"What the hell do you mean, Somerset, by keeping that information from me? When Annabelle wrote you that the diaries were stolen, you should have informed me at once!
"
"Get a grip on yourself, David,
"
said the
attaché
soothingly. "Perhaps I should, but try to see things from my perspective. I could not know why Mrs. Jocelyn distrusted you so. But it was very evident that she did. You, on the other hand, were supremely confident of your power over her. I could not see what harm it would do for things to run their natural course.
"
"What you mean is you did not trust me! My God, man, I told Annabelle that Monique Dupres was murdered! What was she to think when your forged letter reached her, calling me a liar?
"
"
But David, how was I to know what was going on?
"
The
attaché
spoke quietly, with exaggerated patience, as if to soothe the outburst of a fractious child. "It was very evident from Mrs. Jocelyn
'
s letter that she believed the French girl was still alive. And as I understood, that is the story we agreed on.
"
The Earl was not placated by this facile explanation, but thinking it better to curb his anger for the moment, he went on levelly, "And now you tell me that she might very well be in
danger? Well, get on with it, man! Get to the point, for God
'
s sake!
"
Exchanging a telling glance with Colonel Ransome, who was hunched forward in his chair, his hands extended to the blaze in the grate, Somerset began, "I was about to w
rite you a letter explaining…"
"Yes, yes, I understand all that. The point, Somerset, what is the point?
"
Stifling a sigh, Somerset rose and went to his desk. He unlocked a drawer and withdrew a sheaf of papers, which he tossed in the Earl
'
s lap.
"You sent me these,
"
he said. "They are incomplete, but certainly attributable to Monique Dupres. The handwriting, as one would expect, is Mrs. Jocelyn
'
s.
"
"If you are asking me if I knew that it was Annabelle
'
s handwriting, why don
'
t you just come right out and say so?
"
Ransome stirred himself and turned to slice the Earl a warning look. Dalmar put his hand over his eyes.
"I
'
m sorry. No, I did not recognize the handwriting. Perhaps I should have. To be blunt, I had no wish to read such pap. I only glanced at it before sending it off to make sure that I had the right stuff.
"
"Oh, you had the right stuff all right. Let me show you.
"
Somerset retrieved the loose pages from Dalmar
'
s clasp and leafed through them till he found what he was looking for. "Here, read this.
"
Dalmar sat up straighter in his chair and held the page up to the light.
"Two days before the Battle of Waterloo,
"
Somerset explained to Colonel Ransome, "Monique Dupres was in her bedroom in the house her protector had rented in Brussels on the Rue Ste. Catharine.
"
"The Rue Ste. Catharine?
"
asked Ransome, lifting his head.
"Like many British visitors, she was packing her valises in anticipation of leaving the battle zone. After all, who knew what the outcome of that confrontation between Wellington and Bonaparte might be? A carriage had been ordered to begin the first leg of her journey to Antwerp and safety. At least, that is what she wants us to believe.
"
"Are we talking about the night of the Duchess of Richmond
'
s ball?
"
asked Ransome.
"Ah, that interests you, does it Colonel Ransome? I thought it might.
"
Dalmar tossed the page he had been reading onto a table by his elbow.
"Perhaps I
'
m suffering from exhaustion. But there
'
s nothing there of any interest that I can see,
"
he said. "So she saw two men going into number 25 Rue Ste. Catharine and five minutes later only one of them came out. So what?
"
"May I see?
"
said Ransome, and picked up the page the Earl had discarded.
"You will note,
"
said Somerset, like a man who had been vindicated of some nefarious crime, "that the girl very often, though not always, chooses to conceal the identity of her characters behind a descriptive soubriquet.
"
"I recognize one of them,
"
said Ransome. "It
'
s Major Crawford.
"
For a moment the name did not register with Dalmar. "Major Crawford? Oh, of course, she calls him
'Le Roux
'
because of his red hair. Wasn
'
t he the fiend who was responsible for the butchering of the flower of England
'
s chivalry in those do-or-die raids in Spain?
"
"He was,
"
said Somerset.
"And was butchered in Brussels for his sins,
"
added Ransome.
"From all accounts, he merited his fate,
"
the Earl remarked indifferently.
"And if I am not very much mistaken,
"
said Ransome, his voice beginning to vibrate with excitement, "whether unwittingly or by design, Monique has just revealed the identity of Crawford
'
s murderer.
"
"The devil she has!
"
exclaimed Dalmar.
Ransome rose to his feet. "I
'
m sure of it,
"
he said. "Didn
'
t you read to the end of this? Crawford and a companion entered the house at eight o
'
clock. Five minutes later his companion leaves, alone. At half past eight, two other officers enter the house. Dalmar, I investigated the murder of Major Crawford. He died before the Duchess of Richmond
'
s ball. The two fellow
officers—they were to go with him. They found him with his throat cut.
"
"It was quite deliberate, I think,
"
mused Somerset.
"What was?
"
Dalmar
'
s mind was still trying to assimilate what Ransome had just told him.
"Ransome just wondered whether Monique Dupres had revealed the identity of Crawford
'
s murderer unwittingly or by design. It was quite deliberate, in my humble opinion.
"
His two silent companions barely managed to restrain their impatience.
Smiling, Somerset went on, "Well, you haven
'
t read the rest of the diaries, you see. And I have. There
'
s no reason for the girl to include such an ordinary, insignificant event. Who cares if two men go into a house? I saw at once that there was something different about this passage. There
'
s no bedroom scandal in it. And suddenly, for no apparent reason, she
begins to call Major Crawford '
Le Roux,
'
when she mentions him by name elsewhere in the diaries. D
'
you know what I think?
"
Resisting the urge to betray a temper which was near to exploding, Dalmar managed, "No. Tell us what you think.
"
"I think the girl was blackmailing the murderer. And perhaps, as a gesture of intimidation, she let this passage stand.
"
To Dalmar
'
s blank look, the
attaché
elaborated, "She was thumbing her nose at the man.
"
"Your powers of deduction overwhelm me,
"
said Dalmar. "Have you deduced who the murderer is yet?
"
"Unfortunately, no,
"
said Somerset. "I
'
ve approached everyone I can think of. But no one is acquainted with the particular epithet the girl applied to Crawford
'
s companion.
"
"
Poultron?
"
said Ransome. "No, I
'
ve never heard of it.
"
"What did you say?
"
asked Dalmar.
"Poultron,
"
repeated Ransome.
"Poultron
,"
murmured Dalmar. "Now why does that word have a familiar ring to it?
"
He closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall back. His two companions studied him in silence for a long interval. His lips moved, repeating the soubriquet, but he uttered no sound.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. "Everything fits,
"
he said.
"Everything makes sense now. The theft of the diaries. The attacks on Annabelle. Those murders—Crawford, Monique, Mrs. Snow—they
'
re all of a piece.
"
"What are you saying?
"
asked Ransome.
"I
'
m saying that I think I know who the murderer is. Come on! Let
'
s make haste!
"
"But where are we going?
"
"To the Palais Royal, or the
Maison d
'
Or, to be more precise.
"
The Earl was already on his feet and draping his sodden cloak over his shoulders. "If she hasn
'
t already done so, Annabelle will be eager to verify whether or not the French girl is still alive. I see now that
that
was her purpose in coming to Paris.
"
Ransome shrugged into his cloak. "But who is the murderer?
"
"I
'
ll tell you what I think on the way. There
'
s not a moment to lose. Pray God, we
'
re not too late.
"
T
he Palais Royal was not so very different from Annabelle
'
s recollections of it, though she was glad that Lord Temple
'
s words had not been an exaggeration. There were many British visitors to be seen, most of them respectable, and some of them of the first stare. He
'
d been right about the Horse Guards too, Annabelle noted. They fairly swarmed all over the place. The sight of them gave her confidence and strengthened her resolve to follow the outline of a plan which had half formed in her mind.
To give her friends the slip was easier than she expected. Once she
'
d led them up the stairs to the first floor makeshift galleries, the ladies soon became absorbed in the serious business of bargain hunting, and, to their chagrin, the same gentlemen who had scolded them for their spurious curiosity became absorbed in the other "ladies
"
who sauntered by, unattached, and who eyed them boldly.
Annabelle lingered in a milliner
'
s shop trying on hats, but all the time, her eyes scanned the faces of the shop
'
s patrons. Her moment came. No one
'
s eyes were on her. She opened the door to the back stairs and slipped through.
Her heart immediately began to race at an alarming pace. Her nerves were stretched taut and it was not to be wondered at, she thought. Her mind went back to the night of the riot, when she had first met up with the Earl. In that poorly lit, less populated part of the palace, as she carefully descended the stairs with her velvet pelisse hugged tightly to her, she had the strangest feeling of
déjà
vu. It would not have surprised her to see the Earl come looming out of the shadows, but whether to stalk or protect her, who was to say?
In the gardens, the lanterns were all lit. It seemed that all Paris had come out to view the sideshows. Annabelle passed tumblers, organ grinders, jugglers, acrobats, and even a man with a performing bear on a leash. It reminded her so forcefully of Lewes that she could not stop an involuntary shudder. She traversed the edge of the central fountain and came to the huge arched porticoes with the covered promenade beneath. It was here that Annabelle
'
s phenomenal memory deserted her.
There were so many massive Tuscan columns, so many bays, all of them identical, that she could not with anything resembling certainty say which of them led to the Maison d
'
Or and Monique Dupres.