There was a wistfulness to her tone that made Léonie wonder if perhaps Isolde felt, as their mother had done, something of an unwelcome guest rather than the rightful chatelaine of the Domaine de la Cade.
‘You work in newspapers?’ Isolde was asking Anatole.
Anatole shook his head. ‘Not for some time. The life of a journalist did not suit me: domestic disputes, the Algerian conflict, the latest election crisis at the Académie des Beaux-Arts; I found it dispiriting to be forced to consider matters that did not interest me in the slightest, so I threw in my hand. Now, although I write the odd review for La Revue Blanche and La Revue Contemporaine, mostly I pursue my literary endeavours in a less commercial arena.’
‘Anatole is on the editorial board of a magazine for collectors, antique editions and such like,’ Léonie said.
Isolde smiled and turned her attention back to Léonie. ‘I must say again how delighted I was you felt able to accept my invitation. I feared a month in the country might seem rather dull after the excitements of Paris.’
‘One can be just as easily bored in Paris,’ Léonie replied charmingly. ‘Too often I am obliged to spend my time at tedious soirées listening to widows and old maids complaining of how things were so much better under the Emperor. I prefer to read!’
‘Léonie is une lectrice assidue,’ Anatole smiled. ‘Always has her nose in a book. Although her reading matter is often rather, how shall I put it, sensationalist! Not to my taste at all. Ghost stories and Gothic horrors . . .’
‘We are fortunate enough to have here a splendid library here. My late husband was an avid historian and was interested in other less usual . . .’ Isolde broke off, as if searching for the appropriate word. ‘More select matters of study, shall we say.’ She hesitated again. Léonie looked at her with interest, but Isolde said nothing more about what these matters might be. ‘There are many first editions and rare volumes,’ she continued, ‘which I am certain will be of interest to you, Anatole, as well as a good selection of novels and back editions of Le Petit Journal that might appeal to you, Léonie. Please, treat the collection as if it were your own.’
It was now just short of seven o’clock. In the shade of the tall chestnut trees, the sun had all but gone from the terrace, and the shadows were stretching across the far edges of the lawn. Isolde rang a small silver bell that sat beside her on the table.
Marieta appeared immediately.
‘Has Pascal returned with the luggage?’
‘Some time ago, Madama.’
‘Good. Léonie, I have put you in the Yellow Room. Anatole, you have the Anjou Suite, at the front of the house. It faces north, but it is a pleasant room for all that.’
‘I’m certain it will be most comfortable,’ he said.
‘Since we have eaten so well at tea, and I thought you might both wish to retire early tonight after the rigours of the journey from Paris, I have not arranged for us to dine formally this evening. Please feel at liberty to ring for anything you need. It has become my custom to have a nightcap in the drawing room at nine o’clock. If you would care to join me, I would be delighted.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Léonie added.
They all three rose to their feet.
‘I thought I might take a stroll around the gardens before dusk. Smoke a cigarette?’ said Anatole.
Léonie saw some reaction flare in Isolde’s still grey eyes.
‘If it is not too much of an imposition, may I suggest you save your exploration of the Domaine until the morning. It will be dark soon. I would not wish to have to send out a search party for you on your very first evening.’
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then, to Léonie’s astonishment, rather than object to this restriction on his freedom, Anatole smiled, as if at some private joke. He took Isolde’s hand and raised it to his lips. Perfectly correct, perfectly courteous.
And yet.
‘Of course, Tante, whatever you wish,’ said Anatole. ‘I am your servant.’
CHAPTER 25
Having taken her leave of her brother and her aunt, Léonie followed Marieta up the staircase and along the first-floor passageway that ran the length of the house. The maid paused to indicate to her the location of the water closet and, adjacent to it, a spacious bathroom, in the centre of which stood a huge copper bath, before continuing to her bedroom.
‘The Yellow Room, Madomaisèla,’ said Marieta, standing back to allow Léonie to enter. ‘Hot water is on the washstand. Is there anything else you need?’
‘Everything looks most satisfactory.’
The maid bobbed and withdrew.
Léonie looked around with pleasure at the room that was to be her home for the next four weeks. It was a well-appointed chamber, both handsome and comfortable, overlooking the lawns to the south of the property. The window was open, and from below, she could hear the quiet chink of crockery and china as the servants cleared the table.
The walls were covered in a delicate paper of pink and purple flowers, matching the curtains and linen, which gave an impression of light despite the deep hues of the mahogany furniture. The bed - quite the largest Léonie had ever seen - sat like an Egyptian barge in the centre of the room, its ornate head and footboards polished and gleaming. Beside it sat a claw-footed armoire on which stood a candle in a brass holder, a glass, and a jug of water covered with an embroidered white napkin to keep away the flies. Her workbox had also been placed there, together with her book of cartridge papers and painting accoutrements. Her travelling easel was propped up against the armoire on the floor.
Léonie crossed the room to a tall wardrobe. The surround was carved in the same elaborate Egyptian style and there were two long mirrors set into the doors, which reflected the room behind her. She opened the right-hand door, setting the hangers rattling on the rail, to look at her petticoats, afternoon dresses, evening gowns and jackets hanging arranged in neat rows. Everything had been unpacked.
In the large chest of drawers beside the closet she found her undergarments and smaller articles of clothing, camisoles, corsets, blouses, stockings, folded neatly in the deep, heavy drawers that smelled of fresh lavender.
The fireplace was on the wall facing the door, and above it, a mirror with a mahogany frame. In the centre of the mantelpiece was a gilt and porcelain Sèvres clock much like the one in the drawing room at home.
Léonie removed her dress, cotton lisle stockings, combinations and corset, draping garments across the carpet and armchair. In her chemise and undergarments, she poured the steaming water from the jug into the basin. She washed her face and hands, then dabbed under her arms and in the hollow between her breasts. When she had finished, she pulled her blue cashmere dressing gown from where it had been hung on a heavy brass hook on the back of the door, then sat down at the dressing table in front of the middle of the three long casement windows.
Pin by metal pin, she undid her unruly copper hair, letting it fall loose to her slender waist, then tilted the looking glass towards her and began to brush in wide, long strokes until it lay unravelled like a skein of silk down her back.
Out of the corner of her eye, a movement in the gardens below snagged her attention.
‘Anatole,’ she muttered, fearing that perhaps her brother had decided to ignore Isolde’s request that he remain inside after all.
Hoping he had done so.
Pushing the unworthy sentiment from her mind, Léonie replaced her hairbrush on the dressing table and slipped round to stand before the centre window. The last vestiges of day had all but bade farewell to the sky. As her eyes became accustomed to the dusk, she noticed another movement, this time at the far boundary of the lawns by the high box hedge, beyond the ornamental lake.
Now she could clearly see a figure. He was bare-headed and had a furtive walk, every few steps turning and glancing behind him, as if he thought he was being followed.
A trick of the light?
The figure disappeared into the shadows.
Léonie fancied she heard a church bell toll in the valley below, a thin and mournful single note, but when she strained to listen, the only sounds she could distinguish were those of the countryside at dusk. The whispering of the wind in the trees and the mixed twilight chorus of birdsong. Then the piercing shriek of an owl preparing for a night’s hunting.
Realising the exposed skin on her arms was covered in goosebumps, Léonie finally shut the casement and withdrew. After a moment’s hesitation, she drew the curtains. The figure had almost certainly been one of the gardeners, the worse for drink, or a boy on a dare taking an illicit short cut across the lawns, but there was something distasteful about the spectacle, threatening. In truth, she was uncomfortable to have witnessed it. She felt disturbed by what she had seen.
The silence of the room was disturbed, suddenly, by a sharp rap on the door.
‘Who is it?’ she cried.
‘C’est moi,’ Anatole called back. ‘Are you decent? May I come in?’
‘Attend, j’arrive.’
Léonie fastened her robe and smoothed her hair from her face, surprised to find her hands were shaking.
‘Whatever is wrong?’ he said, when she opened the door. ‘You sounded quite alarmed.’
‘I am fine,’ she snapped.
‘Are you sure, petite? You’re as white as a sheet.’
‘You were not out walking on the lawns?’ she asked suddenly. ‘No more than a few minutes past?’
Anatole shook his head. ‘I did remain on the terrace for a few moments after you had withdrawn, but for no longer than the time it took to smoke a cigarette. Why?’
‘I . . . ’ Léonie began, then reconsidered. ‘Never mind. It doesn’t matter.’
He tipped her clothes to the floor and took possession of the armchair.
Probably just one of the stable boys.
Anatole fished his cigarette case and his box of wax Vestas from his pocket and put them on the table.
‘Not in here,’ pleaded Léonie. ‘Your tobacco is noxious stuff.’
He shrugged, then reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small blue pamphlet.
‘Here. I have brought you something to help pass the time.’
He strolled across the room, handed the monograph to her, and then sat back in the chair.
‘Voilà,’ he said. ‘Diables et Esprits Maléfiques et Phantômes de la Montagne.’
Léonie wasn’t listening. Her eyes darted once more in the direction of the window. Wondering if whatever she had seen was still out there.
‘Are you certain you are all right? You really are awfully pale.’
Anatole’s voice drew her back. Léonie looked down at the volume in her hand, as if wondering how it had got to be there.
‘I am fine,’ she snapped, embarrassed. ‘Whatever manner of book is it?’
‘Haven’t a clue. Looks quite dreadful, but it seems your sort of thing! Found it gathering dust in the library. The author is someone Isolde intends to invite to supper on Saturday night, a Monsieur Audric Baillard. There are passages about the Domaine de la Cade. It appears there are all sorts of stories about devils, evil spirits and ghosts associated with this region, particularly this estate, stretching back to the religious wars of the seventeenth century.’ He smiled across at her.
Léonie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘And what spurred you to this act of generosity?’
‘Can a brother not, out of the goodness of his heart, undertake an act of random kindness for his sister?’
‘Certain brothers, indeed, yes. But you?’
He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Very well, I confess I thought it might keep you out of mischief.’
Anatole ducked as Léonie threw a pillow at him.
‘Missed,’ he laughed. ‘Very poor shot.’ He swept up his cigarette case and matches from the table, sprang to his feet and within a matter of strides was at the door. ‘Let me know how you get on with Monsieur Baillard. I think we should accept Isolde’s invitation to join her for drinks later in the drawing room. Yes?’
‘Do you not think it odd that there is to be no dinner this evening?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you have an appetite?’
‘Well, no. I do not, but even—’
Anatole put his finger to his lips. ‘Well then, shush.’ He opened the door. ‘Enjoy the book, petite. I shall expect a full report later.’
Léonie listened to his whistling and the firm tread of his boots getting fainter and fainter as he made his way along the passage to his own room.
Then, the closing of another door. Peace descended upon the house once more.
Léonie fetched the pillow from where it had fallen and climbed up on to the bed. She drew up her knees, settled herself comfortably, and opened the book.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour.
CHAPTER 26
PARIS
The fashionable streets and boulevards were smothered in a thick brown twilight. The quartiers perdus, the down-at-heel neighbourhoods, the alleyways and labyrinthine network of apartments and slums, also gasped for breath in the polluted dusk.
The mercury plummeted. The air was grown cold.
Buildings and people, trams and landaus, seemed to loom out of the shadows, appearing and then disappearing again like phantoms. The awnings of the cafés on the rue d’Amsterdam were flapping in the blustering wind, plunging like tethered horses trying to break free. On the Grands Boulevards, the branches of the trees shook.
Leaves skimmed and danced along the pavements of the 9th arrondissement and the green paths of the Parc Monceau. No hopscotch, no game of grandmother’s footsteps; the children were all snug inside the embassy buildings. The new telegraph wires of the Post Office began to vibrate and sing, and the tram rails to whistle.
At seven thirty, the fog gave way to rain. It fell, as cold and grey as iron filings, slowly at first, then heavier and faster. Servants closed the shutters of apartments and houses with a clatter. In the 8th arrondissement, those still outside sought refuge from the impending tempest, ordered beer and absinthe and quarrelled over the few remaining tables inside at the Café Wéber on the rue Royale. The beggars and chiffonniers with no homes to go to sought shelter beneath the bridges and railway arches.
In the rue de Berlin, Marguerite Vernier lay on the chaise longue in her apartment. One white arm was folded beneath her head, the other was draped over the side of the divan, her fingers trailing the carpet like a dreamy girl in a summertime boat. The lightest of touches. Only the tinge of blue on her lips, the purple bruising like a collar around her jaw, the ugly bracelet of congealed blood on her abused wrist all betrayed the fact that she was not sleeping.
Like Tosca, like Emma Bovary, like Prosper Mérimée’s doomed heroine, Carmen, Marguerite was beautiful in death. The knife, the blade stained red by its task, lay beside her hand as if it had dropped from her dying fingers.
Victor Constant was insensible to her presence. She had ceased to exist for him the instant he had realised he had obtained as much as he would from her.
Save the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, all was silent.
Save the pool of light cast by the single candle, all was darkness.
Constant buttoned his trousers and lit a Turkish cigarette, then took a seat at the dining table to examine the journal his manservant had found in Vernier’s nightstand.
‘Get me a brandy.’
With his own knife, a Nontron blade with a yellow handle, Constant cut the string, then unfolded the waxed brown paper and lifted out a royal-blue pocket notebook. The journal was a record of Vernier’s day-to-day personal activities for the year: the salons he had frequented; a list of debts, recorded neatly in two columns and scored through when the obligation had been met; mention of a brief flirtation with the occultists in the cold early months of the year, as a buyer of books rather than an acolyte; purchases made, such as an umbrella, and a limited edition of Cinq Poèmes from Edmond Bailly’s booksho
p in the rue de la Chaussée d’Antin.
Constant was not interested in the tedious domestic details and he flicked quickly through, scanning the pages looking for dates or references that might give him the information he wished for.
He was looking for details of the affair between Vernier and the only woman he had loved. He still could not bring himself even to think her name, let alone speak it. On the 31st of October of last year she had told him their relationship must end. Before, indeed, their liaison was worthy of the word. He had taken her reluctance for modesty and had not pressed her. His shock had yielded instantly to uncontrolled rage and he had all but killed her. Indeed, he might have done so had not her cries been overheard by neighbours in the adjoining building.