Wednesday, 8 March
The next morning Sebastian drove out to the rue du Champs du Repos. He wanted to ask Sophie’s coachman if they had indeed returned to Paris via Malmaison, and if so, why the hell he hadn’t seen fit to tell Sebastian about it.
The day had dawned cloudy, blustery, and cold, more like winter than the last few balmy, springlike days they had so briefly enjoyed. He found the hôtel particulier looking joyless in the flat white light, its courtyard littered with browning blossoms blown from the fruit trees in the orchard.
A tall, gangly young stable boy was pushing a wheelbarrow piled with fouled straw through the stable doors when Sebastian drew up and handed the curricle’s reins to Tom. “You’re Léon, aren’t you?” said Sebastian, hopping down.
“Oui, monsieur,” said the boy, his ears red from the cold, his face tense and anxious, as if he were wondering what he’d done to be singled out like this.
“I’m looking for the coachman. Do you know where he is?”
“Noël?” Léon set down the barrow and swiped the sleeve of his coat across his runny nose. “He took off when we heard about what happened to Francine.”
Sebastian felt the wind gust cold and damp against his face. “Do you know why?”
“He said he wasn’t gonna wait around for somebody to do to him what they did to her.”
“He was afraid?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Guess he was.”
“Do you know why?”
The boy stared at Sebastian wide-eyed. “Non, monsieur.”
Sebastian wasn’t convinced the lad was as ignorant as he claimed, but nodded across the courtyard to the silent house. “What about the footman madame had with her on her trip—Guillaume, wasn’t it? Is he around?”
“Non, monsieur. He took off, too.”
Damn. Sebastian studied the stable boy’s silent, watchful face. “You wouldn’t happen to know if Dama Cappello stopped at Malmaison on her way back from the south of France, would you?”
To his surprise, the boy nodded. “Oui, monsieur. I heard Noël talking to one of the gardeners about it, telling him how changed the place is these days.”
“Did he happen to mention why they were there?”
“I don’t think he knew, monsieur. Pierre—that’s the gardener—asked him that, but he said he couldn’t figure it out. Said there’s hardly anyone there anymore, just the housekeeper and a maid and a few groundsmen. Everything in the château has either been sold or is under holland covers, and the gardens are a ruin.”
“So what did madame do while she was there?”
“Noël said she went into the house, but came out again just a few minutes later. And then they left. That’s it.”
“Was she carrying anything with her?”
“Not that he mentioned, monsieur.”
A hawk circled low over the nearby fields, its dark wings silhouetted sharply against the heavy white clouds. Sebastian watched it for a moment, thoughtful. “Where would Noël go if he wanted to hide?”
“I don’t know, monsieur. Always kept pretty much to himself, Noël. He’s not one to sit around the table in the servants’ hall and talk.”
“What about the footman?”
“Guillaume? He said he was going back to Poitou. That’s where he’s from, you know—Poitiers. He and another of the footmen left together. Their fathers are both tailors there.”
“They must have been frightened, indeed.”
The boy’s worried dark eyes looked directly into Sebastian’s. “Reckon they were.”