Chapter 18
Elba?” said Hero when Sebastian had finished telling her most—but not quite all—of what he’d learned that day. “What in heaven’s name was Sophie doing on Elba?”
“Meeting with Napoléon, one presumes,” said Sebastian. “But for what purpose, I can only guess. And all the guesses are more than troubling.”
They had settled after dinner in the house’s old-fashioned salon overlooking the ancient square, Sebastian sipping a glass of port and Hero curled up in one of the worn chairs by the fire while she mended a hem Simon had torn that afternoon.
“And Marie-Thérèse knows of their meeting?” said Hero. “My God. Could she have had Sophie killed because of it?”
Sebastian stared out the window, his gaze on the bare limbs of the plane trees moving restlessly in the wind. “I wouldn’t put it past her—either her or her uncle Artois. And interestingly enough, neither does Hendon.”
“And you’ve no idea what this red leather case the innkeeper was talking about could be?”
“No, none. All I know at this point is that it was gone by the time I found her.”
“Perhaps she gave it to Monsieur Sanson.” Hero kept her gaze on her sewing. “He seems an odd acquaintance for her to have.”
“Beyond odd.” Sebastian pushed away from the window and went to refill his drink. “But with any luck, he may be able to tell us something that will help make sense of what happened to her.” He was silent for a moment, watching Hero tie off her thread and cut it. He had given her Sophie’s letter to read, but he hadn’t told her about Marshal McClellan’s portrait and he couldn’t begin to explain why, even to himself.
She set aside her mending and looked up at him. “I can’t believe Hendon knew she was in Paris all this time.”
“Really? I can.” He watched the firelight flicker across her beloved features, watched her brows draw together in thought in that way she had, and he set aside his port to go stand behind her chair and put his hands on her shoulders. “Thank you.”
She tilted back her head to look up at him, a puzzled smile on her lips. “For what?”
For meeting with that damned doctor and officier de paix, he thought. For organizing the funeral, which I’m not sure I could bear to deal with at the moment. For not pressing me to talk about things you know I can’t bring myself to talk about. But all he said was “Everything.”
She gave a faint shake of her head. “I thought Amanda might come this afternoon. Surely Hendon has told her by now. Don’t you think she’d want to see her mother?”
“I suppose it depends on how much anger and resentment she harbors toward Sophie. My guess is it’s a lot. No one’s better at harboring anger and resentment than Amanda.”
“Perhaps. But still—” She broke off as the bell sounded below. “Expecting someone?”
“No.”
A moment later a footman appeared at the salon’s door with a bow. “A Monsieur Eugène-François Vidocq to see you, my lord. He says you will know who he is.”
“Send him up right away.”
The footman bowed again. “Yes, my lord.”
“Do you know who he is?” asked Hero.
Sebastian reached for his glass of port and drained it. “I do indeed. He’s an ex–galley slave who somehow managed to get himself appointed head of something called the Sûreté nationale. From what I’m told, he’s very good at catching criminals and murderers—largely because he was once one himself.”
Although only average in height, Eugène-François Vidocq came into the room exuding all the energy and presence of a much larger man. His shoulders were broad and bearlike, his hands meaty, his head unusually big. Even the features of his face were exaggerated, his nose and chin pronounced, his mouth wide and mobile. He looked older than his thirty-nine years, his thick, overlong dark blond hair heavy with gray. But then, he’d lived a hard life, having killed his fencing master as a youth and run away from home at the tender age of thirteen. In the course of his varied career, he’d enlisted—several times—in the Republican Army; toured with a troop of Romani; served as a cattle drover, a privateer, and a forger; seduced and defrauded a string of women; and escaped from more prisons than anyone could remember. Sebastian had never heard exactly how he’d managed to convince the Paris police chief, Jean Henry, to allow Vidocq to set up a brigade of ex-criminals dedicated to fighting crime, but it had been an inspired move. Uncannily observant, diabolically clever, and possessed of an amazing memory for faces, Vidocq had become a legend in just a few years.
Entering the salon with a rapid gait, he brought with him the city scents of woodsmoke, tobacco, and the river. His clothes were those of a middling member of the bourgeoisie, neither extraordinarily fine nor ragged—all the better to blend in with a crowd or pass unnoticed. He swept Hero a surprisingly courtly bow, then turned to Sebastian and said, “I’ve heard about you.”
“Oh?”
“They say you like to solve murders.”
“Sometimes.”
Vidocq lifted his head, breathed in deeply through his nose, then smiled and said, “Ah. You’ve been drinking the port of the Cima Corgo. I’ll take a glass, thank you.”
“Of course,” said Sebastian, his gaze meeting Hero’s for one brief moment before he went to pour the strange man a glass and refresh his own.
“Merci.” Vidocq took the glass extended to him, sniffed the hearty wine’s scent with smiling appreciation, then took a drink. “Ç’est bon.” He fixed Sebastian with a hard stare, cocked one thick arched brow, and said, “You know why I’m here?”
“Not exactly. I was told by the commissaire that even you were not so foolish as to involve yourself in the death of Sophia Cappello.”
Vidocq pursed his lips and made a rude noise. “Balssa is like one of those little bugs that rolls itself into a hard, tight ball at the least hint of danger.” He brought up one hand, finger pointed, to draw a swirling circle in the air. “He has no sense of adventure, no curiosity, and no imagination.”
“Unlike you.”
A crooked grin stretched the man’s wide mouth. “Unlike me.” He took another noisy slurp of port. According to what Sebastian had heard, Vidocq was the son of a successful merchant from Arras. But many years had passed since those days.
The Frenchman said, “I’ve spoken to Dr. Pelletan.”
“Yes?” said Sebastian.
“He tells me your mother was stabbed before she was thrown off the Pont Neuf.”
Sebastian kept his features carefully composed. “He told you she was my mother?”
“What? Ah, no, that information comes from someone at the Tuileries—although you can rest assured that I have made no alterations to the Act of Death filled out by the sadly pedestrian-minded officier de paix who met with the vicomtesse earlier today.” He turned to bow again to Hero. “Even armed with this knowledge, I saw little reason to become involved . . . until this evening.”
“This evening?” said Hero.
He bowed to her again. “This evening. A young woman has been found murdered in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. It’s a rough place, Saint-Antoine. But this woman’s death is unusual, as is her identity: Francine Danjou, abigail to the late Dama Cappello—or, I should say, to the Countess of Hendon.”
Sebastian’s startled gaze again met Hero’s across the room.
“So,” said Vidocq, one swooping eyebrow raised in inquiry as he drained his glass and set it aside, “you will come with me now to Saint-Antoine, yes?”