Coachman Richard’s Residence
Paris, Kingdom of France
Marcus knocked yet again, and still there was no answer. The man could be out, but the landlady downstairs had said he hadn’t come down yet. It was possible she had missed him, though he had his doubts. Melanie Girard had been murdered, and as far as they knew, the coachman was the only person left who was involved in this conspiracy.
Someone could be tying up loose ends.
He tried the door and found it unlocked. Pushing it open, he sighed with disappointment at the sight before him. The coachman was dead, bled out from the stomach, likely by a blade shoved deep and twisted, his body lying on the floor in front of the door. Whoever had killed him had probably stabbed him immediately upon entering, the door perhaps opened by the victim himself.
“This is a bloody mess,” muttered Simon.
“Yes.” Marcus knelt by the body and felt the man’s cheek. “He’s still warm. This didn’t happen too long ago.”
He stepped out of the room, closing the door, then hurried down the stairs, followed by Simon. He flagged down the landlady, about to enter one of the rooms. “Ma’am, a word.”
“Yes? Did you find your friend?”
“We did, ma’am. Did he have any visitors this morning?”
“Yes, yes he did. A very generous man, in fact.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”
“When I asked his business, he tossed me several coins, and asked what room your friend was in. I told him, he went to see your friend, then returned a few minutes later and left.”
“Did he say anything when he left?”
“Nothing.”
“Was he carrying a cane?” asked Simon.
The woman shook her head. “No, I think I should remember that. Why?”
“We’ve heard mention of a limp.”
“Well, this man didn’t have one.” The woman’s mouth slowly opened. “But now that you mention it, I did hear him express some discomfort when he took that first step. It’s a little higher than usual.”
Marcus eyed it, remembering from the night before that it was indeed almost twice the height it should be. If someone were not yet fully recovered from some injury, it could prove a challenge. “How long has he lived here?”
“Years. An excellent tenant. I never had a problem with him. I always felt he could do better, but he seemed content to live here. He kept to himself for the most part, and rarely entertained.”
“Did he ever have any visitors? Family? Friends?”
Simon leaned in. “A lady?”
The woman’s head shook until Simon’s interjection. “Actually, a lady did come here once, a few months ago, though how much of a lady she could be, I don’t know. A woman visiting a man in his room? I can think of only one purpose for that!”
Marcus suppressed a smile. “Could you describe her?”
“Overdressed.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, trying to be a lady, but not quite managing it. Her bearing wasn’t right. She was dressed well, but I doubt she was born into the money she wore.”
Simon leaned closer to Marcus. “That sounds like our girl.”
And it did, which suggested their coachman had been lying about his relationship with his passenger. “Anything else you can tell us?”
“Brunette. Maybe forty.”
Simon grunted. “Definitely not our girl.”
Marcus agreed. “How long did she visit him?”
“Perhaps ten minutes.”
“Not very long for anything untoward.”
Simon cleared his throat. “Some men are faster than others, sir.”
Marcus gave his sergeant a look. “I’ll yield to your expertise on the matter.” He returned his attention to the landlady. “And you’ve never seen this woman since?”
“Not here.”
Marcus’ eyes widened slightly. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I’ve seen her about.”
“Where?”
She shrugged. “Nowhere specific. Just in the street.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Perhaps a week ago, maybe two.” She smiled. “I remember now! The last time I saw her was at the Swan. It’s a tavern not five minutes from here. Ask there, they may know who she is.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “But watch yourselves. It’s a bad lot that hangs out there.”