“It seems so,” I agreed. “If there was some way to identify these pieces, we could return them to the ladies in question.”
Brewster gave me one of his disbelieving stares. “You plan to lay them out at your lady wife’s next gathering and ask her guests to pick up which are theirs? They’d have to admit they let this Gallo cove get close enough to them to steal it. No, they’ll be happier to have them stay lost, I’ll wager.”
“You might be right,” I said with a sigh. “A pity to let him get away with it, though.”
Moreau studied me with some reassessment. “It seems the man ‘got away’ with much, as you say.”
“Which broadens the number of people who might have murdered him,” I said. “A jealous husband to one of the ladies whose earring lies here? One of the ladies herself, not best pleased with him? Another man or woman whose letters he stole? Might be the whole of Lyon, or anyone who followed him from the last city he was in.”
“Does it matter?” Moreau asked me, as Brewster went back to poking at the walls. “A greedy and cunning man is dead and can no longer cause trouble. Why should you worry about which of his victims killed him?”
“To prevent the wrong person from being convicted and executed for the crime,” I stated. “Emile’s cousin nearly went down for it , and I will do my best to keep another innocent from paying. Besides, it might have been a madman, randomly stabbing people on the Pont Tilsit. Should we not stop him, if so?”
Moreau frowned. “That is what the gendarmes are for.”
“Give up trying to argue with him, mate,” Brewster advised from the window. “He’ll go on and on about honor and lending a hand-up to those what need it, whether they want said hand-up or not.”
“Thank you, Brewster,” I said in a mild tone. “Let us continue searching for what we need to find, shall we?”
Brewster shook his head, muttering under his breath.
“Ah.” Emile exclaimed in satisfaction. “This one is moving.”
Mortar grated as Emile jerked at a brick, debris flaking from it to the floor.
“Easy lad.” Brewster brushed Emile’s hands aside, wrapped his giant fingers around the brick, and gently eased it out of the wall.
Once it came free, Brewster set it carefully on the windowsill then leaned to peer into the crevice.
“Huh,” he said. “Nothing.”
Emile crouched to peer inside. “He is correct,” he said in disappointment.
I believed them, but for some reason I had to limp to the wall and look for myself. The niche was the same depth as the window embrasure next to it, but it held nothing, not even dust or scattered mortar.
“Something must have been inside,” I observed. “Taken out, probably recently, or it would not be so clean. But by whom? Gallo himself? The gendarmes? Or people like us, searching for the secrets he collected?”
None of the three could answer me.
Emile continued to wriggle bricks on the other side of the window, hoping for another hollow, but Brewster abandoned it and moved to the fireplace. He tested bricks there, his gloves soon covered with soot.
I opened the interior door that stood next to the armoire, and entered the bedchamber.
This room was very small, with a tiny window high in the wall, more for ventilation than light. There was only enough space here for the bed and a table beside it.
Dusk had completely faded by now, rendering the room dark. I found a candle on the bedside table, but I had no way to light it. In past days, I’d have carried a small piece of flint and a steel with me, in case I needed to strike a spark. I’d gone soft, I realized, living in homes where candles and fires were always lit for me.
I returned to the outer room, where Moreau, more practical than me, had managed to light three candles, filling the air with the rancid odor of tallow.
I took one without a word and continued my search of the bedchamber.
What I turned up was not helpful. The gendarmes had obviously rifled the bedside table, which was where Gallo had kept his small clothes and a chamber pot. The last had been emptied, mercifully, but his underthings had been tossed about and then left haphazardly in the drawer. I went through them, but found nothing tucked underneath or inside any of the clothes.
The rumpled state of the bed told me that the gendarmes had likely thrown back all the covers and searched under the straw mattress. I did the same, and even went so far as to go lower myself painfully to the floor and slide under the bed.
I found no interesting books or papers tucked under the bed’s slats or behind the headboard.
I was still lying in the dust under the bed when Brewster called out.
