“That son of a factory owner has more money than the comte, in spite of the chateau on the hill and the comtesse’s ancient lineage.”
“Did Signora Ruggeri know that?” I asked.
Vernet barked a short laugh. “She did not appear to. The signora is the sort dazzled by a title and a large house, not to mention the jewels he nearly bankrupted himself to give her.”
“Small wonder there is so much anger at Signora Ruggeri,” I said. “If she is beggaring the poor man, while the rest of Lyon watches.”
“There are some who would not mind to see him fall,” Vernet said. “Not long before the siege, Lejeune disappeared from the city with his young sons and all the family’s money. He left the comtesse behind.”
I thought of the redoubtable woman I’d observed last evening, cooly welcoming her husband’s mistress and even offering her a bed for the night. When I’d finally been introduced to the comtesse, I’d been impressed by her equanimity. She showed true serenity, not simply a façade erected between herself and the world.
“He left her behind?” I repeated in anger. “If he was callous enough to desert his wife in a time of danger, then I cannot blame those disgusted with him.”
“He claimed she refused to leave,” Vernet said. “That she vowed to remain in her home, where she’d lived her entire life, and face down those who tried to pry her from it.”
I recalled Bartholomew explaining that the chateau belonged to the comtesse’s family. “She inherited the place?” I asked. “In England, this would be difficult.”
“The wealthy can always find ways to keep property in the family,” Vernet said with disapproval. “The comte inherited a villa when he came into his title, but it is small. He leases it to a man who oversees his farms. The comtesse’s father bestowed his house on the comte and comtesse at their marriage, as the comtesse was his only child. Hers was not a titled family, but a very old one, with much power through the ages. The comte then purchased more properties with the money he married, which he either leases out or puts whatever woman has caught his eye into. The comtesse and her man of business handle the rents, however, so the comte sees little of the returns.”
Fernand had told me some of this. I was glad the comtesse was wise enough not to let her husband have free rein with the money.
“The comtesse seems a formidable lady,” I said in admiration. “If she truly did volunteer to remain behind, then she is much to be admired.”
“I was not in Lyon during the uprisings or the siege,” Vernet said. “I am from a village near Grenoble, and joined up with the army as they rode into the Hapsburg Empire. Was assigned here after the Bourbon king returned to France. The Lyonnais might squabble among themselves, but they stick together against outsiders, I will tell you.”
I had already noted that. “Then they will not be happy with you arresting a Devere.”
Vernet sent me a pained look. “No, indeed.” He sighed. “Claude is a good lad, if a bit hot-headed at times. Unfortunately, he was seen last night, arguing with Gallo. From the witnesses who gave my men this information, this was earlier, about nine o’clock, across the Rhône, in La Guillotière. There was shouting and waving of fists before the two parted.”
I did not like hearing this. “Gallo was at the comtesse’s chateau a bit after that. Must have been about half past ten, I’d say. Claude was nowhere in evidence then, and Gallo was whole and alive.”
Vernet shrugged. “Nothing to say they didn’t meet up again later. Young Mr. Devere is being very vague about his whereabouts.”
“Perhaps I can speak to him,” I offered. “I am close to being family but won’t remonstrate with him like his father or uncles would. And I am not a gendarme.”
Vernet regarded me for a long time, assessing me without betraying his conclusions. The drumming of fingers recommenced, then ceased altogether.
“I suppose it could do no harm,” he said. “If Claude will confess all that he did last night, and we can find evidence he speaks the truth, I will send him home. However, if he truly did commit the crime, I cannot look the other way, no matter what his surname is.”
I could see that Vernet would prefer not to have to send a Devere to trial and maybe to the guillotine. However, he was unwilling to simply turn Claude loose, no matter what the Deveres or their solicitors were threatening.
He rose, and I followed suit. I thought he’d call a lackey to take me to wherever they were holding Claude, but Vernet himself led me from the office and along the hall then down two flights of stairs to the cellar.
The underground space was damp, the river close by. Mold blackened the corners of the ceiling and stone floor.
The cells lay at the end of a corridor, beyond various storage rooms where more gendarmes worked, coats off in the humid air. Though it was far cooler down here than on the summer street, the mugginess was oppressive.
Thick doors with small, grilled windows enclosed those arrested this day. Behind one, a woman was singing at the top of her voice, the words slurred with drink.
“Madame Marais,” Vernet said when I turned to the noise. “She is in here almost every day. She will quiet down to sleep and go home later this afternoon.”
At the sound of her name, Madame Marais increased her bellowing, the song becoming a ribald one about gendarme officers and their endowments.
Ignoring her, Vernet took a ring of keys from his coat pocket and unlocked the cell door opposite that of the serenading madame.
The chamber was lit only by a window high up in the wall. By that dim glow, I saw Claude Devere hunched in on himself on a stone bunk, his head in his hands. He raised that head slowly when he heard the door open, defeat in his eyes.
He blinked when he saw me then regarded Vernet in confusion. “Why is he here? Did my father send him?”
