We decided to split up.
Too many possibilities for where Denton might be existed for all of us to stay together. Marcher was going to stake out Denton’s residence and follow him or whoever he could find there. Antoine and I headed to Lydia St. Benedict’s home. Marcher had learned through his police connections that the candidate was there, preparing for the upcoming final debate, her children with their grandmother during the final stretch of the race.
St. Benedict lived thirty minutes outside of Paris in Barbizon, a small town on the edge of the Fontainebleau forest, once a favorite hunting ground for the kings of France. The trip took an hour in Antoine’s car. Traffic had been bad until we came clear of the suburbs. I’d visited the palace of Fontainebleau several times. For someone like me, with an interest in medieval architecture, the site was a must-see. Its famed château had served as a sovereign residence for over eight hundred years. The Capétiens, Valois, Bourbons, Bonapartes and Orléans all left their mark. Catherine de’ Medici had made smart use of its secret passageways to spy on her husband and his mistress. Before being exiled to Elba, Napoleon abdicated there.
While finishing my PhD I’d spent several weeks at the Château de Fontainebleau and had come to know not only the buildings, but its forests, environs, and the town. The inn I frequented sat within walking distance to Lydia St. Benedict’s home. I booked two rooms for the night and learned from the desk clerk that St. Benedict was at home. I showered, dressed, and we both ate a light supper of soup and salad at a nearby café. While eating I overheard the people at the next table, who seemed to be from St. Benedict’s campaign retinue. They were upbeat, discussing their candidate’s poll numbers, all of them feeling good about the debate tomorrow night. We left the café around a quarter to nine.
The walk to St. Benedict’s house took ten minutes.
It sat among the trees, off the road. Lights burned both downstairs and upstairs. Otherwise the house seemed quiet. One car sat parked in the driveway.
“Should we ring the bell?” Antoine asked.
“I’ve always liked the direct approach. But let me do this. We don’t know who else is there.”
He seemed to understand. “Denton?”
I nodded. “Better you wait out here. As you said, you’re not the right person to approach him.”
He nodded.
I left him in the trees, walked to the front door, and rang the bell. No answer. I waited, but no one came. No butler or maid? Surely St. Benedict employed people. I stepped away from the door and signaled for Antoine to stay put. I then walked around to the side and explored the grounds. The house was typical of the mid-1700s, probably once owned by someone of importance close to the royal family. The walls were a warm, creamy gray stone which I knew was from the Oise quarries about twenty-five miles outside of Paris.
I rounded the far side and saw an open window on the ground floor. I approached and peeked in at the kitchen. The ancient stone hearth was still intact with a cast iron pot hanging from a hook. Judging from the elaborate stainless steel stove, the hearth was no longer utilized. But clearly a lot of the old charm had survived renovations.
Still no one around.
I decided to be bold and climbed inside.
I crept through the kitchen and explored the rest of the rooms downstairs. A fire burned in the living room hearth—unusual if no one was home. A half full stem of red wine rested on a coffee table. Beside that was a tumbler holding a quarter inch of brown liquor. A sniff told me it was Scotch.
Indentations on the Regency couch seemed to indicate that two people had been seated there not long before. The dining room loomed empty but the chairs were haphazardly pulled out. Papers were strewn across the top and a laptop was open displaying a frozen image of St. Benedict at a lectern. An indicator showed the video at half over. Everything here seemed like unfinished business.
I walked down a short corridor to an empty library, then up the stairs. Each of the four bedrooms were empty. Two were children’s rooms. A third, a guest room, seemed in use by a man judging from the clothes and shoes. The last bedroom, at the opposite end of the hall, was the master, which smelled of perfume. Up one more flight of stairs and I found a warren of servants’ rooms and a playroom for children.
No one there either.
Back downstairs, I stood in the foyer and absorbed the atmosphere. If there was life in this house I couldn’t hear or see it. I walked through the rooms once more and a thought occurred to me. Old houses like this usually came with a basement and perhaps even a sub-basement. From what I knew of 17th century architecture, most entrances to the sub-levels were off the kitchen. I returned there and found a staircase leading down to a lit, ventilated, truncated basement. There were storage rooms, a wine cellar, even a laundry. Its size was smaller than expected. Typically, a basement stretched across the house’s entire footprint, part of its stone foundation.
But not here.
Dead silence enveloped me.
Then I began to hear sounds.
Muffled.
Hard to identify.
I shut my eyes and listened.
They came again.
More distinct.
I crept close to the perimeter of the exterior walls, nestling my ear to the stone.
Nothing.
Had I imagined it?
I returned upstairs and re-walked the first floor, figuring dimensions, counting footsteps, eye-balling measurements and comparing them to the basement where I’d just been. I ascertained that the space I’d just explored in the basement was under the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room but had not extended under the sun room or the library or the bathroom off of it.
Interesting.
Sometimes a degree in medieval architecture came in handy. I knew that châteaus built before 1900 often came with hidden chambers. Sometimes they’d served as private spaces. Entrances to those secret rooms were often hidden behind false walls, many times inside closets or behind shelving or cabinetry. All of the tropes in books, movies, and novels were true. For the sake of thoroughness I investigated the shelves in the library, but none of them sprang open. I stepped back into the living room and looked around one last time.
Something felt wrong about this whole place.
And even though I didn’t know Lydia St. Benedict, I felt compelled to make sure all was well with her.
My gaze focused on the hearth where the fire had become just burning embers. The fireplace itself was twice normal size—large enough for someone to step into provided they stooped over. I walked back to the library which had the same tall ceilings and oversized fireplace. Remnants of the last fire that had burnt there were cold to the touch, though the scent of smoke and burnt wood lingered. I stepped around the andirons, into the hearth, and ducked inside. The walls were typically scorched. Ashes littered the grate.
Then I saw them.
Footprints in the ash.
One set of a woman’s, the other a man’s.
I pushed on the right wall. Nothing happened. Nor did the wall at the back of the enclosure give. But the left wall moved. It opened without a sound, easily swinging inward and revealing a stone staircase. A breeze of cool air wafted up without even a hint of a musty odor. No cobwebs anywhere. This was an active passageway. I made my way down the stone staircase to an oak door, complete with an iron ring and hinges, devoid of rust.
I grabbed the ring and gently pushed.
It moved inward without a sound.
Enough for me to see something astonishing.