The Red Necklace

  “You find me at a disadvantage, sir,” he said, bowing.

  Mr. Laxton handed him his card and Mr. Trippen read it with interest. The word banker danced before him.

  “I believe that you have a young man staying with you who goes by the name of Yann Margoza.”

  “I have that privilege, sir, and a finer and more talented young person I have yet to meet.”

  “I take it, then, he is not here?”

  “No sir, he has taken the young Trippens out for the benefits of fresh air and—”

  Mr. Laxton interrupted him. “The young man is in my charge.”

  “Of course, sir. I am in no way kidnapping him, I can assure you of that. By Jupiter, sir, he saved my life! A brave one is that boy, sir, a young Hamlet, indeed a Henry the Fifth on the battlefield of Agincourt.”

  With many theatrical gestures that near exhausted him, Mr.Trippen related what had happened in Covent Garden. Henry Laxton found himself warming to the actor, and an idea came to him.

  “I am unfortunate, Mr. Trippen, in that unlike you I am not a father.”

  “Three girls, and one son and heir.”

  “You are a lucky man indeed. I wish my wife and I had been so blessed. I wonder, sir, if I might confide in you?”

  “By all means! Discretion is my middle name.”

  Mr. Laxton told the actor as much as he thought he needed to know about Yann’s background and the death of Têtu.

  “He was placed in my care. I found him a tutor, a Mr. Rose, who, unknown to me, saw fit to try and beat the spirit out of him.”

  “I should think his petals were sent flying.”

  “Knocked out cold,” said Mr. Laxton, smiling at the memory of all the chaos Yann had caused.

  Mr. Trippen clapped his hands with delight. “In my humble experience, the cane only teaches the child to loathe the tutor, despise the lesson, and scorn all the benefits that education might bring.”

  “I entirely agree,” said Mr. Laxton. “Tell me, how would you go about teaching such a boy as Yann?”

  “I would never keep him tied to a desk. That way nothing would be learned. No, I would show him London, take him to galleries, the theater; fire his imagination. Then when it caught I would tell him about the magic of books. Never let him become bored, sir.”

  Mr. Laxton listened while taking in the lack of any furniture.

  “Forgive me,” said Mr. Trippen, suddenly changing the subject and looking dejected. “You catch the great Touchstone at a considerable embarrassment.” He waved his hand around the room by way of explanation.

  “Have you just moved here, and are waiting for your possessions to arrive, or are you in the process of leaving?” asked Mr. Laxton.

  “Neither, sir,” said Mr. Trippen. “I am between tides, so to speak. You know the expression ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men.’ In my case the tide was not taken. I was recently given the opportunity to be a full-time tutor. I turned it down, believing the stage to be my one and only true calling. A foolish moment. Now, alas, debt’s dagger hangs over me.”

  “I have a proposition to put to you,” said Mr. Laxton, “and if the idea suits, it may be one way out of your little difficulty with the debt and may help me with the boy.”

  “Sir,” said Mr. Trippen, sitting bolt upright, “I am all ears.”

  Yann returned with the little Trippens to find the house remarkably quiet. The girls ran upstairs giggling, followed by Yann carrying the sleeping baby, and entered the room to see their parents seated on boxes, both looking solemnly ahead of them as if they were in church on Sunday, their attention held by a gentleman who was leaning on the mantelpiece. It was Mr. Laxton.

  Yann stood there feeling stupid and embarrassed, as Mr. Trippen ushered his little family out of the room and left them together. He was thinking so hard about what to say that it took him a moment to realize that Mr. Laxton was already talking.

  “I owe you an apology, Yann. I underestimated you. I didn’t understand what Mr. Cordell meant when he said Têtu had told him you were talented. It was my stupidity not to see that straightaway.”

  Whatever Yann had been expecting to hear, this was most definitely not it. Mr. Laxton’s kindness floored him. He looked up and was amazed to see genuine concern in the man’s tired face.

  Finally Yann said what he had thought he would never admit to anyone, least of all to Mr. Laxton.

  “I bitterly regret leaving as I did. My only excuse is that I thought you would be better off without me.”

  Mr. Laxton sat down on an upturned box with his feet spread out before him. He leaned on his gold-topped cane.

  “You could not be more mistaken if you tried. I have been out all night looking for you.”

  “Mrs. Laxton called me a Gypsy.”

  “She meant no harm by it. She is as desperate as I am for you to come home.”

  “What did Mr. Cordell tell you about me?”

  “Just that you were brought up by a dwarf called Têtu, traveling round France and working in theaters.”

  Yann nodded. “So you know nothing more?”

  “I know nothing about your parentage. I wrote to Cordell asking for more information, and had a letter from him describing how he saw the show you performed with Topolain and the People’s Pierrot. He was fascinated by the way the Pierrot could walk and talk, and particularly by the way it could read people’s minds. He said that Têtu had told him the success of the performance was all due to your talent.”

  “That was nothing,” said Yann. “Têtu did most of the work. But I used to be able to read minds. The gift left me the day Têtu died. Now all I can do is throw my voice and perform a few simple magic tricks.”

  “Grief can strip one of all sorts of powers. I am sure it will come back in time.”

  “I feel it’s gone forever,” said Yann.

  “Let’s hope not. I think you should know that Têtu’s body was never found.”

  “But I left him lying in the snow, in the courtyard where he was shot!”

  “Yes, the proprietor of the hotel said as much. She went to get help and when she returned, she found only a bloodstain where the body had been.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. Maybe . . . maybe he’s not dead after all.”

  “I doubt it. The man who shot him must have removed the body.”

  “But he just might still be alive. I must go back and find out what happened,” said Yann.

  “If that’s what you want, then I will, of course, make the arrangements. But before you decide, I must tell you this. Têtu risked a great deal to get you here. If he is alive, his survival will only be assured by no one finding him, especially not you.”

  Yann felt as if he stood at a crossroads. One path he knew well, and one appeared too dimly lit for him to see where it led. Looking at the two of them he knew which one he was going to take. “I will try my best not to let you down, sir.”

  “Good, that’s all anyone can do,” said Mr. Laxton, looking mightily relieved. “Then we have an understanding.”

  Before Yann could say another word, the door burst open and Mr. Trippen entered, his arms spread out wide.

  “At last the tide has turned! A wise decision, sir,” he said, violently shaking Yann’s hand, “a wise decision.”

  Yann looked baffled.

  And Mr. Laxton said, “I took the opportunity of asking Mr. Trippen to be one of your tutors.”

  “Will that suit, sir?” said Mr. Trippen, looking anxiously at Yann. “If it won’t, I will not force the point. It would gladden the heart of Touchstone to be of help to a fellow thespian. Clowns are often wiser than the cleverest of men. Not for nothing do jesters keep kings company.”

  Yann burst out laughing. “And you can get the furniture back.”

  “It’s already settled,” said Mr. Laxton.

  "Yes,” said Yann, “then it will suit very well indeed.”

  chapter fourteen

  The Marquis de Villeduval’s response to the growing
political turmoil in France was to build a garden surrounded by a high wall. The garden was designed to enhance the beauty of his new château. He had employed numerous draftsmen, architects, and gardeners, and insisted that all his tenant farmers abandon their work in the fields to bring the elaborate project to life.

  As part of the grand plan the marquis ordered the removal of a small, inconvenient hill that blocked the view from the château. The farmers, whose wheat fields he had confiscated, came cap in hand to beg him to leave it be. It was a sacred mound. To disturb it would mean spoiled crops, diseased animals, ruin and starvation.

  This was not the first time a peasant delegation had annoyed him with saints and superstitions. The same thing had happened when he cleared the forest around his château in Normandy to make way for a park. That time they had warned him not to touch the ancient trees that belonged to the spirits of the earth and were guarded by the Gypsies. They said that misfortune would overtake him if he cut down a single one.

  The marquis was determined to clear his land of the Gypsies, whom he held solely responsible for these nonsensical and irrational ideas, so one winter’s day he set off in pursuit of them, with a group that included Count Kalliovski.

  The party soon came across a Gypsy family fleeing through the woods. The marquis had thought to have them rounded up and transported. The count, however, had an altogether more immediate solution. The marquis, who had not quite the count’s taste for blood, watched from a respectable distance, and the servants looked on in horror, as Kalliovski personally killed each and every one with less mercy than he would have shown a fox.

  The dead bodies were left hanging in the trees like grotesque baubles, an example to all those who put store in old wives’ tales instead of having a proper respect for reason and authority.

  The small hill was duly removed. A long line of horses and carts went plodding back and forth, antlike in their industry. Then a lake was dug out and filled with water diverted from the surrounding irrigation ditches. When one of the farmers asked how they were now supposed to water the crops, the marquis replied irritably that he expected them to solve agricultural problems themselves, not bother him.

  At one end of the lake a Grecian pavilion was constructed, and from it grassy paths led to fountains and fishponds. The marquis imagined himself wandering through groves of linden trees, where birdsong followed his every step and flowers complemented the colors of his clothes. Oh, here he would be in perfect harmony with nature, in a paradise entirely of his own making. That the cost of this paradise would bring him to financial ruin was something he chose to ignore.

  The task of telling him the true state of his financial affairs fell to the long-suffering Maître Tardieu, trusted adviser to the Villeduval family for over thirty years. In that time he had served both father and son, and after the old marquis’s death he had watched with growing dismay as the family’s fortune was mercilessly squandered.

  Every time Maître Tardieu brought up the question of monies owed, the marquis’s solution was to raise rents, regardless of the ability of his tenants to pay them. And if that did not bring in the required sums, he simply borrowed more from the count. In vain did Maître Tardieu try to explain that there would come a time when the count would want something in return.

  And now it seemed that the day of reckoning had arrived. On the morning of the fourteenth of July, Maître Tardieu received a letter from the count for the attention of the marquis. It was written in white ink on black paper with three words inscribed in red at the bottom and embossed with a deep red seal. Maître Tardieu knew that he must inform the marquis of its contents immediately.

  The elderly lawyer looked not unlike a mole with his thick round spectacles stuck firmly on the end of his nose. They were besmeared with the grime of ages, and gave everything he viewed a tinge of gray. His waistcoat and breeches were of molelike black velvet and to complete the picture he lived in a small house down a covered passageway where candles were needed both night and day.

  He called for his carriage while Madame Tardieu, terrified by the idea of her husband traveling when Paris was in such turmoil, pleaded with him not to go.

  “Chéri, please,” she begged. “Look at what happened yesterday. The people are arming themselves. What if the king’s soldiers come into the city while you are away? There will be fighting in the streets. We shall all be killed.” She crossed herself.

  “Stay calm, my dear,” said Maître Tardieu. “I shall be back before nightfall. You are to stay indoors and not set foot outside, my pet.”

  She watched from the safety of the front door, her small, anxious face peering out to see her husband make his way out of the passage into the bright, alarming sunlight as an angry crowd grudgingly let him climb into his carriage.

  With the curtains drawn, Maître Tardieu sat back in his seat as the carriage rumbled through Paris. Twice, men with cockades in their hats and brandishing pitchforks stopped the carriage and demanded that Maître Tardieu get out while they searched it for firearms. It was with a great sigh of relief that he finally arrived outside the wall that encircled Paris, and set out on the road to Versailles.

  The journey gave MaîtreTardieu time to reflect on the past, and he felt a profound sadness when he thought of the late marquis. He had lost his adored younger son, Armand. His elder son, mean-spirited and extravagant, had always been a trial to him. He would turn in his grave to know of the present marquis’s current debts. Maître Tardieu remembered how appalled the old marquis had been to see the indifference with which his son greeted the news of his wife’s death.

  When Maître Tardieu finally arrived, he was greeted by a valet and shown into an antechamber. Here he was made to wait for a further hour and a half, without refreshment, before the marquis deigned to receive him. Even then he refused to talk business until he had first shown the lawyer around his grounds. The marquis, parasol in hand, sauntered lazily along the grassy avenues, stepping with care to avoid getting the silk bows on his shoes dirty.

  If there was beauty here it was lost on Maître Tardieu, who was limping by the time they reached the Grecian pavilion that overlooked the lake. He saw it as a mournful place, the afternoon sun casting a leaden light over the water.

  Maître Tardieu tried to raise the question of the letter, but the marquis strolled on, put out that the lawyer seemed so unappreciative of his enterprise and the beauties on offer.

  “Have you noticed that the flowers match the colors of the bows on my shoes?”

  To the tired eyes of Maître Tardieu, all looked gray and dead.

  The marquis now said that he never discussed business in the afternoon, but was prepared to listen to the lawyer’s concerns over supper. With a sigh Maître Tardieu resigned himself to having to spend the night at the château, and sent the coachman back to Paris with a message for his wife.

  While the marquis was resting, Maître Tardieu took the opportunity to talk to the steward and to examine the household accounts. He was appalled to discover just how much money the marquis had spent on the garden. Not only had there been the designers, the hothouses, and the rare flowers and shrubs to pay for, but the marquis had had a network of secret tunnels built under the flower beds so that the gardeners could crawl down them each morning and discreetly change the flowers to match his outfit. The birdsong that followed his every step came from aviaries strategically hidden behind the greenery. Such folly came at a high price.

  What shocked Maître Tardieu even more was what he learned about Sido. Apparently she had been confined to her chamber for the past seven months—why, he could not fathom. The marquis’s valet, by way of explanation, said his master viewed her as an inconvenience. Maybe it was this, and the remembrance of what she had meant to her grandfather, that finally made Maître Tardieu decide to throw caution to the winds and to speak his mind, whatever the outcome.

  At last the lawyer and the marquis sat down to dine, the marquis at the head of the long table. Maître Tardieu was used
to plain food and was quite overcome by the pomp and ceremony of this meal and the many dishes on offer. Five footmen stood in attendance. The room was ablaze with candles, even though it was still light outside.

  "Sir,” Maître Tardieu said, “as you know, I have come at some considerable inconvenience—”

  “If you have come here to tell me any more ridiculous tales about the disturbances in Paris,” the marquis interrupted, “I am not interested. The whole situation has been grossly exaggerated.”

  At the word exaggerated, a candle blew out and a footman came forward to relight it.

  “No, no, no!” shouted the marquis, bringing down his bejeweled hand on the table. “How many times must I tell you? Always use a new candle, never relight an old one.”

  Again Maître Tardieu tried to speak. Again his host interrupted him. “Did I tell you that very amusing story about the duchess and the writing desk?”

  Maître Tardieu sighed. “Please, sir, I beg you, we must talk.”

  “I see,” said the marquis, “that you are determined to be dull. In that case, let us have some champagne.” He snapped his fingers at a footman. “Politics is such a flat affair.”

  In desperation Maître Tardieu decided to force his employer to pay attention. He took the letter from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to one of the footmen to give to the marquis.

  “What is this?” said the marquis, waving the letter away. “Do you intend to ruin my digestion?”

  “It is from Count Kalliovski.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, read it to me if you must.”

  “Perhaps, sir, it would be better if the letter were read in private.”

  “We are in private.”

  “Forgive me, but we have in this room a butler and five footmen who can hear every word I am about to say.”

  “Don’t be absurd, man. They are merely here to serve me and have no opinions of their own. They are less important than the furniture and definitely less valuable.”