“If it is of any comfort, it was Mr. Tull who took you safely to London. Why should he not do the same for Mademoiselle Sido and her father?”
“I don’t know.”
“He must have gotten the necessary papers. Anyway, I can tell you this much: We would never have been able to get both of them out. The girl, maybe; the marquis, impossible.”
“I still feel uneasy.”
“Tell you what we’ll do. The minute we’re finished here I’ll get Didier to make inquiries for us as to Tull’s credentials, so that when you see Mademoiselle Sido tomorrow you can advise her what to do for the best.” He stopped walking and looked at Yann. “You will be seeing her tomorrow, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“Good, very good. You never know, by then she may have changed her mind and decided to go with you by herself.”
“I doubt it,” said Yann.
The lawyer’s house was near the Sorbonne, down a dingy covered passage off the rue St. Jacques. It was so dark that the lanterns hanging in the niches were all lit. Yann and Têtu stood there waiting in the gloom for the door to open, sensing eyes peeking out of all the buildings, spying on them. In the window of the shop opposite, a solitary candle dimly illuminated its macabre contents, waxwork heads stuck on pikes. One was of Louis XVI, another was of Marie Antoinette. Yann felt a shiver go down his spine.
"My word,” said Têtu. "A glimpse of what is to come.”
“Yes?” said the maid, opening the door.
"We have an appointment to see Maître Tardieu.”
The girl took them up a narrow, dark staircase that led to a room of miserable proportions. Lit only with a few candles, so used was this room to the perpetual gloom of twilight that the outside world seemed almost divorced from it.
The lawyer reminded Yann of a mole. He was dressed in a worn-out black velvet coat, his face gravestone gray, worry etched into every feature, thick heavy spectacles stuck firmly on the bridge of his nose. He did not look a well man. He was sitting at a table piled high with papers. Next to him stood an inkstand and a stone jar of quills, beside which were the remains of an unfinished meal. He seemed lost for words as they entered the room, not knowing what to make of this pair, while the maid fussed with the plate and straightened a forlorn-looking chair.
"That’s all, thank you,” said MaîtreTardieu firmly, and the door clicked shut behind her. Never for a moment had he imagined Cordell sending him a mere youth and a dwarf, apparently from the circus. He had been expecting two serious and well-connected gentlemen to help him. Had Cordell no idea of the urgency of the situation?
“We live in strange times indeed, sir,” said Têtu, reading the lawyer’s thoughts.
“No, we live in terrible times,” said Maître Tardieu. “Who would think that I would live so long as to be rewarded in my old age with such times as these.” He took off his glasses and nervously wiped them on his sleeve, with the effect of evenly coating the already smeared lenses with more grime. “I take it you’ve heard about the marquis’s château?”
“About the fire?”
“Yes. What a dreadful business. The last of the marquis’s great fortune gone up in flames.” The lawyer sighed. “He wrote to me a few days ago instructing me to break off Mademoiselle Sido’s betrothal, said she wouldn’t be marrying the devil.”
“Have you informed Kalliovski?”
Tardieu mopped his forehead. “I have, sir.”
“Have you had a reply?”
“None,” he said, absentmindedly moving papers from one pile to another for want of something to do.
"I am aware, sir,” said Têtu kindly, "that we are not what you had in mind when you asked Monsieur Cordell for help.”
"Quite,” said Maître Tardieu. "Quite.”
“But whatever else you may think of us, we are to be trusted, of that I can give you my word.”
“Yes, Cordell wrote and told me as much . . .” He stopped, then started again. “But sir,” said the lawyer, standing up, “I didn’t expect—”
"A dwarf,” interrupted Têtu.
“Quite, quite.”
“My size, sir, is of no importance to me, though I see it more often than not reflected badly back at me in the eyes of my fellow man.”
“This, sir, is a most sensitive matter. I am afraid it is for Monsieur Cordell alone.”
"That is not possible,” said Yann. "He is away in Coblenz.”
For a while the silence in the room felt almost tangible. Then Maître Tardieu said, "This goes against my better judgment, but I see there is nothing else to be done.” He put his hand under his chin as if to prop up the weight of his head, and lowered his voice. “Something very distressing has come to light. Oh dear me, yes, very distressing indeed. I have received a packet from a Monsieur Giraud, a lawyer of my acquaintance who lives in Normandy. He was called in to help identify the remains of a body found on the marquis’s estate, near where Mademoiselle Sido’s mother was killed. Monsieur Giraud concludes that this ring, found amongst the bones, was the property of the marquis’s half brother, Armand de Villeduval, who disappeared about the time of the accident, and that the remains were his.”
He tipped the contents of the packet onto the table. Out fell a ring and seven bloodred garnets.
“The ring,” continued Maître Tardieu, “bears, as you can see, the coat of arms of the Villeduval family. I remember that Armand de Villeduval used to wear it on his left hand. The garnets . . .” He paused. "Will you wait here? There is something else I must show you.”
When he left the room, Têtu picked up one of the garnets and studied it.
“Does it remind you of anything?”
“Yes. The red necklace I found in Kalliovski’s room.”
Upstairs they could hear the lawyer shuffle across the floorboards as the ceiling creaked above them.
“How can anyone live in this place?” said Yann.
“Moles like the dark.”
The lawyer came back carrying a velvet drawstring bag.
“This,” he said, “belonged to Mademoiselle Sido’s mother. She instructed her maid that if anything happened to her she was to give the purse to me.”
He emptied it onto the table. The brightness of the jewels that fell out shone even in the darkness of the gloomy room. In amongst them lay a red ribbon studded with seven garnets.
Maître Tardieu brought out his handkerchief and mopped his brow again, the heat a sticky, unwelcome visitor.
Têtu picked up the red necklace. "How did this get in amongst such valuable jewels?” he asked.
“The maid told me that she had taken the necklace off her dead mistress, along with her rings. She had no idea if it was valuable or not, and just added them to the other jewels. Does it signify anything?”
“The seven garnets found with Armand de Villeduval’s ring were once attached to a red ribbon identical to this,” said Têtu. “It is the signature that is left on every one of his victims.”
“Sir,” said Maître Tardieu, “you are alarming me greatly. Please, in heaven’s name, explain yourself. Whose victims?”
“Kalliovski’s. I think it proves that Armand de Villeduval and Madame Isabelle de Villeduval were murdered, but the question—and one you might have the answer to—is why?”
“We must call for the police,” said the lawyer.
“That would be unwise,” said Yann. “It would be as good as signing your own death warrant.”
“Oh dear, oh dear, what is to be done?”
“What we want to do is get Mademoiselle Sido to London, where she has family and will be out of Kalliovski’s reach.”
“I agree that would be best. If Kalliovski were to marry Mademoiselle Sido, he would be in control of her inheritance. Can I ask—how do you plan to get her out?”
“We have been told that a Mr. Tull is to take her and the marquis to England,” said Têtu.
“Not the marquis. The man, you know, is quite mad. If anything will scupper the plan, he wil
l. Do you really believe this Mr. Tull is up to the job?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out,” said Yann.
“But, young man, I don’t want anyone but yourself taking these jewels back to London, is that understood?”
“Yes,” said Yann. “I will make sure that Mademoiselle Sido receives them safely.”
“I can’t tell you how delighted I shall be to see them with their rightful owner at last. I am an old man: I don’t like keeping such valuables in my house, not in times like these.”
“Then, sir,” said Têtu, “we will make the necessary arrangements to relieve you of the jewels.”
They left the lawyer’s house with two vital questions still unanswered. If Kalliovski had murdered both Sido’s mother and Armand de Villeduval, what was his motive? And what part had the marquis played? The questions hovered there angrily, like stormclouds in search of thunder.
The next morning Yann was back at the Place Royale, eager to tell Sido of her unexpected good fortune. He took up his position as before, not wanting to draw attention to himself. There were spies all over Paris, looking out for potential émigrés.
By half past one, Yann had to acknowledge that something was wrong, and the unpleasant image of Mr. Tull came back to haunt him.
Yann moved nearer to the door, wondering if he could have missed her, hoping beyond hope that she would still come down. As he leaned against the wall, he could hear the women nearby gossiping.
“That poor girl! There she was, trying to stop him from shouting, and he kicked her in front of everybody.” The woman folded her arms and huffed. “Most probably that’s how she got that limp in the first place.”
“Well, he’s not right in the head, is he?” said her friend. “You could see that. Mad, like the lot of them. Too much inbreeding, I say. That’s what’s wrong with all these stinking aristocrats.”
At that all three women chuckled.
“He was a sight for sore eyes, wasn’t he? Did you notice that one side of his powdered hair was stuck to his head, as if he’d been sleeping on it?”
“Telling us all to keep away because he was a marquis and shouting out at the top of his voice that the devil was coming to get them! I thought the National Guard would come and arrest him, the noise he was making.”
“It took two strong men to get him into that carriage, didn’t it?”
“You had to feel sorry for the girl, though. She was in tears by the time they took off.”
Yann had heard enough. A wave of panic flooded through him as he walked past the women and toward the door. He knocked hard, but he knew it was hopeless. He should have gotten her out when he had the chance. Now he hated to think of the danger she was in.
By the time Yann returned to the Theater of Liberty it was early evening. The curtain was due to go up shortly, and crowds were lining up outside, eager to see the show, and being entertained by musicians and tumblers. Yann went through the stage door and up the stairs to Monsieur Aulard’s office.
Têtu was in the middle of a terrible argument with the theater manager. Didier, his great arms folded across his chest, stood watching his boss and the dwarf bellow at each other. Têtu had his sleeves rolled up as if ready to start fighting.
“He is here to protect me, not to run errands for you,” Monsieur Aulard was shouting.
“You don’t need protection. You’re not in any danger. We, on the other hand, need vital information, and that old mooncalf of yours is the one for the job.”
"Don’t keep calling me a mooncalf !” snapped Didier. "You’re always doing that. It’s irritating me.”
“Stop it!” shouted Yann. They turned to look at him. “Stop it! Sido’s gone. Tull came last night. She’s left with the marquis.”
“Well, that was fast,” said Têtu, out of breath. “With luck she’ll be well on her way to England by now.”
“No, something’s wrong. When the carriage came last night the marquis kept screaming and wouldn’t get in. A crowd gathered and he kicked Sido in front of them and insulted them all.”
“He is deranged,” said Monsieur Aulard. “What do you expect?”
“If he was making that much of a din, then their attempt to escape must have been obvious,” said Têtu. "Why wasn’t he arrested?”
“They probably thought he was being taken to the asylum,” said Monsieur Aulard helpfully.
The implication of Têtu’s question suddenly hit them all like a hammer blow. Têtu rolled down his shirtsleeves and pulled at his jacket, all notion of fighting gone.
“That scoundrel,” he said. “We need to make immediate inquiries about Tull. I take it you don’t mind if I use Didier?”
“Of course not. Did I ever say I did?” said Monsieur Aulard.
“Don’t worry,” said Didier, shoving his red cap onto his head. “I’ll be back in time to take you home after the show.”
“Thank you,” said Monsieur Aulard, taking hold of Didier’s hand. "You are a good man.” He went back to his desk. "But Didier, for pity’s sake go down to wardrobe and get a hat that fits.”
Têtu and Didier set off toward the cafés on the rue du Temple. Yann decided to take the maze of small streets that led off the rue des Francs-Bourgeois in search of anyone who had information about the coach or its driver that might lead him to Tull.
It was well past midnight when he gave up. By then the streets were deserted. Occasionally he would come across groups of sans-culottes swaying as if the city were at sea, singing patriotic songs.
“Good night to you, citizen,” they would call drunkenly.
Suddenly an idea came to him. He remembered how partial Mr. Tull was to his beer. Where in the city, he wondered, was a café that sold beer to tempt an Englishman? Of course, the café in the Palais-Royal!
By the time he arrived, most of the clientele was emptying lazily out onto the street. The few customers remaining looked as though they were glued to their chairs. The place smelled of stale wine and beer, and was filled with the smoke from too many pipes. The barman looked up when he saw Yann enter.
“We’re closed, citizen.”
“I haven’t come for a drink. I’m looking for an Englishman by the name of Tull. Does he come in here?”
“What’s that to you?” said the bartender, putting down the glass he was rubbing with a dirty cloth.
“I need to speak to him,” said Yann. “It’s urgent.”
The bartender grabbed him by the lapels of his sky-blue coat.
“Beat it. As I said, we’re closed. Now, you wouldn’t want me spoiling those good looks of yours, would you?”
He let him go. Yann felt a surge of ice-cold fury rush in upon him. He lifted his head slowly to see threads of light coming from everything and everyone in the café. Yann stood there like a puppet-master, feeling in complete control. Instinctively he put out his hand, pulling at the threads, so that first one glass and then another fell, smashing all around the startled bartender, who stood petrified as he watched the young man orchestrating objects to move at his will.
The last customers ran from the café as chairs went flying across the room. Yann slammed the door behind them. He laughed. He was enjoying himself. He turned back to the bartender.
“Let me ask you again. Does a Mr. Tull drink here?”
“Yes, yes,” said the bartender anxiously.
“And do you know who he works for?”
The bartender beckoned him closer.
“You promise you won’t say anything?” he whispered into his ear. “I’m a dead man if you do.”
Exhausted, Yann walked back to his lodgings. The performance in the café had taken all his strength. Now, more than anything, he needed to sleep. Suddenly he understood why Têtu had always looked so ashen after working the Pierrot.
He dragged his way up to his room to find Têtu sitting on the stairs waiting for him.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
"Trying to find out who Mr.Tull works for,” said Yann,
opening his door. Even though it was nearly dawn, the air hadn’t cooled down. There was no wind, not even a breeze, just insufferable heat. He sat down heavily on the bed.
“The Duchesse de Lamantes was brought back to Paris two nights ago under the arrest of the National Guard,” said Têtu. “Apparently Tull has a lucrative trade in double-dealing his customers.”
Yann lay down on the bed. “Tull,” he said, looking up at the skylight, "works for Kalliovski. I’m sorry, Têtu, I need to sleep.”
Têtu got up to leave. “There is one last thing you should know. Two more prisoners were delivered to the Abbaye last night. The Marquis de Villeduval and his daughter.”
chapter twenty-six
Mr. Tull felt that he had earned his money good and proper. The night before last had been hard work indeed. It had taken him longer than he had expected to get that lunatic of a marquis into the coach. The noise the man had made was enough to wake the dead, blast his blue blood! He attracted unwelcome attention. Mr. Tull had had to bang loudly on the roof of the coach.
“Bloody well shut up! If you don’t, I’ll come and deal with you.”
The sound of Mr. Tull’s large fist and rasping voice reverberated around the inside of the coach. It made Sido jump, but it had the desired effect. The marquis stopped banging on the windows. He looked at Sido, aghast.
“Hear that? The devil is up there and he’s coming to get you. As far as I’m concerned he can have you, wretched cripple that you are.”
Sido sat huddled in the corner. She felt vulnerable. Her leg hurt from where her father had kicked her, and there was no Jean Rollet to protect her if he decided to attack again. She just hoped that Jean would be all right. He had told her he had relatives he could stay with for a while, that she was not to worry. Seeing him disappear had been hard indeed, as if the last brick in the ruins of this life had come tumbling down. She didn’t like Mr. Tull, and she didn’t trust him.
Since Sido spoke hardly any English, and Mr. Tull’s French was so bad that she had trouble working out what he was saying, there was no way of discovering whether she had reason to be concerned. All she knew was that they were leaving behind everything that was familiar.