The Collector of Dying Breaths (7 page)

“Those were just conversations, Friar. Two men arguing about ideas. I would never want to hasten his death for my own benefit.”

“Look at the evidence. We have heard the fights between you about how you wanted more responsibility in the pharmacy. You knew how to make the poisonous bitter almond paste. You were alone with him day and night for weeks with no one to witness your actions. And we know, because we have all taken the same oath and love the same Lord, that Serapino would not break the sacraments in the last hours of his life. So close to heaven to risk entry by disobeying a major rule?”

“No!” I leapt up, stepped forward and pounded my hands on the table. “He was in terrible pain. Serapino said God would not have made these herbs and flowers and nuts capable of such things if he did not intend for us to use them. He said that God did not make the rules that men impose upon one another in his name—”

“Heresy!” The abbot screamed and stood, pointing his finger at me. All the hatred in his heart visible on his face. How could I have been so stupid? This was not about burying Serapino in hallowed ground. I alone in that hall knew what I was really on trial for. Years before Beneto had wanted Serapino to be his lover. I had heard the abbot proposition him. Had heard Serapino rebuff him and then listened as Beneto threatened to remove him from his position overseeing the apothecary if he uttered one word of his proposition to anyone. And then, as the abbot left my mentor’s room, he noticed me huddled on my pallet. He’d forgotten I slept just outside Serapino’s cell. Hatred flashed in his eyes. He’d been mortified in front of an apprentice.

I finally understood. This trial, my demise, was Beneto’s revenge.

He was conferring with the archbishop and the librarian. The room was silent. Everyone waited to hear the verdict.

It was the archbishop who spoke. “I declare you guilty, René Bianco. Since you are not a religious man, we cannot charge you. Therefore we will turn you over to the government of Florence and they will mete out your fate.”

The abbot addressed the monks who had escorted me into the rectory: “Take René Bianco to the laboratory and lock him up again until the chief magistrate from the city arrives later this afternoon,” Beneto said.

And then, with a smile that he was trying so very hard to hide playing on his lips, he gazed at me and offered a benediction.

“May God have mercy on you, René Bianco. I fear you are going to need it.”

Chapter 9

THE PRESENT

FRIDAY, MARCH 14

BARBIZON, FRANCE

Jac never lost focus on the space she was in. Only minutes had passed, but a story had begun unfolding in her mind, and she’d become aware of another layer of time. She knew—because it had happened to her many times before—that she’d just experienced an impossibility. She wished she could still convince herself that these manifestations were an abnormality of her brain, some story-telling psychotic episode. Madness would be a relief. But she knew better because she’d discovered the tales that spun out, these fragments of someone else’s life, were in fact provable. The people she saw and heard had lived. She’d researched them. And when she couldn’t find proof of them—because they’d lived too long ago—she’d found other details in the story, confirming she wasn’t imagining it.

Putting her hands on the edge of one of the shelves, she let her mind settle. She’d seen a man in clothes that suggested a long-lost era. Bent over a table, by the light of a candle, he was mixing a formula. Measuring out drops from small amber bottles that gleamed in the light. Was he blending perfume? Medicine? Intent on his task, he didn’t look up, never blinked, his lips pursed.

“Are you all right?” Serge asked. “You didn’t seem to hear me just now. I asked if you wanted to pick out a bottle of a wine for lunch.”

Jac knew from previous episodes that what seemed like hours to her had passed in only seconds in real time.

“Sorry. I was just stunned by all this. There must be a thousand bottles of wine here.”

“Yes, and worth a small fortune. The whole collection came with the house actually. Part of the estate sale. Melinoe hasn’t even gotten around to having it appraised. Over here”—he pointed to one set of shelves—“some bottles even date back to the time of the French Revolution. Worthy of a museum. Would you like to see one?”

“How amazing. Of course.”

He pulled out a bottle and handed it to her gingerly.

The unlabeled bottle was handblown and much more squat than she’d expected. The glass was a dark, dull green, and Jac could see there was still liquid inside.

“How is it possible it was all left here?” Jac was already wondering if there were other items left in the house from the 1700s. Perfumes perhaps?

“The house is like a time capsule into past centuries. It was in the same family for the last two hundred and fifty years. That’s one of the reasons Melinoe bought it.”

“What do you mean?” Jac asked as she handed the bottle back to him.

“There were collections here she wanted to own. The house was just the way to get at them.” His laugh was slightly off-key. “Shall you pick your bottle and go upstairs? It’s not that pleasant down here. Too damp. Red or white?”

She chose red, and he showed her to a section of the racks. Jac inspected the bottles, taking too much time, she knew. But the scene she’d seen a moment ago shimmered here still.

He led her away and she followed, but hesitantly. At the door she turned and looked back.

Serge was talking, and she refocused.

“But it wasn’t just the collections. Melinoe’s always been attracted to buildings with legends attached to them. The first project we worked on was a castle in Germany not far from one of Ludwig’s masterpieces. That took four years to renovate. From there it was a convent in the Languedoc. After that it was a palazzo in Venice. She’s especially drawn to anything that’s remained relatively untouched over the years. Somewhat intact but falling apart is fine.”

It was a perfect description of how she felt—somewhat intact but falling apart. In need of renovation. Jac had the odd thought that, upon meeting her, Melinoe might see that and want to restore her too.

“Have you always worked for her?” she asked.

Jac and Serge had reached the upper hallway.

“No. I was on my own for a few years after I graduated, and then she bought her first castle . . .”

They rounded the corner.

“But we’ve really always been together.” The dulcet and almost childish voice was coming from the hallway. Jac could hear the woman before she saw her and had a moment to try and place the accent—if anything, she sounded British. The voice had been so sweet, so young. Then the woman who had spoken stepped out of the shadows, and Jac was taken aback. The voice didn’t fit the sparkling creature who came forward, bejeweled hand extended.

“I’m Melinoe Cypros. Welcome to La Belle Fleur. I’m sorry it’s under such sad circumstances.” She smiled kindly at Jac, showing pointy little eyeteeth. Suddenly, instead of just self-assured, she looked almost predatory. Then the moment passed.

Melinoe had jet-black hair with white wings framing a pale, heart-shaped face. Her cat-round eyes were light gray and heavily fringed with dark lashes. Ancient eyes that looked haunted. Her lips were painted a deep red, the only color on her face. She exuded so much energy, Jac didn’t realize at first how petite she really was.

Robbie must have admired Melinoe for her style. From the simple black knee-length cashmere shift to the black high-heeled suede boots that disappeared under the dress, her clothes were obviously couture. Her three-inch-wide heavy belt looked to be an authentic Elizabethan silver-and-jewel-encrusted treasure. It glowed with large pearls, square sapphires and round rubies as dragons chased one another around her waist.

Dozens of hammered white-gold bracelets encircled her wrists. And there were stacks of rings on all of her fingers except for her thumbs. Bands of diamonds, set in what Jac guessed was platinum, piled one on top of another. Her earlobes sparkled with large square-cut diamond solitaires. It would have been too much jewelry for anyone else—especially someone so small—but Melinoe wore it all like armor, and it somehow worked.

As Jac stepped closer to take Melinoe’s outstretched hand, she recognized the fragrance her hostess wore and was flattered and a bit surprised that it was one of the House of L’Etoile’s signature scents. Rouge. The heavy damask-rose-and-honey scent was, of all her grandfather’s creations, Jac’s favorite too.

Melinoe cupped both Jac’s hands in hers. “I really am so sorry about Robbie,” she said in her almost little-girl voice, her words slow with sadness. “I can’t imagine how lost you must be. He spoke so much about you and how close you were.”

Melinoe was holding her hand too long.

“You know, you remind me of Robbie,” Melinoe said.

Jac never liked being touched by strangers, and the embrace, coupled by the still lingering memory of the vision she’d had in the cellar, was making her uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Melinoe said, dropping Jac’s hand. Had she sensed her discomfort? “I know how intrusive other people’s condolences can be. And yet here I am subjecting you to mine.”

Jac liked her then for understanding something so complex. Saw for a moment what Robbie must have seen. A woman who had been orphaned when she was only sixteen who had turned herself into an icon and devoted her time to a worthy—eccentric, but very Zen—quest.

“Now, let’s have lunch,” Melinoe said as she led them into the dining room, where a round table was set with gleaming silver, china and crystal. In the center was a bowl of white roses and ivy. Tiny droplets of water, like diamonds, sparkled on some of the rose petals. Jac didn’t doubt they’d been placed there on purpose. She was certain there was nothing in this house that was not designed for its impact and theatrics.

As Serge poured the wine, Melinoe said, “You and your brother went through so much together, Jac. He told us all about the criminal he accidentally poisoned and how you saved him when the Chinese went after him for revenge.”

Jac was surprised that Robbie had shared the story with Serge and Melinoe. He must have gotten very close to them.

“Yes, it was a frightening time. And the police still aren’t quite certain that it’s all behind us.”

Melinoe raised her eyes, but it was Serge who asked: “What do you mean?”

Jac shrugged. Now she wished she hadn’t said anything, but it was too late. “If it turns out Robbie was poisoned, which is a possibility, the Chinese mafia are the only people who would have a motive. Revenge . . .”

“How horrible for you,” Serge said.

“Would you be in danger too?” Melinoe asked. “You were responsible for their agents going to prison, yes?”

“Yes, but the police don’t think it’s likely,” Jac said.

Jac had left Paris to get away from the surveillance, so very much on purpose she changed the subject. “This is a very beautiful room. Extraordinarily so,” she said, eyeing the oil paintings. Still lifes by old masters. Fruits, vegetables, flowers so real they glistened with the same luminosity as the roses in the middle of the table. Melinoe had hung the paintings in groupings to cover the walls. But every one of the more than three dozen deserved a wall of its own.

“Thank you,” Melinoe said.

“Do you know a lot about the history of the château?” Jac asked.

Then, as they sipped the rich red wine and spooned hot asparagus soup with Parmesan croutons, Melinoe told Jac a bit about the house and how she had come to buy it.

“The château was built in the fourteenth century but then rebuilt into what you see in the early sixteenth century by Francis I, King of France, for one of his mistresses. It’s amazing to think of it but when he ascended the throne, France was bereft of great art. There wasn’t a single piece of important sculpture in the country. He commissioned paintings and sculpture from all the masters of the age, including Andrea del Sarto, Benvenuto Cellini, Giulio Romano, and he even arranged for Leonardo da Vinci to come and live in France in the later part of his life. During his reign, Francis built up a great collection, the bedrock of what is now in the treasured Louvre. But in his lifetime, some of that great art was here . . .” Her voice trailed off wistfully.

It was always easier to talk about the impersonal past, and Jac was relieved to listen to Melinoe recounting what history she knew about the house. The rough edge of tension Jac had been feeling because of the vision she’d had in the cellar was fading.

“Being so close to Fontainebleau, where Francis summered, we believe that he spent quite a bit of time here. After he died, the château remained in the royal family until 1570, when Catherine gifted the house to a favored member of her retinue, her perfumer, René Bianco. He was known as René le Florentin since he’d traveled with her from Florence to Paris when she was fourteen and came to marry the prince.”

Jac had heard of René le Florentin. Very little was known about him, but he was credited with bringing perfume to France.

“The château was quite a fitting gift considering its name—La Belle Fleur,” Melinoe continued. “Probably for its extensive gardens. René retired here but never stopped working on what really mattered to him—and he spent the rest of his life conducting experiments here.”

Jac’s anxiety returned. A perfumer had lived in this château? She hadn’t done any research before coming. Usually she dug deep when she visited someplace new, but she wasn’t here professionally. Just to collect Robbie’s notes and the family books. But now all she could think about was the hallucination she’d had in the cellar. Yes, that could have easily been a sixteenth-century man working in his laboratory. Hadn’t she seen the beakers and old alembics, those antique vessels connected by a tube used for distilling liquids? So what had happened?

Had Robbie told her that René le Florentin had lived here and she’d been too upset to focus on it? He’d been so ill. She’d been so worried. If he had mentioned it, that would explain what she’d seen. It would have been her imagination playing tricks on her in the dark, damp vault under the house. Taking an unconscious bit of knowledge and weaving a story out of it.

But she knew Robbie hadn’t told her. She feared the image she’d seen of a man bent over a table, working on his formulas, had been some sort of memory lurch.

Jac had stopped hearing what Melinoe was saying. Now she refocused and listened.

“. . . which wasn’t very unusual. René le Florentin had an illegitimate son he’d acknowledged, Pierre, who was also a perfumer. He lived here with his father and inherited the château next. It then remained in the Florentin family for many generations until it was sold to a wealthy nobleman in the 1700s. Miraculously that family retained it until 2009, when I bought it. The gentleman who sold it to me had never lived here. He’d inherited La Belle Fleur from a great-aunt who lived in Switzerland. No one had actually been in residence in more than fifty years, and it had become an albatross. The owner sold most of its valuable collections at auction but left some surprising things behind, like the wine in the cellar. It was worth a fortune.” Melinoe shrugged, as if she didn’t quite understand his laziness.

“What an amazing history,” Jac said.

“Isn’t it? There are mentions of the château in Queen Margaret’s sixteenth-century diary. Apparently both Catherine and her daughter came here several times when they were staying at Fontainebleau to visit with René.”

Jac was feeling overwhelmed by the story Melinoe was still telling.

“René was credited with single-handedly bringing the art of perfume to France from Florence and the monastery of Santa Maria Novella. Your brother was very familiar with his legacy. But his personal life is a mystery. Historians haven’t discovered much about him . . .”

Jac was thinking that René le Florentin had once sat in this very room.

“René is quite shrouded by the past. It’s been a very frustrating treasure hunt,” Melinoe said.

“Treasure hunts often are,” Jac said. “I make my living searching for that one new tiny clue to explain a whole concept, and more often than not . . . never find it.”

“I bought the house because of René le Florentin and his work. Did your brother tell you?”

“No, he didn’t tell me very much . . . By the time I got to Paris, Robbie was . . . He didn’t have much energy . . .”

There was quiet for a few moments.

“Serge, could I have some more wine?” Melinoe asked as the maid came out and took away the soup bowls.