The Yellow Room was pretty in the morning light. For a while, she lay in bed listening to the rare sounds that broke the deep silence of the countryside. The dawn songs of the birds, the wind in the trees. It was more pleasant by far than waking at home to a grey Parisian daybreak, the sounds of screeching metal from the Gare Saint-Lazare.
At eight o’clock, Marieta brought the breakfast tray. She placed it upon the table by the window, then drew the curtains, flooding the room with the first refracted rays of sunlight. Through the imperfect glass of the old casements, Léonie could see that the sky was bright and blue, flecked with trailing wisps of purple and white cloud.
‘Thank you, Marieta,’ she said. ‘I can manage.’
‘Very good, Madomaisèla.’
Léonie threw off the covers and swung her feet down to the carpet, finding her slippers. She took her blue cashmere dressing gown from the back of the door, splashed a little of last night’s water on her face, then sat down at the table in front of the window feeling sophisticated to be breakfasting alone, in her bedchamber. The only time she did so at home was when Du Pont was visiting M’man.
She lifted the lid on the pot of steaming coffee, releasing the delicious aroma of freshly roasted beans, like a genie from a lamp. Beside the silver pot stood a jug of frothy warm milk, a bowl of white sugar cubes and a pair of silver tongs. She lifted the pressed linen napkin to discover a plate of white bread, the golden crust warm to the touch, and a dish of creamy whipped butter. There were three different jams in individual china dishes and a bowl of quince and apple compote.
As she ate, she gazed out across the gardens. A white mist hung suspended over the valley between the hills, skimming the tops of the trees. The lawns lay peaceful and calm under the September sun, no evidence of the wind that had threatened the previous evening.
Léonie dressed in a plain woollen skirt and high-necked blouse, then picked up the book Anatole had brought for her last evening. She had a fancy to see the library for herself, investigate the dusty stacks and polished spines. If she were challenged - although she saw no reason why she should be, given that Isolde had asked them to treat the house as their own - she would have the excuse that she was returning Monsieur Baillard’s pamphlet.
She opened the door and stepped out into the passage. The rest of the household appeared to be sleeping. Everything was still. No rattle of coffee cups, no whistling from Anatole’s bedroom as he made his morning toilette, no sign of life at all. Downstairs, the hall also was deserted, although behind the pass door that led to the servants’ quarters she could hear the sound of voices and the distant clattering of pots in the kitchen.
The library occupied the southwest corner of the house and was accessed by means of a small passageway, tucked in between the drawing room and the door to the study. Indeed, Léonie was surprised that Anatole had stumbled upon it at all. There had been little time to explore yesterday afternoon.
The corridor was bright and airy for all that and wide enough to accommodate several glass cases mounted upon the walls. The first displayed Marseille and Rouen china; the second a small, ancient cuirasse, two sabres, a foil that resembled Anatole’s favourite fencing weapon and a musket; the third case, smaller than the others, contained a selection of military medals and ribbons, laid out on blue velvet. There was nothing to indicate to whom they had been awarded or for what. Léonie presumed they belonged to their Oncle Jules.
She lifted the handle of the library door and slipped inside. Instantly, she felt the room’s peace and tranquillity - the smell of beeswax and honey and ink, dusty velvet and blotters. It was more generous in size than she had expected, and had a dual aspect with windows looking out to the south and the west. The curtains, fashioned from heavy gold and blue brocade, fell in folds from ceiling to floor.
The sound of her clipped heels was swallowed up by the thick oval rug that filled the centre of the room and upon which stood a pedestal table, large enough to accommodate even the most substantial volume. There was an inkwell and pen, beside a leather writing pad with a fresh blotter.
Léonie decided to start her exploration at the corner furthest from the door. She ran her eyes along each shelf in turn, reading the names on the spines, letting her fingers trail over the leather bindings, pausing from time to time when a particular volume caught her interest.
She came upon a beautiful missal with an ornate double clasp, printed in Tours, with rich green and gold endpapers and delicate, tissue-thin paper protecting the engravings. She read, upon the flyleaf, her late uncle’s name - Jules Lascombe - inscribed with the date of his confirmation.
In the next stack she discovered a first edition of Maistre’s Voyage autour de ma chambre. It was battered and dog-eared, unlike Anatole’s pristine copy at home. In another alcove she found a collection of both religious and fervently anti-religious texts, grouped together as if to cancel one another out.
In the section devoted to contemporary French literature, there was a complete set of Zola’s Rougon-Macquart novels, as well as Flaubert, Maupassant and Huysmans - indeed, many of the intellectually improving texts Anatole tried in vain to press upon her, even a first edition of Stendhal’s Le Rouge et le Noir. There were a few works in translation, but nothing entirely to her taste except for Baudelaire’s translations of Monsieur Poe. Nothing by Madame Radcliffe or Monsieur Le Fanu.
A dull collection.
In the furthest corner of the library, Léonie found herself in an alcove dedicated to books on local history, where, she presumed, Anatole had come upon Monsieur Baillard’s monograph. She found her spirits quickening as she stepped from the warmth and space of the main area into the confined, sombre stacks. The alcove harboured a damp mugginess that caught at the back of her throat.
She cast her eyes along the serried rows of spines and covers until she reached the letter ‘B’. There was no obviously vacant space. Puzzled, she squeezed the slim volume in where she believed it should go. Her task completed, she turned back towards the door.
Only then did she notice the three or four glass display cases high up on the wall to the right of the door, presumably to house the more valuable volumes. A set of wooden sliding steps was attached to a brass rail. Léonie took hold of the contraption with both hands and pulled as hard as she could. The steps creaked and complained, but quickly surrendered. She slid them along the rail to the middle point, then, positioning the feet securely, folded them out and began to climb. Her taffeta petticoats rustled and caught between her legs.
She stopped on the second to top step. Bracing herself with her knees, she peered into the case. It was dark within, but by cupping her hands over the glass to shield her eyes from the light from the two tall windows, she could see just enough to enable her to read the titles upon the spines.
The first was Dogme et rituel de la haute magie by Eliphas Lévi. Next to it was a volume entitled Traité Méthodique de Science Occulte. On the shelf above, several writings by Papus, Court de Gébelin, Etteilla and MacGregor Mathers. She had never read such authors, but knew they were occultist writers and considered subversive. Their names appeared regularly in the columns of newspapers and periodicals.
Léonie was on the point of descending when her attention was caught by a large, plain volume bound in black leather, less gaudy and ostentatious than the rest, displayed facing outwards. Her uncle’s name was written upon the cover in gold embossed letters beneath the title: Les Tarots.
CHAPTER 35
PARIS
By the time a smoggy and hesitant dawn broke over the offices of the Commissariat of Police of the 8th arrondissement in the rue de Lisbonne, tempers were already frayed.
The body of a woman identified as Madame Marguerite Vernier had been discovered shortly after nine o’clock on the evening of Sunday 20th September. The news had been telephoned in from one of the new public booths on the corner of the rue de Berlin and the rue d’Amsterdam by a reporter from Le Petit Journal.
Given the decease
d woman was associated with a war hero, General Du Pont, Prefect Laboughe had been summoned back from his country residence to take command.
In high ill-humour, he strode through the outer office and dropped a pile of early editions on to Inspector Thouron’s desk.
Carmen Murder! War Hero Detained! Lovers’ Quarrel Leads to Knife Death!
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Laboughe thundered.
Thouron stood and murmured a respectful greeting, then removed the other papers from the single vacant chair in the cramped and fuggy room, feeling Laboughe’s simmering eyes on him. When it was done, the Prefect removed his silk top hat, and sat down, perching his hands on his cane. The wooden back of the chair creaked under his impressive weight but did not give way.
‘Well, Thouron?’ he demanded, once the Inspector had returned to his seat. ‘How did they get so many inside details? One of your men got a loose tongue?’
Inspector Thouron bore all the marks of a man who had seen daybreak without experiencing the luxury of his own bed. He had smudged dark shadows, like half-moons, beneath his eyes. His moustache drooped and there was stubble on his chin.
‘I don’t believe so, sir,’ he said. ‘The reporters were already there before we arrived on the night in question.’
Laboughe stared at him from beneath white bushy eyebrows. ‘Tipped off?’
‘It appears so.’
‘By whom?’
‘No one will say. One of my gendarmes overheard a conversation between two of the vultures suggesting that at least two of the newspaper offices received a communication at approximately seven o’clock on Sunday evening intimating that it would be an expedient measure to dispatch a reporter to the rue de Berlin.’
‘The exact address? Apartment number?’
‘Again, they would not disclose that information, sir, but I assume so.’
Prefect Laboughe clenched his old blue-veined hands on the ivory head of his cane. ‘General Du Pont? Does he deny he and Marguerite Vernier were lovers?’
‘He does not, although he has requested assurances that we will be discreet in the matter.’
‘Which you gave?’
‘I did, sir. The General most vigorously denies killing her. Similar explanation to that offered by the journalistes. Claims that a note was passed to him as he came out of a lunchtime concert, postponing their assignation on the afternoon in question from five o’clock until later in the evening. They were due to travel to the Marne Valley this morning for a few days in the country. The servants were all dismissed for the duration. The apartment was certainly prepared for an absence.’
‘Does Du Pont still have the note in his possession?’
Thouron sighed. ‘Out of respect for the lady’s reputation, or so he says, he claims he tore up the missive and threw it away outside the concert hall.’Thouron dropped his elbows to the desk as he ran tired fingers through his hair. ‘I set a man on to it straight away, but the cleaners in that arrondissement had been surprisingly assiduous.’
‘Evidence of relations of an intimate nature prior to her death?’
Thouron nodded.
‘What does the fellow say to that?’
‘Shaken by the information, but held his composure. Not him, or so he says. Sticks to his story that he arrived to find her dead and a crowd of reporters milling around in the street outside.’
‘Was his arrival witnessed?’
‘At half past eight it was. The issue is whether or not he was there earlier in the evening. We have only his word that he was not.’
Laboughe shook his head. ‘General Du Pont,’ he muttered. ‘Well-connected . . . Always awkward.’ He peered at Thouron. ‘How did he get in?’
‘He has a latchkey.’
‘Other members of the household?’
Thouron burrowed into one of the teetering stacks of paper upon his desk, nearly upsetting an inkwell. He found the manila folder he wanted, and extracted from it a single sheet of paper.
‘Apart from the servants, there’s one son living there, Anatole Vernier, unmarried, aged twenty-six, an erstwhile journalist and littérateur, now on the board of some periodical dedicated to the subject of rare books, beaux livres, that manner of thing.’ He glanced down at his notes. ‘And one daughter, Léonie, seventeen, also unmarried and living at home.’
‘Have they been informed of their mother’s murder?’
Thouron sighed. ‘Unfortunately, they have not. We have not been able to locate them.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘It is believed they have gone to the country. My men have questioned the neighbours, but they know little. They left on Friday morning.’
Prefect Laboughe frowned, causing his white eyebrows to meet in the middle of his forehead. ‘Vernier? Why is that name familiar?’
‘Could be one of a number of reasons, sir. The father, Leo Vernier, was a Communard. Arrested and brought to trial, sentenced to deportation. Died in the galleys.’
Laboughe shook his head. ‘More recently than that.’
‘During the course of this year, Vernier fils has appeared in the newspapers on more than one occasion. Allegations of gambling, opium dens, whoring, but all unproven. A suggestion of immorality, if you like, rather than evidence of it.’
‘Some manner of smear campaign?’
‘There is a strong smell of that, yes, sir.’
‘Anonymous, I presume?’
Thouron nodded. ‘La Croix seems particularly to have had Vernier in its sights. They published, for example, an allegation that he had been involved in a duel on the Champs de Mars, admittedly as a second rather than as a principal, but even so . . . The newspaper printed times, dates, names. Vernier was able to prove he was elsewhere. He claimed to be ignorant as to who might be behind the slanders.’
Laboughe caught his tone. ‘You do not believe him?’
The Inspector looked sceptical. ‘Anonymous attacks are rarely that to those involved. Then on the twelfth of February last, he was implicated in a scandal involving the theft of a rare manuscript from the Bibliothèque de l’Arsenal.’
Laboughe slapped his knee. ‘That’s it. That is why the name’s familiar.’
‘Through his business activities, Vernier was a regular and trusted visitor. In February, after an anonymous tip-off, it was discovered that an extremely precious occultist text had gone missing.’ Thouron glanced down at his notes once more. ‘A work by a Robert Fludd.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Nothing was traced to Vernier and the matter revealed the rather inadequate security arrangements of the Bibliothèque, so the whole business was hushed up.’
‘Is Vernier one of those esoterists?’
‘It appears not, except in the course of his work as a collector. ’
‘Was he questioned?’
‘Again, yes. Again, it was a simple matter to prove he could not have been involved. And again, when he was asked if there were persons who might have some malicious intent toward him by suggesting otherwise, he said not. We had no choice but to let the matter drop.’
Laboughe was silent for a moment as he absorbed the information.
‘What about Vernier’s sources of income?’
‘Irregular,’ replied Thouron, ‘although by no means insignificant. He has some twelve thousand francs a year, from a variety of sources.’ He glanced down. ‘His position on the advisory board of the periodical, which pays him a retainer of some six thousand francs. Offices are in the rue Montorgueil. He supplements this with writing articles for other specialist magazines and journals and, no doubt, winnings at the rouge et noir tables and at cards.’
‘Any expectations?’
Thouron shook his head. ‘As a convicted Communard, his father’s assets were confiscated. Vernier père was an only child and his parents are long dead.’
‘And Marguerite Vernier?’
‘We are investigating. Neighbours knew of no close relatives, but we will see.’
??
?Does Du Pont make a contribution to the household expenses of the rue de Berlin?’
Thouron shrugged. ‘He claims not, although I doubt he is being entirely candid on that matter. Whether or not Vernier is party to these arrangements, I would not like to speculate.’
Laboughe shifted position, causing the chair to creak and complain. Thouron waited patiently while his superior considered the facts.
‘You said Vernier was unmarried,’ he said finally. ‘He has a mistress?’
‘He was involved with a woman. She died in March and was buried in the Cimetière de Montmartre. Medical records suggest that some two weeks previously she had undergone an operation at a clinic, the Maison Dubois.’