“She’s gone. Gone for days.” The voice on the other side of the door was muffled.
The dark third-floor hallway smelled of mold and waste. There were days when the British prison hulk where Daniel had been imprisoned smelled just like this and days when it smelled worse. For a moment, he heard the boat creak, felt the rolling motion at anchor in New York Harbor. He steadied himself.
Becca touched his arm, her expression filled with concern.
Daniel nodded to her, shaking off the memories, then pointed to the stairs, as if to ask, “Should we leave?”
Becca shook her head.
Leaving would be the prudent thing to do. With Becca in her court make-up and Daniel in fine cotton clothing, they stood out in this neighborhood. They’d be marked for theft or worse. The sooner they returned to Franklin’s mansion, the better.
But who was to say that the woman behind the door was telling the truth? Renée might be gone. She might not.
Even if Jude’s lover thought she was safe and could care for a babe, a woman with child needed all the friends she could find. Everyone knew that, especially Daniel. Childbirth was the most dangerous moment of a woman’s life.
He shallowed his breath, listening closely through the door.
He heard a bird trill, then a woman’s sob. But the sound of her tears was gone so quickly that he wasn’t certain he’d heard anything but his own memory. Was the woman who answered them standing on the other side of the door holding her own breath? Was she struggling to hear him?
“Can we talk to you then? We are friends of Renée, the best friends she could have.”
Silence.
He wasn’t ready to give up on the pregnant woman he’d never met. “Jude Fenimore would want to know Renée was taken care of.”
The door protested with a squeak. It opened into a one-room apartment barely larger than a kitchen larder.
The young woman behind the door with light brown hair held a wooden stick in her right hand. Her left eye was swollen shut. Her cheekbone and jaw were a mottled mix of blue and purple, and she held her left arm against her side as if it hurt to move. She was alone.
“Renée? What happened?” Becca rushed through the door.
The woman raised the wooden stick, ready to strike. “I don’t know you.”
“I know I look different,” Becca said. “Your Monsieur Fargeon had his way with me, or, at least, with my face.”
Renée hmmfed and stepped back, allowing them entrance to the apartment. “You look like all the others now. I recognize you. Tell me what you came to say and go.” She leaned the three-foot-long dowel against the wall.
A small yellow bird stared back at Daniel, ruffling its feathers in protest at the intrusion. It resided in a wire bird cage that hung near the only window.
A beige day gown, wet from waist to hem, hung from a hook on the back wall. A blanket the color of light tea was curled like a cat onto a lumpy straw-filled mattress. Low, uneven shelves teetered against the left wall. Another small table held a bowl with water for washing and a brush with a porcelain handle decorated with painted roses.
The elegant brush was so out of place that Daniel knew it must have been a gift from Jude or another admirer. Something drew his gaze back to the side of the bed. A reddish-brown bloodstain. Several bloodstains.
Becca noticed them, too. She took Renée’s arm. “You should be sitting. When did it happen?” She pointed to the stains. “Was it because of whoever did this to you?”
It? What had happened?
Renée shook off Becca’s arm as she sat on the bed, tugging her tired beige gown away from the blood. Her chin puckered with the effort not to cry.
“Are you all right?” Becca kneeled before the woman, raising her face to Renée.
“How could I be?”
“The baby?”
Renée wrapped her arms around her belly, rocking forward and back.
“Were you alone when it happened?” Becca whispered.
“You lost the baby,” Daniel finally understood.
“The landlady heard me crying two days ago. She came.” Renée’s eyes pooled with tears.
Words came easily to Daniel, but he didn’t speak now. There would be no comfort in telling Renée that it was God’s will she’d lost the child or that there would be others, or that, as a woman alone, she was better off without a babe. Sentiments such as those could leave permanent scars. He still bore some of them from the misguided kindness of neighbors after the death of his wife and son.
“Who did this to you?” Daniel couldn’t offer comfort, but he could promise justice. That might console her in the future. “If what happened to you was no accident, someone should pay for the harm they caused.”
“Who are you?” Renée studied him.
“It’s Jude’s killer we’re after,” Daniel said after introducing himself. “Mrs. Parcell told you that, I know.”
Becca yanked at the single small window in the room until it popped open. It was stiflingly hot. The room reeked of perspiration and the sharp scent of vinegar. That was vinegar, not water, in the bowl, Daniel realized. Vinegar to clean bloodstains from the miscarriage.
A small carafe of wine, a heel of stale bread, and two mugs without handles stood on a shelf. Daniel poured a half cup of the wine and brought it to Renée.
She gripped it with both hands, sipped, and exhaled. “An accident. I think an accident.”
“When?” Becca asked.
“Two days ago.”
Becca said that Renée had quit just two days ago. That left her with no reason to let the Fargeons know she was hurt.
“I walk home each night. This neighborhood is not a safe one. I think someone is following. A woman has that sense. Isn’t that true, madam?”
“Women have that sense when they are paying attention,” Becca agreed.
“I pay attention. But I did not see anyone paying attention to me.” A shrug. “I hear footsteps running. Running footsteps do not alarm me. I hear them often enough. My neighborhood is full of beggars and thieves who find reasons to run. The Court of Miracles they call this place, this slum. Parisians have a sense of humor.”
“But?” Daniel prodded.
“But this time, the running man pushed me. Did he bump into me by mistake? Did he shove me? I think one thing, then the other, monsieur.” Renée gulped air, her chest rising and falling.
“Did you see him?” Daniel asked.
She shook her head. “I lose my footing. My arms go over my stomach, and so I cannot stop myself. Into the street, I fall and fall.” She closed her eyes. “My cheek and shoulder hit the side of the carriage. The driver didn’t stop.”
“Do you remember anything about the man who pushed you? Daniel asked.
She kneaded her hands, staring down at them. “He was not tall, not like your man here.”
“How do you know?” Becca asked.
“I do not know. I have a sense. A shape moving. Hands straight out to push, not reaching down at me.”
Becca and Daniel exchanged another glance. That wasn’t enough to help identify the man.
“Madame Fargeon said that you left your position. You quit,” Becca said.
The bird sang again.
Tears leaked from Renée’s eyes. “Jude promised to take care of me, and he did. At least, he tried to. He left money for me and the baby in this box.” Renée pointed to the shelves. A small, narrow pine box sat open there.
“I crawled out of the street. I don’t know how long it took. When I made my way home, I found someone had been here. I hurt too much to clean up their mess until this morning. They took the money Jude left me for the baby. Now I have no baby, no money, and no work.”
Daniel kept his thoughts to himself, not wanting to scare the injured woman. He might, just might, believe that a man unthinkingly shoved Renée into the street. But the attack had come with a side dish of robbery. Neither event was random.
Three steps brought him to the shelves. The floorboards creaked with each footfall. Daniel studied the narrow, empty wood box. Almost empty. It contained a narrow, untied blue ribbon, the type used to keep currency or letters neatly bound.
Daniel wondered where Jude had come by the money. Patience Wright had said he was a gambler and always short of funds.
“The thief took Renée’s money. Perhaps that was all he wanted.” Becca said doubtfully.
“On the same day, Renée is pushed into a speeding carriage?” Daniel asked. “A fine coincidence. It is more likely that the thief pushed her to give himself more time to arrive here and search for something. He took the money to make this appear to be a simple theft.”
“Or he pushed her because she knows something that is dangerous. But what does Renée know?” Becca asked in English.
“Do you have family who can take you in for a while?” Becca switched to French
Renée shook her head furiously.
“She can’t stay here alone now,” Becca said to Daniel.
“No.” He studied the small yellow bird fluttering against the thin bars of its cage. “Can you pack quickly?” he asked Renée.
“Pack?” She tightened her arms round herself. “To go? Go where?”
“To come with us.” Daniel wondered what type of greeting they’d receive at Passy, with Benjamin Franklin practically pushing them out the door.
Renée’s stare combined pride, insult, and distrust. “To come with you? You want to take me to the place my Jude died? No, monsieur. I do not know you. I will not.”
“To the perfume shop, then,” Becca jumped in.
“Madam hates me.”
“She does not hate you.” Becca crouched next to Renée. “She is worried. She cares. She is holding your job for you.”
“My job? How do you know?”
“She told me so this morning.”
“You spoke to her?”
Becca nodded. “Madam will want you safe. Come with us to the perfume shop.”
Renée’s face brightened. “My bird. The box from Mr. Fenimore. I have little else. I will be ready in moments.” She handed Daniel a square of cloth. “Alphonse will sleep if you place this over his cage, monsieur.” Then she turned back, chatting with Becca and plucking a blouse from one hook, a skirt from another.
“You seem happy enough, Alphonse,” Daniel said to the bird. “Any word on who broke in?” Alphonse turned his head left, right, and back. “No help there.” Daniel shook the cloth out as his eyes skimmed the cage’s base. He dropped the cloth and went still.
Becca’s forehead creased. “What have you found?”
He pointed to the paper at the bottom of the cage.
“Oh, that,” Renée swept her hand out as if shooing away a fly. “That is to keep the cage clean.”
Daniel and Becca studied the yellow bird as it ruffled its feathers, expressing its indignation. Renée had ripped some paper to protect the bottom of the cage. One piece lay atop the other. Those were torn bits of English words at the bottom of a French bird’s cage.
“Is that Mr. Fenimore’s writing?” He pointed to the strips of paper.
Renée nodded. “Business letters, Jude tells me.” She jutted her chin in the direction of the box he’d left her. “Under the money, there were letters.” She shrugged. “He left a few folded under the money. He said to keep them there until he returned.” Her voice caught. “I do not read English or French. And since my Jude won’t need them, I put them to good use.”
Daniel cocked his head to make out whatever words he could. But Renée had torn the pages vertically. His gaze skimmed down one strip, and he read: “Red rose; me a thousand; one-third; not countenance.” A second word strip read: Notre Dame; more than; He works for; and, told him not.”
“A confession?” Becca stepped forward, contemplating the paper.
“It mentions Notre Dame. But it’s impossible to tell.” Daniel switched to French. “Mademoiselle, did Mr. Fenimore talk more about these papers when he gave you the box?”
“How did you know?” Renée’s eyes widened.
“Because the correspondence must have mattered to him a great deal if he gave it to the one person he trusted.” It was flattery but also the truth.
She nodded. “He said that if anything happened to him and someone came for the papers, I should say that he could not go through with it. That is what he wanted people to know.” Renée recited the words as if she’d carefully memorized them.
Becca hugged herself and switched to English. “What a reckless, foolish man. ‘Tis one thing to risk his own life. But there is no excuse for risking Renée’s. What if Jude’s killer came asking for the letters?”
“Jude’s killer probably did come. He pushed her into a carriage first to make sure she wouldn’t interfere with his search.” Daniel’s voice was dry.
Renée raised her face to Daniel, then Becca. “Do you know what my Jude meant? I asked, but he wouldn’t say. What couldn’t he go through with?”
Daniel struggled to keep his frustration at bay. “May we take the letters? We’ll return them.” Perhaps the answer was there, protected by Alphonse.
Renée shrugged. “What do I care about letters with Jude gone? I can’t even read them. Take the ones that are left.”
Becca froze. “Left? There are others?”
“There were.” Renée winced. Her hand rose to cover her stomach. “But when Alphonse dirties the paper, I do not leave them there, madam. I throw them out. Some letters are gone.” She sank onto the bed, her voice growing faint. “I must sit now.” Her pale skin shone with perspiration.
Becca rushed to the shelf. Lifting a chipped terra cotta pitcher, she poured a cup of cider and brought it to Renée. “We need to get her to Madame Fargeon,” Becca called to Daniel. “The letters will have to wait.”
She looked so pained by the thought of delay that Daniel almost laughed. But damn it, she was right. He swept the ragged paper strips into his broad hand, trying not to think about the souvenirs Alphonse might have left there.