Books flew off the shelves. Not one volume, but a battery of missiles hit the back of people’s heads. A thick religious book hit the face of Lady Josephine squarely on her nose. Before I could gloat, a hand grabbed mine to pull me to the floor.
Archambeau shoved me under the knee opening of a massive wood desk. Gallantly, he positioned himself to the outside so the inkwell flying off the desk only hit him. It splattered his luminous white waistcoat with black drops.
“Was that really necessary!?”
“I can’t hear you over the screaming,” I shouted back.
He brought his face closer to mine, and I could smell his cologne, a scent of basil, tangerine, and star anise.
“You caused this to happen. On purpose,” he accused me.
“Technically, this is the work of a Noise Ghost who doesn’t like women. I can’t help it that Lady Baudelaire was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
It had grown quieter. Most of the living had run sobbing or screaming from the room. However, the air was still heavy and chilly, and sitting on the ground, I felt the coldness of vapor signaling we still had a Presence. Best stay where I was for now.
“What did you and Josephine discuss over dinner?”
“Oh. Well, she seemed surprised that you had invited me to dinner. Apparently I’m not fit company being an ordinary person of the trade class.”
“Hm.”
“I really did not suggest a ghost hunt. That was her idea, though I think she did it to humiliate me or you. I hate to speak ill of a dear family friend, but she really doesn’t like you.”
Now that the inkwells had stopped flying, he sat back on his heels and looked over the top of the desk to survey the room. “Do you think it’s safe to emerge now?”
I closed my eyes and scanned the unseen. “Yes, it's gone now.”
Giving me a hand, Archambeau helped me stand up. The room was a mess with broken windows, and scattered books. The heavy drapes were being whipped about from the wind and chairs were on their sides or upside down. Well, we could be thankful that it hadn’t started a fire. Tricky temperamental things, Noise Ghosts.
“Do you realize this is my office?”
“No? Really? Sorry.” I returned to the subject of Lady Baudelaire. “What do you think her purpose was for doing the ghost hunt? I had the feeling she had an ulterior motive.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, Chalamet.”
“And satisfaction brought it back.”
In the still darkness of the room, his shadowed eyes were in black sockets, featureless and blank. He said, “Families marry families, the goal is to amass more wealth. Her estates adjoin our own and I am sure to her mind it was a logical idea that a union should have happened after Minette died. But after being sold once into marriage like a prized pig, I wasn’t keen on doing it again. She did not take my rejection well. I imagine this stunt of Josephine’s was for revenge. You were to contact Minette and publicly humiliate me.”
“You mean reveal your marriage was a sham?”
“You love grabbing the tiger by the tail, don’t you? Well, Madame Nosy, I assure you that despite my in-laws belief, Minette did not die a virgin.”
“So, what could she say?”
He gave a bitter chuckle.
“How she died, of course. I have the feeling that Josephine suspects that Minette did not die of fever.”
“And she didn’t?”
“Of course not. I murdered her.”
Walking off without explaining himself was the method the duke de Archambeau used to end uncomfortable conversations.
After the dramatic confession last night, and his refusal to expound, breakfast the next morning was strangely uneventful. The duke was behind the newspaper, while his sister, Lady Valentina, busily thumbed through a society magazine, careful to pay me no attention.
Also seated around the table were three young men and a woman. One was Stephan, who seemed to be some sort of government clerk in the daylight. They were a subdued lot, mostly talking quietly among each other. From their conversation, it seemed they assisted Archambeau in his work for the king.
In the light of day, I couldn't believe what he told me last night was true. The duke did not behave like a murderer. Could a man enjoying his buttered toast and coffee while scanning the newspaper kill his wife? I had met many victims, but few murderers. How did he kill her? Why? And why tell me? Was it a test?
My head was spinning with speculation so at first I didn’t hear my host address me.
“Pardon me?”"
“I said, Inspector Barbier is here.” Archambeau folded his newspaper and set it aside. “Stephan, you and the men clean up the office. No, not Deena. Until we take care of it, there is a haunt in the room that dislikes anyone female. She can work in my private office until we get things sorted out.”
He rose, and I hastily wiped my mouth with a napkin before joining him. The clerks all cast me curious glances, while Stephan asked hesitantly, “But is it safe for us, Your Grace?”
“Certainly, for the men. And if it isn’t, give us a scream or two and we will bring Madame Chalamet to vanquish the spirit.” His promise did not seem to comfort them, so I added, “Don’t worry. The ghost is most likely exhausted from last night, so I expect things will be quiet today.”
I followed the duke and, together in the hall, I asked him, “Is Barbier here to discuss the case of Giles Monet?”
“I expect so. That is what I’ve set him out to do, and I would be very disappointed if he didn’t have some information for us.”
The other office wasn’t as grand or as large as Archambeau’s original one, but it seemed more of a personal place with casual clutter and a fireplace with a cheerful blaze that removed some of the fall damp. Inspector Barbier was alone, and as we entered, the inspector took off his hat, addressing me first.
“Madame Chalamet, I hope you are doing well.”
“Oh, yes, except for being held prisoner and forced to dine with snobs.”
Archambeau closed the double doors and invited Barbier to sit. We all arranged ourselves around the hearth. Carved from black stone with green veining, it was a lovely piece, and, of course, expensive. What was it like to grow up around such wealth? What ideas did it put into your head? How did it shape your character? I suspected it could make one arrogant enough to murder his wife.
“Do you have any news for us, inspector?”
From his coat pocket, Barbier pulled out a little leather-bound notebook. He released the tied ribbon and flipped it open. I didn’t bother looking over his shoulder because I knew it would be intelligible to me. From our long acquaintance, I knew he used a specialized shorthand known only to him; he was a careful bloodhound.
“With Madame Chalamet’s Ghost Talk information, we found Monet’s lodging. He was living rough, as a lodger at a house that took in transients at five royals a month.”
“Does he not have funds? I would think the king would still support him, despite Monet being a bastard.” Neither man seemed shocked by my use of the word. I am sure Lady Valentina would have gasped, but luckily, the duke’s sister was not around.
Archambeau explained. “Giles visits court only occasionally and usually lives with his mother at her estate about an hour away from Alenbonné by train. Still, I agree. If he wanted to be in town, his allowance should have allowed him to afford something better. I would have expected him to be at a hotel, such as the Crown or the Royal.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to run into old acquaintances?” I suggested.
“You mean other aristos?” asked Archambeau. I nodded. “What of his friends, Barbier? What crowd did Monet run with?”
“The turf set, it seems. Sponsored a horse or two at the races. A punter. Loved to gamble but, talking with the bookmakers, they said he wasn’t in deep and everyone thought him a pleasant chap. No particular enemies. Described as good-natured and was well-liked. When he lost, Monet would always front a round for everyone.”
“Doesn’t sound like a revenge killing to me,” I said.
“The public face is not always the true nature of a man,” said Archambeau.
Barbier flipped over some more pages of his notebook.
“The odd thing is, no one has seen him for weeks. His best horse had a race last weekend, and he was a no-show. The damn thing won at twenty to one.”
Archambeau rubbed his square chin before tapping a forefinger on his lips. He confided in us. “I received a message from court late last night and Monet was at Winterbride with the king last month.”
“Then royalty is involved!”
The duke shot me a sideways look. “Some of the king’s jewelry might have disappeared when Monet left.” At my gaping mouth, Archambeau said. “You don’t think I locked up the daughter of Augustus Chalamet for my personal entertainment, did you? Having someone familiar with royal trinkets could come in handy.”
While I was still re-grouping all my assumptions, he asked Barbier, “What else did you discover, inspector?”
“Here’s a list of the contents of the room.” From the back of the notebook, Inspector Barbier pulled out a folded looseleaf paper and handed it over to Archambeau. The duke read it over, while the inspector continued.
“Because of his accent and appearance, the landlady thought him an aristo down on his luck. Nothing remarkable in that. Gambling or drink too often overextends these types until they blow their brains out or their parents bail them out from debtor’s prison. For women, it’s the bills for millinery, jewelery, and cards.”
My mind flitted to Josephine Baudelaire and her paste diamonds. Did the duke know they were fake? Was she in need of money?
“The landlady is a tough bird. She’s strict and allows no visitors to the rooms. But his hallway neighbor knew Monet regularly lunched at a local café popular with the theater crowd. Saw him there with a baby-faced blond girl.”
The inspector gave a nod in my direction. “That statement tallies with what madame showed us last night. We traced the girl to a cabaret called the Nightingale. It has nightly shows— dancers, magicians, jugglers, and even an animal act with trained dogs. Turns out we raided the district two nights back and had a few still in custody to interview.”
“It will be interesting to see if the postmortem of Monet shows that he died about the same time as the raid.”
“About that—” Barbier pulled out a packet of folded papers from inside of his coat pocket. “Dr. LaRue sent you a preliminary report, but she wants you to know this isn’t her last word on the matter.”
Archambeau took the report and started scanning Dr. LaRue’s crabbed script.
“As I suspected. Monet’s death could have happened the night of the raid. A blow to the back of the head, and probably unconscious when he drowned in the canal. What more from your interviews?”
“The gals we interviewed said the blond filly goes under the stage name Gabriella. Everyone had the same story: an aristo has been hanging around the Nightingale flashing money and Gabriella was wearing new jewelry. The aristo matches the description of Monet. Not many men have a mole to the right of their nose.”
“Have you brought her in for questioning?” asked Archambeau.
“No one knows where she is. Scampered during the raid and, like a lot of these girls, no known address. We searched her trunk left behind at the Nightingale but didn’t find any money or jewels. Not even a card from lover boy.”
Archambeau fell into a brown study while the two of us waited in silence. Finally, he asked, “Will the Nightingale re-open?”
“The owner paid the fines, so I expect so.”
“Find out and let me know. We need to visit incognito and discover what they didn’t tell the police.”
Before I could help myself, I gleefully clapped my hands, earning a suppressed, tight-lipped smile from Archambeau.
“Not done getting into trouble, Madame Nosy?”
“Not by a long shot.”