A Spark Unseen (21 page)

“Where did you get this?” I demanded of Mrs. Reynolds. When she did not answer, I looked at them all, my voice rising. “Where did you get these?”

“Whatever is the matter, Miss Tulman?” said the brown-frizzed Miss Mortimer at the same time her cousin was saying, “The little silver animals, you mean?”

I pounced on her question. “Yes, the animals! Where did you get them?”

Mrs. Reynolds’s gaze on my face was a thing that could cut flesh. “Those works of art were made by Jean-Michel, Miss Tulman.”

“Who?”

“The protégé!” cried the blonde Miss Mortimer. “Don’t you remember? We told you all about the …”

The protégé. The artist who painted with clever fingers. The man who had not returned home.

I dashed from the room, throwing open the drawing-room doors to run up Mrs. Reynolds’s stairwell, my mind moving much faster than my legs could. I was remembering my search through the house that first night in Paris, the room with the easels and cloth-covered canvases, on the top floor, second door to the right. I burst through the door, panting, the fish still clutched in my hand, slamming it behind me and turning the lock before I ran to the first easel and yanked off the cloth.

It was a painting of Stranwyne, the northeast side of the house, the brown stones blushing rose and orange in a dawn rising up from the moor hills. I pulled off the second cloth, and it was the village church with the graveyard beside it. The third painting was stones and rocky hills, a ruin I recognized at the top of the tallest one, but in the foreground of this picture stood a woman, her back to the painter, skirts and curling auburn hair blown wild by a strong north wind. The woman in the painting was me.

I raised the fish to my mouth, clutching it hard as I closed my eyes. Mrs. Reynolds’s protégé had been Lane Moreau.

I
heard feet on the stairs but I ignored them. Instead I ransacked the drawers, also choosing to ignore the knocks, calls, shouts, and then thudding
bangs
that accompanied my search. There were shirts here I recognized, and the red cap, and the smell, I knew it. It made my heart quicken, both in recognition and fear. Wherever Lane had gone, he could not have taken much with him. I stripped the bed, where I found nothing but blankets and sheets, and then got on my knees to look underneath. A box with odds and ends, mostly painting supplies, and in the back corner, hiding from the maid’s broom, a scrap of paper. I got two fingers on it before the door splintered around its lock. I caught a glimpse of four female faces peeking in before Henri stepped inside and casually shut the broken door behind him. It would not latch. He observed me in my position on the floor.

“Did you know it is very painful to do that?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder.

“It took you twelve times,” I commented.

“I must practice, I think.”

I remained on my knees, staring at the scrap of paper in my hand. It was torn and dirty, only part of a scrawled word visible, but the handwriting belonged to Lane. It said
Tuiler
and that was all. The paper was torn, the rest missing.

“So, who is he?” Henri Marchand asked, strolling across the floor to examine the paintings. He stopped before the third canvas, the one of me with my hair down and said, “Ah,” as if I had answered his question.

I stood, eyeing the room. Other than the paintings, there was nothing else to look at, no other things to go through. I held out the scrap of paper to Henri.

“The Tuileries, perhaps?” he said after a glance. “That is the imperial palace. Or one of them.”

He handed the paper back to me as the door creaked, and then Mrs. Reynolds was standing in the room with us, hands clasped in front of her. She opened her thin mouth to speak, but I spoke first.

“When was he last here? What day, exactly?”

“Ten days before you came to dinner, Miss Tulman. We had notified the police exactly one week before that.”

Ten days before I came to dinner, so almost two weeks ago now. And only three days before the Frenchmen tried to kidnap Uncle Tully. “And what did the police say?”

“Nothing at all. They were of very little help, though he was a Frenchman.”

“Half French,” I said absently. “His mother was English.”

“I think not, Miss Tulman,” Mrs. Reynolds replied, voice taking on a wintry frost. “Jean-Michel barely spoke passable English.”

“He was born in England, Mrs. Reynolds, and had never set foot in France until last year.” She stared at me a moment, then her eyes roved about the room, as if seeing it anew. “How did you meet him?”

She put her gaze back on me. “He was working in a silver shop, not very far from here, around the corner from the Opera. I had already bought several small pieces. He was leaving his position. …”

“Leaving? What do you mean?”

Mrs. Reynolds frowned, but after a glance at Mr. Marchand, she said, “I mean that he no longer wanted to work in a shop, of course. Jean-Michel wished to pursue his talent rather than waste his time with trays and spoons. When he showed me his paintings, I offered to support his work.”

“And he lived here how long, Mrs. Reynolds?”

“About seven weeks,” she replied. “Only seven weeks.”

The wistfulness in her voice made me almost like her. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.” I glanced about the wrecked room. “I do apologize for the … consternation I caused, and for the state of your door. I will arrange to have it repaired. Would you …” I hesitated, then held up the silver fish, the replica of the “toy” that had caused Uncle Tully, Lane, myself, and two governments no end of trouble. “Would you allow me to keep this?”

I think she heard my thinly veiled plea. After a long moment, she inclined her head and I left the room, stepping around the gaping Miss Mortimers, curtsied to Mrs. Hardcastle, and then turned and walked right back in again. I marched past Mrs. Reynolds, snatched up the red cap, this time without asking, and took to the stairs. I was halfway down before I realized that Henri was with me.

“I wonder if you would tell me, Miss Tulman,” he said quietly, “if Mrs. Reynolds’s Jean-Michel was ever a servant of your house?”

I would not dignify the question with a response. But my lack of answer must have been the same as an affirmative, for he replied once again with an “ah.”

“And I think, perhaps,” he continued, “that this Jean-Michel was also a young man with dark hair, yes?”

I did not answer this either.

“Well. Then I think that this time you will come with me, Miss Tulman, and let us see if we cannot continue the work of the morning.”

He took me by the arm, bringing me down Mrs. Reynolds’s stairs at a trot and out the front door.

The day was growing warm and fine, but instead of turning left to the red doors, Henri let go of my arm, stepped into the street, skirted around a slow-moving carriage and made a beeline for the opposite sidewalk. The slouching man straightened when he saw him coming, his unshaven face registering the danger rather late, as he had only taken one step away before Henri had him by the arm. I felt my mouth open slightly.

The man struggled once, but Henri was larger and his grip must have been strong, because the slouching man went limp and decided to go without a fight. He allowed himself to be led back across the street, and I hurried down the sidewalk, just in time to follow them both through the red doors and into my foyer.

Mrs. DuPont was there when we entered, watching, cadaver-like, as Henri pulled the man inside the house.

“Where?” Henri asked, eyes on me.

“Dining room,” I said quickly. “The door locks.”

He had begun to move in that direction when Mrs. DuPont said, “The police were here to see you, Mademoiselle, and to take the things of the little man who is dead. I told them I can say nothing, that I know nothing of you. …”

“No gendarme!”
the slouching man yelled.
“No gendarme!”

I thought I could glimpse the beginnings of an actual expression on Mrs. DuPont’s face, a slight widening of the eyes before I shut the pocket door of the library and went through to the dining room. Henri put the man in a chair at the table while I set the red cap and the little slip of paper carefully on the sideboard, beside the covered remnants of breakfast. The key hung from a string on the door frame. I used it to lock both doors, and then sat, the fish still cradled in my hands.

Henri leaned back in his chair, playing with a spoon. The slouching man watched him warily.
“Parlez-vous anglais, mon ami?”
Henri asked.

The man’s eyes shifted back and forth between us. He was a bit older than I had thought, with gray in his hair, and the lined face of a laborer. “A little English,” he said carefully.

“Ask him why he chased me into the courtyard four nights ago,” I said. He watched me speak, then looked to Henri for the translation. When he understood the question, his words came quickly, low and earnest. Henri turned to me.

“He says he did not chase the young woman, that he wished her no harm. That the lady could not get into her house, that she was on the street alone with the lamps out, and that he followed to make certain she found her own door.”

The man’s gaze again darted, trying to decipher the English and my reaction to it. I shook my head, disbelieving. “Ask him why he has been watching my door at all, then?”

This was done, and the man frowned. He stared down at the little sugar spoon traveling through Henri’s fingers, and then up at my face. He spoke quietly, making Henri lean forward to hear.

“He says he is waiting for a man, that this man was to have come six days ago, but that the man has not come as he was meant to. He says sometimes it takes days for the man to come, but not this many days.” The slouching man spoke again, and Henri said, “He says he is waiting, and then a young lady arrives in a carriage — that is you, Miss Tulman — and that he knows her face. He thinks he has seen it before.” Henri asked a short question in French, and his dark eyes swung back to mine after the man’s response. They were dancing. “He says that he has seen your face in a painting.”

I met the eyes of the slouching man, who was studying me intently, as if by staring he could break the barrier of language between us. I raised my hand from my lap and placed the little silver fish I’d held tight to my palm between us on the table. The man’s face transformed, lines curving upward in a smile. “Jean-Michel,” he said.

I leaned forward, hands pressed flat on the table. “Where is Jean-Michel?” I said, taking away the man’s grin.

The slouching man also leaned forward, our faces just a few feet apart before he began to speak. Henri said, “He was hoping you would tell him. That you would know. He is worried.”

“Then if he doesn’t know where he is, ask him how he knows him, why he was waiting to speak with him. Ask …” I had to stop the questions from tumbling from my mouth. Henri spoke, and the slouching man returned with a sharp question of his own.

“He says that he knows who you are, he knows your face. But he wants to know if I am trustworthy.”

“Are you?” I asked.

Henri’s shoulder went up elegantly, the insolent smile at one corner of his mouth. “Of course.”

I thought of the twelve ramming thuds of his shoulder against Mrs. Reynolds’s attic door, looked back at the slouching man, and nodded once. The man stared thoughtfully at the table, then the words began to flow in a smooth rhythm. Henri kept up a simultaneous translation.

“His name is Joseph LeFevre. He is a metal worker, and met Jean-Michel thirteen months ago in a silver shop on the Rue Basse-du-Rempart. And yes, Miss Tulman, that would be rather close, as Mrs. Reynolds told you. Joseph says that Jean-Michel was able to do him a favor at one time, a favor that meant much to him, and in return, he was able to find out things that Jean-Michel wished to know.”

Henri paused, listening. “He says he has much family in Paris, brothers and cousins, all men that can close their mouths — he means hold their tongues, Miss Tulman — and that Jean-Michel pays for little jobs to be done, finding out about things, about the buying and selling of metals and certain …” Henri hesitated. “… chemicals, and the building of ships, and that this has put bread on the tables of his nieces and nephews. He says that Jean-Michel has no love for the emperor, or this war. …” The translation halted as Joseph sighed. “But always, he says, Jean-Michel is searching for a man.”

I did not have to ask the name of the man. It was Ben Aldridge. “And what did Jean-Michel find? Ask him that.”

Henri listened to the man’s response and said, “He does not know. He says Jean-Michel never tells him why, or what his information means. …” Henri smiled at the flow of French coming from the slouching man, his eyebrows rising slightly. “But he says that if Jean-Michel asked him to fight another Waterloo, then he would fight another Waterloo, and sing while he did so, and that his brothers would do the same. Because Jean-Michel, he is like them, but he is not like them. He is
noble
.” Henri put his dark eyes on me. “That must have been a very large favor your servant did, would you not agree, Miss Tulman?”