The information sank in as my nerves stretched taut.
I’d wanted to assume Potier had returned to Paris to whatever duties he was assigned for the rest of the war, hopefully kept in a quiet office so he might commit no more acts of savagery. Anything might have happened to the man in the last twenty-five years, including his death, but his last days would have been comfortably far from Lyon.
The fact that there was no evidence of him leaving this city chilled me.
“Not what I wished to learn,” I said.
“This could very well be why Gallo was murdered, could it not?” Grenville asked. “He’d discovered that someone in Lyon killed Potier, or at the very least that Potier’s death had been covered up, and threatened to reveal all.”
I thought of the anger and reticence of Beaumont and the men in his wine shop, the warning Moreau had given me, and the intense reaction of the Deveres.
“Damnation,” I said with feeling.
“I believe we ought to keep this to ourselves, for now,” Grenville said.
Which was why he’d closed the door, shutting out even Matthias and Bartholomew.
“I agree,” I said. “Though you might have stirred the pot writing to your friend about him.”
“I realize that,” Grenville replied glumly. “However, no one in Paris might care very much. The restored Louis isn’t likely to worry about the odd disappearance of a man who caused the death of so many loyalists, twenty-five years ago.”
“We can hope not.”
No one had been happy with me for even mentioning the name. They’d be less happy if they knew Grenville and I had made inquiries to a government official about Potier.
If my suspicions were correct, my daughter might be marrying into a family who’d had a part in bringing about Potier’s end.
On the one hand, Potier had more than deserved it, from what I understood. On the other, if inquiries from Paris were made, Emile could be caught in the retribution, and Gabriella’s peaceful life would be ruined.
“Damn and blast,” I said softly.
“Quite,” Grenville replied.
Before Brewster and I set off for the house in the Presqu’île, I sent a note to Colonel Moreau, asking if he’d like to meet us there. He’d expressed a wish to assist in any continued search, and I would honor that.
Brewster wasn’t certain I was wise, but he ceased berating me halfway down the hill, falling silent entirely as we crossed the bridge onto the island between the rivers.
The townhouse Grenville directed me to lay north of the large plaza, on a fairly quiet lane of well-appointed homes. The abode was small, with stucco peeling from its brick walls, though the shutters and door were an attractive green that complemented the snug tile roof.
As I stepped to the door and took out the key Grenville had sent me, Colonel Moreau rounded the corner of the lane and caught up to us on the step.
Before I had time to insert the key into the lock, the door was pulled open by a prim-looking woman in a plain gray gown. She seemed vaguely familiar, and I realized I must have seen her during my jaunts with Gabriella and Brewster to the markets in the square and surrounding streets. By her deepening frown, she recognized me as well. With my walking stick, uneven gait, and Brewster, I’d be difficult to forget.
“Messieurs,” she said, and continued in French. “The comte told me to expect you.” She swung the door wide and stepped back to admit us. Her stance might be deferential, but her gaze was in no way docile.
“Merci,” I said. “Madame … ?”
“Martin,” she replied stiffly. “Please, look through the house and give me word when you depart.”
She swung the door shut once we were inside and marched toward the back of the house, disappearing through a door under the stairs.
“Warm welcome,” Brewster said.
“Indeed,” Moreau agreed. “Where do you suggest we begin?” He asked Brewster, not me.
Brewster gazed up the staircase that wound through the house’s four floors. “At the top,” he said. “Work our way down.”
“We could each take a floor,” I suggested.
