There was an empty chair beside him.
The door clicked again, and another man joined them. Camille drew in a breath.
She would have known her father’s oldest friend anywhere. Her chest hitched in a painful buried sob. For a moment she forgot that she was tied up, that Ada was missing, so strong was the wave of grief and loss and longing for the past.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’
Georges Molyneux tutted and went to untie her bindings. He moved gently with light steps and careful fingers. When her father had gone to Oxford, Molyneux had been the only other Frenchman in his college. With an English friend in tow, they’d taken their grand tour around Europe together, fallen in love with revolution and worked side by side to create a new nation. Camille had grown up among it all, trusting her father’s friends as if they were her own family. Until the day Molyneux did nothing to stand against the false charge of treason that sent her father to the guillotine.
Camille was still shaking as she rubbed her freed wrists. Molyneux took the empty chair and leaned forwards, propping his elbows on his knees.
‘Hello, Citoyenne du Bugue. Or – what is it you’re calling yourself now? Laroche?’ He smiled indulgently. The crinkles of his laughter lines were horribly familiar. ‘After your mother, I assume. Touching, but ill-advised to make such a clear association with a convicted counter-revolutionary.’
And in that many words her mood changed. How dare he speak about her mother like that?
She lunged towards him, but was stilled by the muzzle of a gun that had come to rest against her temple. It guided her back into her chair.
‘Now, now. You’re far too grown up for such childish spite.’ He took a plate from the table and offered it to her. ‘Bonbon?’
‘Childish?’ she spat, voice shaking. ‘I’m not the one playing at spies. Bags over the head at night? Really?’
Camille felt almost giddy with anger. She’d fantasised about coming face to face with Molyneux again, back when her parents’ blood was still fresh on the ground. He looked nothing like he had done at the Tribunal, red-faced, his finger pointing across the crowds at her father in the dock. How dare he look so normal, reminding her that the world she’d grown up in – that he had been an integral part of – had shattered into pieces.
Molyneux put the plate back on the table. ‘I’m afraid as much as we have history together, I’m not prepared to share all our secrets with you.’
‘Fine. Tell me what it is you do want to share. I’ve had a bloody tiring day and you’re keeping me from my bed.’
‘As it happens we’ve had quite a taxing few days ourselves.’
‘Fascinating. Where’s Ada?’
‘Your companion is nearby. She’s safe.’
Camille sagged infinitesimally. She’d curled her hands around the edges of her chair to dig her nails into the wood. She couldn’t look Molyneux in the eye, so she looked at the point between his eyebrows.
‘And will be as long as you cooperate,’ he added.
The relief she’d felt evaporated in a breath.
‘Cooperate with what?’
‘Giving an honest response to the questions I’m about to ask you.’
Molyneux held his hand out and Comtois passed over a sheet of paper. From the corner of her eye, she tracked him as he rifled through his papers. Did he recognise her?
‘Do you get off on being all mysterious, or is it just an unfortunate side effect of being a total bastard?’
Comtois paused in the middle of making a note. ‘I thought you said she was a reliable source?’
‘Oh, I think she is.’ Molyneux kept watching her, despite speaking as though she wasn’t there. ‘I’ve known Camille since she was in swaddling clothes. A sweet girl, and always an honest one.’ He sat back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach like a parish priest at lunch. ‘We all cope with the uncertainties of life in different ways. I believe in her line of work a certain attitude is a benefit.’
‘People tell me my attitude is charming. I’ll have you done for slander. Or is it libel?’
‘Libel is for comments in print,’ replied Comtois. ‘You might prefer the term defamation as it covers all mediums. I’m afraid you don’t come off so well in these notes either.’
‘As interesting as this is, can you just tell me what you want?’ She leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. The muzzle of the gun was still pressed against her skull. She could feel the bite of metal through her hair. ‘I need the toilet and these stays are horribly uncomfortable, you can’t even imagine. Yes, I am wearing stays with trousers, if you were wondering.’
She was satisfied to see Comtois’s ears grow pink.
