“Bonjour,” I said to the lad as cordially as I could. “Do you come down this way often?”
The boy stared at me uncomprehendingly. Moreau, with startling gentleness, went down on one knee and began speaking to him in the city’s dialect.
He must have mentioned the dog, because the boy abruptly looked proud and patted his companion. The dog, pleased to be among friends, wagged its tail hard enough to wobble its hindquarters.
Moreau continued the conversation, and the boy answered him readily, though he darted suspicious glances at me.
When the discussion concluded, Moreau handed the lad a coin. The boy grinned as he took it, then he raced back along the passageway, his step light, the dog scampering behind him.
Not until we’d exited the alley to the main street, did Moreau enlighten me.
“He saw Madame Martin come out of the back gate early this morning,” Moreau informed me in English. “She was with another woman, who had dark hair and a fine coat. He believed the second woman to be the comte’s ladybird, but he hadn’t seen her here in a while and couldn’t be certain.”
“Were they walking calmly or fleeing?” I asked.
“He said Madame Martin was very angry, and the other woman was weeping. Madame Martin dragged the woman along the passageway and out of sight. It was still dark, and he did not see which direction they went.”
I stood indecisively on the cobbles, which had warmed on this summer day, despite the building clouds. The house we’d departed stood calmly behind us, with no sign of the altercation within.
“I will put forth a guess where they’ve gone,” I said. “If I am wrong, we might be too late to save Signora Ruggeri’s life.”
“We must act in some way,” Moreau said. “Shall we fetch the gendarmes?”
“We will help the signora, retrieve your letter, and then fetch the gendarmes.”
Moreau gave me a nod. “Then lead on. Where to?”
“La Guillotière,” I said grimly.
Chapter 29
We made for the other side of the city’s island in Denis’s coach and over the stone bridge to the east bank of the Rhône.
The clouds had coalesced into a solid, dark mass. Lightning flickered within, and I was happy that Gabriella’s wedding and party had occurred early in the day. All should be home and snug by the time the storm hit.
No one in La Guillotière seemed to be bothered by the shift in weather. They lingered in the streets and on the bridge or wandered the river’s edge. A sharp breeze blew from the clouds, welcome coolness.
Denis’s coachman let us off at the end of the bridge, and we again navigated the streets too narrow for the conveyance on foot. Without discussion, we made for the dilapidated boarding house that had lodged Vincenzo Gallo.
As at Madame Martin’s, we found the front door open and the place deserted.
We were about to ascend to the rooms above when I heard a faint moan. Moreau heard it too, both of us halting warily.
“Là!” Moreau pointed down the dim corridor behind the stairs.
I headed that way, keeping my footsteps as silent as possible, Moreau following quietly.
Behind a door at the very end of the hall came another groan and then a sigh, as though the person beyond had resigned themselves to their fate.
Finding the door unlocked, I carefully swung it open.
A woman huddled on the bare floor within. Shelves lined the walls around her, filled with foodstuffs, crockery both whole and broken, and piles of cloth that looked fit only for the rag-and-bone man.
The woman did not move when I entered the room, too lost in her own pain. In the little light that came through the doorway, I saw a darker stain on the back of her sand-colored gown.
I limped forward, still guarded. I’d watched a soldier bend over a seemingly wounded compatriot on the battlefield—either to help him or rob him, I was never certain—and the blood-covered man leap up and cut down the other soldier. I hadn’t been able to reach the first man before he’d died, but I’d shot his murderer with my carbine.
“Madame?” I touched the woman’s shoulder and gently turned her over.
