John Lescroart - Son of Holmes

And over the quiet fields did come the sound of young voices, muffled and diminishing but still audible.

We moved back inside and stood in the foyer. In spite of my words to Tania, I was shaken. This sort of thing did happen, I suppose, on occasion, but with suspicions already so high, it did my nerves no good. I walked back to the kitchen for another brandy, which I drank much too quickly. Coming back through the dark sitting room, I turned into the stairway and stood transfixed by what I saw.

Tania stood silhouetted against the top of the stairs, holding the lantern in her left hand. Her recent tears still glistened on her face, her hair hung to her shoulders, and she had undone her blouse, which now hung open before her. Very quietly she spoke: “Jules, come to bed. I’m afraid.”

Later, I could not sleep. Overcome by the events of the day, ashamed that I had doubted Tania, unnerved by the children’s prank, I got up and looked out the window. The only sound was the gurgle of the brook as it flowed through the arbor. A crescent moon had just risen, and it was somehow reassuring. In my mind I went over the details of the St. Etienne arsenal so that I could report the next morning to Lupa. At my desk, I lit the lamp and sketched from memory the general floor plan. That took my mind off my worries, and by the time I finished, I felt sleepy. I remembered, though, to write Fritz a note to have him wake me early; then I came back to the bed, where Tania lay, and crawled in beside her.

But just before I dozed off, I thought I heard the sound of a car engine starting, accompanied by indistinguishable voices drifting over the fields, finally fading into the noise of the engine as it roared toward St. Etienne.

8

Tania did not stir when Fritz knocked once discreetly. I rose immediately, tapping once on my bedstead to let him know I was awake. After a fast cup of coffee and several minutes of Fritz’s remonstrance over my sagging appetite, I was on my way to Lupa’s.

La Couronne hadn’t yet opened, but Charles stood behind the bar, dusting, and let me in after only a short wait. Lupa had given instructions that no one was to come to the kitchen without his approval, so I sat at the bar and had another coffee while Charles went to announce me.

He returned and I followed him down the narrow staircase to the kitchen. Lupa sat majestically at the table, clad in a brown silk robe with a yellow monogram, cleaning up the remainder of what had been his breakfast.

“One of the problems with being one’s own cook,” he began immediately, motioning me to be seated, “is deciding an order of courses that provides variety yet leaves oneself free to enjoy each course without having to tend to the next. These muffins, Jules, have become too cold while waiting for the eggs to set.”

I noticed he was having no trouble, however, in finishing off the cooled muffins. The eggs had, by the looks of the plate, long since disappeared. I mentioned this to him.

“Yes, but it’s not as enjoyable as it should be, as every meal should be. Every man’s life is divided up into eating, sleeping, and miscellaneous. Omnia vita in tres partes divisa est, if I might borrow from Caesar. Of their conscious moments, only in their enjoyment of food are all men brothers.”

I could think of several other conscious moments that might qualify as universally pleasing, but he was enjoying himself, so I let him expound.

“And here I am, presuming to call myself a cook, a chef. Ha! Jules, I nearly let the coffee boil!”

I shook my head sadly in commiseration. In spite of his petulance, which Tania had found so objectionable, I found him entertaining. He knew as well as anyone, possibly better than anyone, the gravity of our situation, but he wouldn’t let himself be bogged down in depression. He was a tonic to my flagging spirits.

“Did you get the beer?” I asked.

“Ah, yes. Thank you. Consistently excellent. Fritz brought it around yesterday.”

He pushed back his chair and settled himself more comfortably. After offering me breakfast or coffee, which I declined, he picked up his cup and sipped.

“Madame Chessal came by to see me yesterday.”

“Yes, I know. She told me about it.”

“She seemed rather upset by my lack of interest in the, ahem, proprieties. I tried to explain to her that worry merely clouds the intellect, that I meant no slight to Monsieur Routier, that I had been enthusiastic about sausage because I was talking about sausage, and that enthusiasm is a state of mind I try to cultivate about many subjects. I’m afraid my explanation fell on deaf ears. She left in rather a huff.”

“She was upset about Marcel,” I said. “They’d known each other a long time.”

“I understand that. But you understand I didn’t want to discuss Marcel’s death with her until I was certain she was not involved.”

“Are you?” I asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Perfectly, Jules, perfectly.”

How could I allay his suspicions when only yesterday I had harbored them myself? Still, I forced a response. “At the risk of usurping your methods, do you have anything specific, or is it just a feeling?”

Lupa sipped again at his coffee, smacked his lips with pleasure, then looked levelly at me across his desk. “The questions I have regarding Madame Chessal’s involvement in our inquiries fall into both categories. First, I must confess to a certain feeling that in a general way she is not being completely forthright, that she is hiding something. It may be nothing. It may be that she cultivates an aura of mystery. Many women do, you know, believing that it makes them interesting. In fact, it creates an impression of a fascinating personality that is all the more disappointing when the aura itself is revealed to be a sham.” He continued before I could remonstrate. “I don’t say that is the case here. I merely comment on my feeling.

“Specifically, there are several points. My operatives have stumbled on Madame Chessal many times in and around St. Etienne. She certainly has ready access to the arsenal there. As you yourself have pointed out, she has a relationship of some sort with the director. Secondly, poison is a classic woman’s weapon for murder. Additionally, I find it worthy of note that she is the only woman in what would otherwise be a vigorously masculine grouping.”

“How is that noteworthy?” I had to cut in. His suspicions of Tania seemed to me to be no more than a general indictment of female human beings, and I told him so.

“It’s true. I do have a prejudice there, probably inherited from my father. But I have verified it on my own many times.”

“But we’re talking specifically here about Tania.”

“I understand that. Don’t become upset, Jules. I would expect you to defend her, to be blind to the striking singularity of one woman fitting in so easily with five or six different men. It is certainly odd enough to be labeled a hard fact and to warrant some explanation.”

“She has always . . .”

“Not true! I understand that she only began attending regularly within the past year or two.”

“With her husband in the area, how could she?”

He smiled, his point won, and finished his coffee in a gulp. “I merely state that it is worthy of investigation, and I intend to look into it. There are other issues that I would prefer for the time being to keep to myself, but I assure you that I view them as significant, or potentially significant. But come. This is a small avenue of pursuit, and we have much more to discuss. Shall we table Madame Chessal for the moment?”