MV02 Death Wears a Crown (17 page)

Victoire tossed two coins to him. “There, and no thanks to you.”

Bouelac chuckled and said, “An Auntie like you, you must want that wine badly. There’s nothing else to warm you, is there?”

As much as Victoire wanted to demand of the fellow what he meant, she kept silent and covered this by taking a long draft of the wine. It truly did spread welcome warmth through her and the heat of the tankard was wonderful to feel. Her fingers tingled as the cold diminished and her fear increased.

“Leave her alone,” recommended Etangherbe. He rocked back on his stool. “Don’t give her any reason to remember us. It would be foolish.”

Querelle shook his head. “You are too easily frightened,” he declared. “You think that such a woman as this has any knowledge of us, or will be able to recall this day when another week has passed?” He strolled over and looked down at Victoire.

She drew back, afraid that he would recognize her. “I’m a widow-woman,” she whined. “I don’t bother nobody.”

“Of course, Auntie, of course,” Querelle soothed her with condescension, taking care not to get too close to her. “You are a sensible country-woman, aren’t you?”

Victoire crossed herself. “As the Saints know,” she said, making herself appear more countrified than ever.

“And you would do nothing to hurt good men, would you?” Querelle persisted.

“Nor anyone else, with my soul to answer,” she said, keeping her face turned down.

“Oh, yes.” Querelle smiled and glanced toward Etangherbe before he went on. “But what if they offered you gold coins; important men from the Préfecture. What would you tell them?”

Victoire spat as she had seen old village women do in her youth. “I’ll say nothing to cockerels in uniform.”

Bouelac sniggered, and the landlord bringing two tankards laughed aloud.

But Etangherbe watched her narrowly. “What do you expect her to tell you, you fool?” he asked Querelle, and came toward Victoire.

A spurt of alarm shot through Victoire, sharpening her mind and her senses so that the very odor of the hot wine stung her nose. She backed toward the nook, gesturing them to move back. “I don’t want trouble. I had trouble all my days and I don’t want no more of it. As I am a good Christian woman, I’ll not speak against you.”

Querelle stood straighter, as if he had vanquished an enemy. His voice was threatening. “See that you remember your promise, Auntie, or we will find you, and there’ll be more trouble than you ever dreamed of. Who will care what happens to one old rag-picker?”

“Put her out of the house,” said Etangherbe. “We’ll pay the landlord for the tankard. We won’t have to bother with her.”

“But—” Querelle protested; he was enjoying the opportunity to bully someone.

“She’s only seen the four of us,” said Etangherbe reasonably. “If she sees the others, then she’ll be more dangerous to us, no matter what she tells you. I know these creatures, and they are as false as cats.”

“Monsieur!” Victoire protested.

“That’s being a little extreme, don’t you think?” asked Bouelac, his face paler than it had been.

“Peasants turned my family over to the Revolutionary Tribunal at Lyons,” said Etangherbe. “They promised to protect them and then they betrayed them, and were well-paid for their treason. She will do what she thinks will best serve her advantage.”

Victoire cringed, and only part of it was acting. “No, no, I’ll speak to no one but the priest.” She hated saying that, but it was what a rag-picking widow would do.

“She’s just a rag-picker,” said Bouelac.

“She could be your Judas,” said Etangherbe. His features were growing harsher and his eyes fixed on Victoire in a way that made her flinch.

Querelle took Victoire by the shoulder, his fingers digging in. “Come, Auntie, it’s time you were gone. We don’t want to have any dead bodies around this inn, and if you stay much longer, that is bound to happen.” He handed her a franc. “Use this for more wine.” He looked at the others. “To speed her forgetting.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” she muttered, allowing herself to be propelled toward the door.

Just before Querelle reached for the latch the door swung open and Toutdroit came through, followed by the man he had been sent to fetch.

Victoire stopped in her tracks. Querelle swore under his breath, then shoved her forward again. “Hurry up, Auntie. You want to be out of this place.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, trying not to run into the newcomer.

“Wait,” said the man, reaching out to seize Victoire’s arm.

“What is this?”

“A rag-picker,” said Etangherbe, rising in respect to the leader of their group. “She is leaving. We were just showing her out.”

“Um,” said the man, looking once at Victoire as he came a step further into the taproom where his face caught the light.

It was all Victoire could do not to gasp in recognition. She bent her head more fully and attempted to continue toward the door, still clasping the tankard and wondering if she could use it as a weapon.

The hand on her arm grew tighter and she was tugged into the doorway. “A rag-picker?” said the leader as he stared down, scrutinizing her. “I don’t think so, not with those hands.” He reached out and pulled the shawl from her head. “Flaxen hair, not gray.” He chuckled without a trace of mirth. “I never thought Nemesis would be so fair a goddess,” he said as he took her chin in his hand and forced her face upward.

VICTOIRE
looked up into the hot eyes of Claude Montrachet. For an instant she considered throwing her wine in his face, but immediately thought better of it. Had he been alone it might have been worth the risk, but with so many others, she realized the gesture would be dangerous and futile. She stood very still and waited for what he would do next; beneath her ire she was terrified.

He surprised her by releasing her and offering her a slight bow. “Madame Vernet. What an unexpected ... ah ... pleasure.”

“Madame Vernet?’ said Querelle in astonishment.

She decided to match the leader’s manner; she dropped her Norman accent and offered him a very little curtsy, saying, “Monsieur Montrachet.”

“How reassuring that you have not forgotten me, brief though our encounter was. As you see,” he went on with ironic gallantry, “I have recovered from the wound you gave me at the Vigne et Tonneau.”

“All your friends must rejoice,” said Victoire directly, masking the dread filling her.

Etangherbe had come nearer. “Do you mean this is the woman who shot you?” He stared at her. “This woman? You said she was an officer’s wife—”

“Alas, it is so,” said Montrachet, his voice hardening. “And she has yet to earn my pardon for it.”

“But what is she doing here?” asked Toutdroit, very much puzzled.

“We will have to find out,” said Montrachet, with such grimness that Victoire felt the hair on her neck stand.

Querelle moved closer to Victoire. “This is not Madame Vernet,” he blustered. “I have met Madame Vernet. She is young and pretty in a vapid, pale way. This woman is more than forty—look at her face.”

“Wash away the grime and you will see how young she is.” Montrachet stared at her. “You are ever the thorn in my side.”

“I regret,” said Victoire without a trace of contrition.

Montrachet moved away from her. “Don’t underestimate her. I made that mistake once and paid the price for it.” He regarded her as he chose a stool and sat down. “What are you doing here, Madame Vernet? Why have you done this?”

“Madame Vernet is married to Inspector-General Vern—” Querelle began.

“I know who her husband is,” said Montrachet. “And that gives me to wonder all the more.” He kept his coat on but pulled off his gloves. “Under the circumstances, I believe I deserve some answers.”

“Unfortunately, I must disagree,” said Victoire, feeling her mouth go dry.

Montrachet shook his head. “Not this time, Madame. You’re alone in a room full of men. Think of what could happen to you here. Between us, we could insure that your husband would never want to touch you again. We could destroy your reputation and wreck his honor.”

Victoire was all too aware of those sickening possibilities; she said nothing but she breathed a little faster and felt her pulse in her temples. It was an effort to keep her fear from showing, but she steeled herself.

“Montrachet!” exclaimed Etangherbe.

“Oh, we will not resort to such methods. Not yet.” He showed his teeth to Victoire. “We’ll not use them unless you make it necessary, Madame, and then we will naturally lament the necessity.”

“How considerate,” said Victoire before she could stop the words. It galled her to say anything to Montrachet.

“But what are we going to do with her?” asked Toutdroit as he closed the door to the taproom. “And for God’s sake, don’t let anyone see her.”

“No, we ought not to do that,” said Montrachet. “That would be stupid, would it not?”

“What’s she doing here?” demanded Etangherbe.

“The very question I have been asking myself,” said Montrachet in a measuring tone. “And I don’t like the answers I have come up with.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “If you’re here for your husband, he’s sent you on a hazardous errand, Madame. And if you are not, then you are unpardonably foolish.”

Victoire was able to keep herself silent.

“Why would your husband be so careless of you, do you think, Madame?” he asked, his voice becoming malignly flirtatious. “Has he so little regard for you that he permits you to undergo danger on his behalf? Again?” He regarded her, his eyes fixed in the middle distance. “Obstinate, are you?”

“She’s an officer’s wife,” said Querelle nervously as he considered their position. “She isn’t street trash or a brothel woman. It could go hard for us, if—”

Montrachet laughed harshly. “On two of his campaigns, the Corsican encouraged his men to rape. How could he object if we followed his example? How could her husband blame us?”

“You aren’t going to—” Bouelac protested.

“I told you all,” Montrachet cut in, “not yet. But it may come to that, if she remains intractable.” He looked back toward Victoire. “Or is that what you are hoping for, Madame? Your husband is not enough for you? Perhaps you would like a better-born lance in your sheath?” Montrachet reached down and ran his hand along her side, brushing the back of it against her breast before wiping his hand against his jacket as if it were soiled.

This almost goaded Victoire into an angry retort, but she realized that was what Montrachet wanted, an excuse to do more to her, and worse. She set her tankard down and folded her arms.

Montrachet gave her a little time to answer, then shrugged and continued. “We have to know what your mission here is. We have too much at stake to permit you to withhold anything from us. You must understand that I am perfectly sincere in this, Madame. You are our captive, and you will help us.”

“Lock her up and use her,” suggested Etangherbe. “We can bargain with her, gain her husband’s help in return for the safety of his wife.”

“Possible,” said Montrachet speculatively. “Yes, that’s one way to turn this development to our advantage.”

Querelle stepped forward. “She’s a friend of Murat’s, everyone knows that. He has money, and he’s closer to Napoleon than her husband.” The way he said this was so salacious that Victoire felt heat mounting in her face.

“A friend of Murat’s?” echoed Montrachet nastily. “And what does your dear husband think about that association, Madame?” He came toward her and tweaked one of the straggling locks of blonde hair. “His wife is the only light-haired Bonaparte! Perhaps Murat has a weakness for yellow tresses? What an honor for you, Madame, to have the protection of such a man as General Murat.”

“I could carry word to Murat, telling him what would happen to Madame Vernet if he doesn’t assist us; Murat wouldn’t hesitate to do what he could to rescue her,” said Querelle, who was eager to have the endorsement of the handsome Gascon. “Murat is an important man. His assistance would mean everything. My superior would be delighted if there was a way to suborn Murat. We could get much closer to Napoleon with Murat aiding us, and there would be a better chance for our safe escape when the work is done. The thing would be assured if only Murat could be compelled to help us.”

“Will you be quiet?” complained Montrachet. “You are revealing too much.” He cocked his head toward Victoire. “You are a very clever woman, Madame Vernet, and you’re apt to make connections that would displease us. Until you’re willing to cooperate with us, you’ll have to be kept apart from us, so that you won’t learn more than you have.” He signalled to Toutdroit. “Take her up to the attic. There’s an old servant’s room up there, under the eaves. It will do for the time being. Lock her in and be sure the door is double-bolted.”

Toutdroit took Victoire by the arm. “Those rooms have no heat.”

“No, they don’t,” agreed Montrachet. “And it is cold today. Tonight there will be frost. In damp clothing, such as the dress Madame Vernet is wearing, a person might freeze to death in a frost.” He gave Victoire a long, hard look. “Unless she’s willing to trade information for a blanket or two? And something hot to eat?”

Victoire looked at Toutdroit. “Show me the way, Monsieur.”

Montrachet laughed. “Oh, very good, very good; worthy of a hero in a story.” He clapped three times. “Brava, Madame.”

As Victoire was taken from the taproom she heard Etangherbe say, “Sackett-Hartley isn’t going to like this.”

“Be damned to Sackett-Hartley,” Montrachet responded as Victoire was shoved in the direction of the flight of stairs. “He still thinks he is carrying on his uncle’s work, more fool he.”

Now who, wondered Victoire as she climbed the stairs ahead of Toutdroit, is Sackett-Hartley? And what had he to do with these men?

* * *

It took an hour for Victoire to make a thorough search of her improvised prison. She was shivering from either the damp chill or fear after just a few minutes even though she had kept moving, using the action to keep her fear at bay. The room was small, with a single window over a cobbled courtyard. The steep roof brought a sharp angle to the ceiling, and after ascertaining that the window could provide nothing but a fall, Victoire began to feel her way along the beams, searching for soft wood that would indicate poor slating above. From the condition of the rest of the inn she suspected that the slates were not well maintained. There was a single metal tub in one corner that had probably once been used for the servants’ bath lying abandoned, but other than that the chamber was empty. Think, she ordered herself repeatedly. Think. Think, or succumb to the paralyzing embrace of despair.

“When would Odette begin to worry?” she asked herself as she continued her inspection. And with Vernet gone to Amiens, who would she contact? She knew she had to rely on her housekeeper and at the same time she was apprehensive, for it was not easy for a servant to make herself heard. Who would listen to Odette? These and other more dismal thoughts kept her occupied while she felt her way along the beams of the pitched roof.

After more than two hours she found what she was looking for. By that time she was so cold that her teeth were chattering and her muscles were beginning to ache. Already there was a knot in her shoulders that felt as if she had a cobble-stone under her skin, but dread kept her moving as her strength waned. She tapped the boards crossing the beams and noted with satisfaction that in a section near one side, where she could just barely reach the ceiling from the floor, they had a definite spongy texture. She poked at the boards and was rewarded with a spatter of pulp and splinters falling into her face; it was what she wanted. Without doubt she would be able to pry her way through—if she did not succumb to the cold first. And if no one came to disturb her. The thought of Montrachet returning to the inn and discovering her escape attempt was more chilling than the unheated room, and spurred her on.

Victoire’s fingers were bleeding and her knuckles skinned by the time she succeeded in breaking through the wood to the slates above, where the biting, sodden wind slapped at her and threatened to break her hold. As she clenched her teeth and stretched higher, she felt the first of the slates loosen, shift, and then fall, skittering down the roof to smash into the wall of the building next to La Plume et Bougie. Relief and hope surged through her with such force that she felt tears on her face. She looked out into the gray sky and mizzle, and had to stop herself from whooping with joy. With renewed purpose she went back to work on the hole she had made, driving herself to find purchase on the slates to shove them, to pull down more of the rotted timber until, after two hectic hours of effort and constant fear that the innkeeper would hear the clatter of the tiles falling, she had widened the gap to an aperture large enough for her to squeeze through.

With great care, Victoire went to the tub and rolled it carefully over the floor, trying to make as little noise as possible. When she had got it beneath the hole she had made, she turned it upside down and climbed on top of it, thrusting her head and shoulders through to the outside where the dank cold waited.

She hesitated as she worked her arms through, all the while praying that Montrachet would not choose this time to return and resume his questioning. She tugged and pulled and strained, and dislodged another dozen slates before she was able to haul herself through onto the roof. She winced at the thunderous echo of the slates as they crashed into the courtyard. Her hideous dress tore and the rotten timbers clawed at her; she endured the pain grimly, determined to get out.

Once she had her feet braced against the hole, she reached upward toward the crest of the roof where the chimney pots poked into the lowering fog. She secured a grasp at the top and began her climb, reciting the prayers of her childhood as she slithered away from the hole. Pressed flat against the steep angle of the roof, she inched upward, never looking down; she was frightened enough and did not want to increase the terror that was holding her. Finally she reached the level center of the mansard roof, where she sat, one arm around the base of the warm chimney, gathering heat and catching her breath as she planned how she could continue her escape.

* * *

The carpenters were leaving for the day when Vernet returned home, pale from long hours on the road without rest; he greeted the workmen, then hurried to the withdrawing room in long, eager strides, calling for Victoire as he went. To his surprise the room was cold and dark; the lamp was unlit and there was no sign of his wife. He removed his cloak and dropped it over the bannister as he started up the stairs, wondering if she might be there. “Victoire,” he called as he opened the door to their bedroom, disappointed when he saw no light there, and no sign of his wife.