space between where Jemima sat and the stove behind, sprawled a huge pile of rumpled sheets.
Grace’s heart was thudding as she kept her eyes on the three intruders, desperately hoping, from the one swift glance she had been able to cast over them, that the sheets adequately hid Henri’s body, crouched and folded somehow into the confined space.
Almost as he had lain that very morning, after these dreadful men had nearly succeeded in murdering him. He had come full circle.
“Bless me!” uttered Jemima with well-feigned astonishment. “What are they Frenchies doing here?”
Pulling herself together, Grace thrust down on her panic. She made her voice as bitter as she could. “Searching the house.”
The maid blinked at her, and turned bewildered eyes upon the Frenchmen. “Searching the house? Whatever for, Miss Grace?”
Loriot’s sharp gaze had spotted the privy.
In order to move fully into the lean-to, he was obliged to stand nearly up against the side of the tub, from where he ordered Augustin to search it.
The stocky Frenchman squeezed past and tugged open the privy door.
He shut it again after one cursory glance, and shook his head.
The leader turned on Grace. “Allow us to come outside, if you please. We will look in the back.”
Grace shifted out of the back door with alacrity.
Anything to remove them from the dangerous lean-to!
All three men came out, and a swift search was made of the surrounding area, checking behind each of the five trees close by, Etienne and Augustin plunging into the wheatfields that stretched northwards from their beginning some distance away from the back yard of the little house.
It was conceivable a fugitive might have escaped outside and hidden in the little central copse or down behind the bushes separating one field from another.
Grace waited by the door, urging Jemima in an under-voice to continue with her washing. She dared not speak aloud to Henri.
Loriot was the first to return. He approached her, looking sour. “Show me where you found him.”
She moved into the lean-to and pointed behind Jemima. “He was lying by the stove there, where the sheets are.”
Fearing he might ask Jemima to move so he could take a closer look, Grace kept talking, volunteering as much information as she dared to discourage him from taking further action.