“We searched the house. Not the housekeeper. Suppose Signora Ruggeri brought Madame Martin into the ring? Needing an accomplice to keep safe the secrets, because Signora Ruggeri was closely watched and plagued by the citizens of Lyon. Perhaps the papers did vanish, but they were taken by Madame Martin, not Gallo.”
“That is a grand speculation,” Moreau said dubiously.
“I know, but I prefer it to believing Signora Ruggeri sent the letters far out of our reach. If Signora Ruggeri had destroyed the papers, she would have told me, instead of foisting me off with the tale of their disappearance. Plus, we would have found evidence of their destruction. As would the housekeepers.”
Moreau went silent, fixing his attention on a point on the carriage wall, similarly to what he’d done in Gallo’s rooms, as he thought through what I’d argued. I’d seen the same look when he’d stood over my supine body in Spain, pondering what to do with me.
“Bien,” he said after a time. “Let us go speak to Madame Martin at the townhouse.”
I tapped on the roof and directed the coachman to the house near the plaza in the Presqu’île.
Clouds had begun to gather as we’d searched the villa, and by the time we reached the river, a dark bank of them hovered to the south and east.
Moreau was silent as we crossed the Pont Tilsit and wound through the city’s narrow streets. He was not convinced, as I was growing to be, that Madame Martin or Madame Jourdain had anything to do with the papers.
But I could not believe that either of those ladies had remained ignorant of Gallo’s schemes and Signora Ruggeri’s part in them. If one of the housekeepers hadn’t absconded with the letters themselves, they might very well know what Signora Ruggeri—or Gallo, if he’d stolen them before he’d died—had done with them.
The coachman let us off at the mouth of the lane that led to the townhouse, the coach unable to fit into the narrow artery. We walked from there, the air heavy with the coming storm.
The door to the townhouse stood ajar. Both Moreau and I, with the caution of battle-hardened experience, paused on its doorstep, peering carefully inside.
All was silent. I glimpsed no one flitting through the house and heard nothing.
I pushed open the door with my walking stick, and we very quietly entered.
The house felt empty, stale. The previous night’s coolness hadn’t permeated it, indicating that all windows were shut, leaving the place stuffy from yesterday afternoon’s heat.
Moreau and I proceeded warily, pausing before any open door to scan the chamber within. Drapes were drawn in every ground-floor room or shutters were closed, and no one appeared.
Not until we entered the petite dining room on the first floor did we find signs of the struggle that Captain Vernet had reported.
The carpet was littered with broken glass where a decanter and goblets had fallen from the sideboard. The small, square dining table was askew and its chairs lay on their sides. A silver candelabra sprawled among the debris, a pale cascade of dried candle wax frozen over the chair backs and carpet. A square, muddy boot print, from what a coachman might wear, was evident in the middle of the mess.
My own boot, about the same size, crunched on glass, and a sharp odor of brandy wafted to me as I surveyed the scene.
That someone had fought here was evident, even before I lifted a shard of glass to find it stained with blood.
“This way, I think.” Moreau had moved to a panel in the walls that didn’t quite fit with the others.
This was a door to the servants’ passageways, now unlatched. A small smear of blood stained the molding near it, as though someone had clutched the wall to prevent themselves being pulled or pushed through the opening.
Vernet might have missed it, or perhaps he’d explored and found nothing. He had a note purporting to be from me and a large boot print, which had been enough for him to hurry to waylay me after my daughter’s wedding.
Moreau took up a candle that hadn’t been crushed or melted and struck a spark to light it. He pulled open the paneling and thrust the candle inside, its flame a small point in the darkness.
We found rough stone walls and a narrow corridor that bent around a corner to descending stairs. These would lead to the ground floor and the kitchen in the rear of the house.
Another bloodstain smeared the wall of the stairwell. I imagined the episode—one person overpowering the other, then dragging her through the servants’ passageway and down the stairs to exit without being seen from the street.
We found no remains of candles as we went, nor at the bottom of the staircase, where a door led to a tiny courtyard. Whoever had used the route was so used to it they could navigate it without light.
Had Signora Ruggeri been forced down these stairs? Or had she been the one doing the forcing?
The door was unlatched, the house open for anyone to enter. Moreau pinched out his candle and laid it on a table beside the door before we stepped into the courtyard.
Mud prevailed here, along with broken bottles and boards had been shoved into one corner of the enclosing walls. A gate opposite the door led to a narrow passageway between houses, likely one for the night soil men to use.
A small, thin boy, accompanied by an equally small and thin dog, gaped at us as Moreau and I popped out of the gate. The dog gave a high-pitched yip, but the boy stared mutely, poised to run.
