The Adventuress (18 page)

“She was standing right in front of me,” he said, “with the box just to the side.”

“And she asked you to give it to Mademoiselle Wells?”

“It was clearly labeled, as you can see. I was in the midst of helping several other guests—morning is a busy time and we had several parties checking out.”

“So Lady Emily did not speak to you directly about the box?” Madame du Lac asked.

“No, I cannot remember that she did, but it was evident that the box was hers. It was right next to her.”

“Was she handing in her key, perhaps?” Madame du Lac asked.

“She did leave her key,” the clerk said. “And the box.”

“The label is not written in Kallista's hand,” Madame du Lac said, turning back to the ladies.

“I do not see how that matters,” Birdie said, puffing up her chest. “She is insulting my daughter. I feel that we should ask her to leave Cannes at once. If this engagement is not something she is capable of celebrating—”

“That is quite enough, Madame Wells,” Madame du Lac said. “Kallista would never have done this. Someone left the box on the desk—”

“Just when your friend happened to be standing there?” Birdie asked. The two ladies could not have looked more different, Madame du Lac slender and elegant, Birdie built like a battle-axe.

“I have no doubt the timing was deliberate.”

“As hard as I find it to believe that Emily would do such a thing, are we to believe there is someone else bent on hurting both Emily and Amity?” Christabel's voice almost trembled. “I cannot give that theory any credence.”

“I am afraid, my friends, that I have lost the heart for shopping,” Amity said. “Would any of you object if I stayed behind? I should like to lie down.”

“We will all stay with you,” Christabel said.

“No, I could not bear to know that I had kept you all from any fun. Go, please. Perhaps I could meet you later for tea?”

After consulting with the concierge, who recommended a tea shop, they agreed on a time, but no one felt right leaving Amity alone. She insisted however, asking only one thing: that they remove the destroyed hat.

“I do not think I could stand to see it again.”

Madame du Lac picked up the box and took it back to the desk, speaking quietly to the clerk before she returned to Amity's side. “We ought not allow it to go out with the rubbish, Mademoiselle Wells. Someone is trying to torment you, and this is our only clue to the person's identity.”

Tears flooded Amity's eyes. “A clue? Is it not obvious what happened? You cannot believe your friend would do such a thing, even when the proof is in front of you? Have I done something to offend you, Madame du Lac? To make you think I do not merit even basic kindness?”

“Do not be foolish, Mademoiselle Wells,” Madame du Lac said. “I find you a quite delightful sort of young lady. Even if I did not, I should object strongly to anyone harassing you in such a despicable way. My experience has taught me, though, that in these cases the obvious solution is not always the correct one. Monsieur Hargreaves will be able—”

“Her husband?” Birdie balked. “Of course he will take the side of his wife.”

“You do not know Monsieur Hargreaves, Madame Wells. If you did, you would be fully aware that should he find anyone—even his wife—guilty of a crime, he would let nothing stand in the way of his bringing her to justice.”

“I cannot believe he would believe his wife guilty of even the smallest crime, no matter what the truth,” Birdie said. “He dotes on her in a most sickening fashion.”

“You could not be more wrong,” Madame du Lac said, her tone sharp. “Monsieur Hargreaves would never shield the guilty. Truth and honor matter to him more than anything. Do not, I beg you, make such slanderous accusations about him again.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the lobby, back to the lounge, without so much as giving Birdie another glance.

 

12

Margaret and I had quickly changed into walking costumes and sturdy boots, knowing we ought to look as if we were actually off to visit Roman ruins. Margaret had insisted on a pith helmet, but I refused to follow her example. After a quick consultation with the concierge, who recommended a carriage for our journey, we told him we much preferred the idea of taking the train to Fréjus, and that we could easily reach the ruins on foot from the station there. He warned us off the scheme, saying it would be much more pleasant in a carriage, but in the end realized he would not be able to persuade us and called for one of the bellmen to hail a cab to take us to the train. I dropped my room key at the front desk across from the concierge's station, left my note for Cécile, and off we set.

“I feel almost as if we are criminals on the run,” Margaret said when we exited the cab at the station.

“Remember your Euripides:
The day is for honest men, the night for thieves,
” I said. “We are not harming anyone by our actions, but I do think it is important that we make sure our story is credible should anyone look into it.”

“It is most exciting,” Margaret said. “Far better than spending another day with that awful Mrs. Wells.”

“She is not so very bad,” I said, consulting my map. “If it is all the same to you, I should prefer for us to walk the rest of the way. The café I have chosen for our rendezvous is some distance from here, but if we were to take another cab, we would arrive far too early. We may as well pass the time with a stroll.”

“Is there any risk of the others stumbling upon us on our way?”

“Not if we plan our route with care. Most likely, we have at least an hour before they could conceivably be ready to leave the hotel, and that will give us plenty of time to make our way beyond La Croisette and its environs. Our meeting place is in a residential neighborhood to the northwest of the station. There is no reason to believe Amity and the rest would venture anywhere near there, however they decide to spend their day.”

It did not take long for us to have left the fashionable set far behind. The houses looked similar to those we had seen in Le Suquet, but their condition was not quite so good. The paint on many of their shutters was peeling, but their gardens were well tended and the streets were wider in this part of town. Stern-looking women swept their front stoops while children played in the streets. Trees heavy with tangerines peeked over walls, and I was tempted to pick the fruit as we made our way uphill. The effort was not inconsiderable.

“Ah, at last,” Margaret said as we rounded a bend and came upon a small park. “I always feel that I am not really in France until I have seen old men playing boules. I far prefer it to Mr. Fairchild's attempts to make us see the virtues of cricket.” We paused to watch the game—and to catch our breath—sitting on a bench underneath a tree. The park was rather more dusty than green, but it was pleasant enough, and we were happy for the rest. The sun was higher in the sky now, and the heat had increased accordingly.

“I do not think I could ever soak up enough sun to compensate for the damp winters I've spent in England. The Côte d'Azur is far more agreeable,” Margaret said, tipping back her head and holding her arms out wide. “I might not have agreed to marry Mr. Michaels if I had been better aware of just how relentlessly awful the weather was going to be.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “You would have followed him to the ends of the earth.”

“I only wish he would suggest the trip,” Margaret said. “The ends of the earth cannot possibly be so grey. Amity speaks highly of India. Perhaps he should take me there. I should like very much to see it.”

“As would I. Her stories did bring it alive, didn't they? There are many things about her that grate on my nerves, but I must admit that she has a wonderful ability to appreciate exotic places. I should try better to get on with her.”

“We both should,” Margaret said. “She does not always make it easy. There is something—oh, it doesn't matter, does it? Jeremy adores her and we will suffer quietly alongside him.”

“Come, we should start walking again,” I said. “There is not much farther to go.” In another quarter of an hour, we had reached the café. The dancers had not yet arrived, so we selected a table outside—I am sorry to report that the interior of the establishment left rather a lot to be desired—and debated what we should order. Margaret insisted on rosé, while I had suggested tea.

“It is authentic,” she said, “and if we are to keep up our disguise—”

“We are not in disguise,” I said. “The girls we are meeting are aware of our identities, and the only people we have meant to deceive are nowhere near here.” Margaret crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. I ignored this and continued. “Nonetheless, we are in the south of France, it is past eleven o'clock, and local tradition does appear to dictate rosé at this time of day. I have always thought that when traveling, one ought to adopt as many local ways as possible.”

“I should like to see the Roman ruins at some point,” Margaret said. “It would be a shame to miss them.”

“We could plan an outing. There are spectacular ones at Cimiez in Nice.” I was not able to expand on the subject, as our three dancers arrived. They were all fresh-faced, young, and pretty, but their eyes betrayed world-weariness, and before too many years went by I feared that their faces would begin to reflect their hard lives, robbing them of their beauty far too soon. Despite what Colin had suggested about their appearance, they did not look like wanton women, but, to be fair, they were not dressed—or made up—for work. They were turned out well, each of them wearing extremely fashionable clothing that, though not made from expensive fabrics, was exquisitely sewn.

“Do you like our gowns?” Marie, the tallest of the three asked. “I see you admiring them and, perhaps, wondering how we can afford such finery. I will let you in on a secret. Violette is an excellent seamstress. There is no fashion plate she cannot copy. We give her the fabric and show her what we want and—voilà!—she works magic.”

“You have quite a talent,” I said. Violette, a petite girl with a voluptuous figure, blushed. “The House of Worth would be fortunate to have you.”

“
Merci.
” Violette nodded.

“Rose does not speak much English,” Marie said. “May we continue in French?”

“So long as you can tolerate my abominable accent,” Margaret said, pouring wine for them all. “I speak Latin better than French.” This, of course, was true, but only in the most technical sense. Margaret's French was excellent, although her accent did leave something to be desired, but her command of Latin was truly impressive.

“We so much appreciate your agreeing to meet us,” I began, in French. “You entertained a group of gentlemen on the night in question—”

“There was no improper behavior,
mesdames
,” Violette said, folding her hand in her lap. “We are dancers, nothing more.”

“I did not mean to suggest anything of the sort,” I said. “One of the members of the party took his own life that night, and we are trying to understand what happened.” Fear flashed in Rose's eyes and she looked to Marie.

“None of us knows anything about that,” Marie said.

“There is no question of blame,” I said. “No one is suggesting that any of you catalyzed the tragic event. We have reason to suspect, however, that something may have happened between the gentlemen. Did any of them argue?”

“No,” Marie said. “They were a congenial group. We performed in a private room after they had been playing baccarat for some time. Afterwards, we joined them at their tables. It is not unusual.”

“I am sure it is not,” I said. “Was anyone else with you?”

“Just Hélène,” Violette said. “She has gone to visit her mother in Marseille.”

“If I may ask, which of the gentlemen was it who…” Marie's voice trailed.

“Chauncey Neville,” Margaret said. “Do you recall him?”

“
Non
, this must not be correct,” Marie said. “He was the most kind of them all and appeared in every way happy to be with his friends. A bit quiet, perhaps, but a man very capable of enjoying himself.”

“You are quite certain he was in good spirits?” I asked.

“
Absolument
. I spent much of the evening sitting with him,” Marie said and smiled. “He was quite delightful.”

“Did he show any signs of melancholy?” Margaret asked.

“None.”

“Did he leave earlier than the others?” I asked.

“There was one gentleman who left immediately after our performance,” Marie said. “I cannot recall his name, but he was extraordinarily handsome. To own the truth, we all rather regretted his absence. Another gentleman—the one who is to soon be married—stayed only for a while.”

“Jeremy?” Margaret asked. “The duke?”

“
Oui
, the duke,” Rose said, blushing, her voice soft.

“Did he leave by himself?” I asked.

“All of the others stayed with us until very late,” Violette said, pulling apart a piece of the bread our waiter had brought for the table. “I could not tell you the precise time we parted—there were rather copious amounts of champagne consumed.”

“But you ladies—you were all there until the end?” I asked.

“Hélène left a few moments after the duke,” Marie said, “but she did not leave with him.”

“It is quite all right if she did,” I said. “We are not looking to pass judgment on anything that happened.”

“I understand your point,” Marie said. “Hélène had talked to the duke a great deal, and thought him most charming. Mr. Neville also took quite a fancy to her. He told me as much.”

“Did Hélène find him as charming as the duke?” I asked.

“Not quite so charming,” Violette said. “Not quite so likely to become a patron, if you will. Not for the evening, I mean, but … many gentlemen find it is convenient to set up a girl with an apartment and an allowance. This may shock you, but—”