Georgiana and the Wolf
By DJ Clawson
Introduction: This is the seventh story in the "A Bit of Advice" series. You'll probably find it more interesting if you go catch up with the others, but this story is rare in that it stands somewhat alone if you're attempting to just read about a daughter of the Bingleys, though you may find her a bit odd.
Chapters posted twice weekly.
Chapter 4
After quickly mentioning that their conversation would continue at another time, Inspector Audley left Miss Bingley and ran out of the school. "It's a lady," said the messenger, a hired hand of the local constable, Andre or something.
And they did, literally, run. Fortunately the inspector was in good health, and they had not more than a few miles to go before reaching the house and the crowd surrounding it. "Inspector!" called constable.
"Did anyone move the body?"
"No, the mortician is still on his way."
"Then I will look around before he gets here and disturbs the scene of the crime."
"You'd best cover your nose, then."
He did not need to be told twice. He poured some wine from his flask onto a rag he carried for this purpose and covered his mouth with it.
Despite his precautions, the stench was overwhelming as he entered the cabin. The woman, a portly lady in her mid-fifties, was on the floor near her bed, her throat slashed and blood staining the rug beneath it. The cabin had one room of assorted knick-knacks and furniture and an iron stove. He touched it – cooling off. She had lit it for heat at night and never doused the flames. And from the stench, she had been killed sometime after sunset the evening before. As the constable shrunk back to the door, coughing into his own rag in disgust, Audley marched in and raised one of her arms. It was stiff, and there was blood and grime under her fingernails. No doubt he would find bruises on her body – there had obviously been a fight of some kind. Things were strewn about. He looked back at the lamp he had stepped over and picked it up. The glass was smashed and he plucked the candle from the frame. When it had last been burning, it was upright, from where the wax fell, so either she snuffed it or the murderer snuffed it to prevent the house from burning down. Not exactly the actions of a wild animal. "Who was this woman?"
"Mrs. Christelle Bernard, Inspector."
"Who was she? What did she do?" He noticed a ring on her finger. "She was a widow."
"I believe so, yes."
"Did she have a living? Or savings of some sort?"
"I don't know. We can find out, but I believe – she used to work at the manor."
He dropped the arm and stood up. "For the marquis?"
"Yes, Inspector."
That was all he needed to hear.
Later that afternoon, Inspector Audley found himself again in Monsieur Lambert's workshop, this time with two bodies before him instead of one. He had sufficiently recovered from the original shock to his system of the stench of death, but had lost all appetite for lunch and spent it in his room at the inn, going over his notes and writing more as furiously as he could.
He was lucky in one thing, which was that the body of Mrs. Bernard had not been found a day, even half a day later. He had given permission for Simon Roux to be buried, but now he wanted the body to compare. He only needed a minute before he turned to Lambert and said, "the wounds are different."
"Yes, they are," Lambert said, walking past him to put the last of the paint on Roux's face. He had not been pretty when he died, but he would leave this world at least with a decent face, however false it was. "She fought back."
"Unarmed. But the mouth wound is different. Like – knife wounds." He looked closer, tilting his head to the side and raising the lamp for further light. "Yes. One slash to the throat to kill her. Then as she was bleeding out, two more slashes on either side to match up. And then, a claw of some animal was run across the wound to make it look like Mr. Roux's wounds." He pulled away. "A different killer. So now we have not one, but two."
"So it seems," said the mortician.
"And still, no solid motives. We know only that Roux had enemies, but most were female. And we do not know what Mrs. Bernard knew that got her killed last night." He looked sadly at her pale face. "We may never know for sure, but I have my suspicions."
The only people to attend Simon Roux's funeral were the people necessary for it to occur. Audley had to authorize it, Constable Simon had to organize it, the mortician and his assistant had to deliver the coffin, and the priest had to say the blessings. The ceremony was carried out with extreme brevity.
Audley wouldn't even be here, watching some wandering ruffian be covered with earth after a death that he probably had coming, if it hadn't been for the connection to the marquis, if there was one. There was still no distinct line between them. The death of Mrs. Bernard was one of the few things that truly insisted everything was tied up in a very intricate knot, or was getting more tangled as it went along.
If he couldn't solve these murders – at least, not immediately – he could at least try to stop them. After the ceremony, he crossed himself and walked away from the graveyard with the constable. "I need a list of everyone living in walking or riding distance that used to work for the marquis."
"That will take some time."
"It's not a large town."
The constable shrugged. "It's not Paris, Inspector, but there are many people here, more than you see at the Verrat or the market. People on the farms, people in the forest. Gypsies."
"Gypsies?"
"A small band. They live deep in the woods, they say."
He shook his head. "Gypsies move around, Constable. Is this another local legend?"
"Non, Inspector. We can see their fires sometimes, on a clear night. Perhaps you should look tonight, when the moon is full. But if you go in there – I will have to answer to Paris if you disappear."
Oh yes, the full moon. We'll see what it brings. "Duly noted, Constable. Now get me that list. Those people are in danger."
"Danger, Inspector?"
"Yes, danger! The day after I question all of the marquis' servants, a dismissed servant is found dead before I can speak to her. You think that is a coincidence?"
"Simon Roux never worked for the marquis."
He frowned. "True." He did not want to say that he knew there to be two killers. Not only did he not fully trust the constable yet, but he also doubted the little man's abilities to comprehend it. "We shall see what turns up."
"Where are you going, Inspector?"
He was turning off the path, towards a certain manor. "I have an important thing to ask the good marquis."
The sky was beginning to darken when he was ushered into the sitting room to wait for the marquis. He paced behind his chair, ignoring the tea set out for him until Marquis de Maret appeared, looking a bit rushed. He had yet to dress for dinner, if he was hosting tonight. "Inspector Audley."
He bowed. "Your Lordship. I am in need of a moment of your time."
"Of course." But the marquis did not look pleased at the unannounced interruption. "Please, sit."
Audley did so, but did not relax. "Have you heard about the death of a Mlle Bernard?"
"No," said the marquis, sitting down across from him. "When was this? Recently?"
"She was found this morning. I believe she used to work for you."
"Yes." He swallowed. "She worked in the kitchen. I confess that I did not know her very well. An older woman, yes?"
"So she was among those that were dismissed four months ago?" Audley said, which seemed to rattle the marquis, who was intelligent enough to sense he was being interrogated.
"Yes."
Audley opened his book. "Why was she dismissed?"
"I – I don't remember." The marquis sunk further into his chair. Either he was genuinely shocked or was trying to appear so. Audley admitted to himself that he couldn't tell.
"You dismissed the entire staff before the arrival of Lady Littlefield. Is this correct?"
"Not all at once, but yes."
"Why?"
The marquis blinked. "How is this relevant to Monsieur Roux? Was she involved with him?"
"It doesn't matter. What matters is that she was murdered, in the same way that he was, except she was in her home and was not a universally hated person in town. And I may ask whatever questions I like to try and solve this case." He continued, "You can refuse to answer any one of them, if you wish, or even have me tossed from your house, but you can understand that it won't look very good."
"Of course, of course." The marquis was recovering. "There were two reasons. First, when I arrived here in 1817, I had to scrape around for servants, many of whom I never found to be competent, but I kept them on for the sake of convenience and because the town was obviously uncomfortable with the nobility returning. But I needed a competent staff to impress Lady Littlefield, whom I am obviously eager to impress." He hesitated. "The second reason – you will take into confidence?"
"Of course."
The marquis looked sad, even vulnerable. "My wife died – was killed – in our former home in the west. She was in the gardens – she did so love to work with the soil – when some passing soldiers of General Bonaparte attacked her. They violated her, abused her, and left her to die. When we found her, it was too late." He rested his head on his hand. "After that, I was in a mood of perpetual despair. I was not, I admit, the best gentleman. This was how I was when I arrived, and I was not entirely ... polite with the servants I did succeed in finding. But over time, I have healed – or so I hope. But I did not want old stories of my gloom to spread to my fiancée unnecessarily." He looked up desperately at Audley.
"Of course, Your Lordship. Thank you for the information, and it will be kept in confidence." He stood up. "I think perhaps the best way to express your regained senses is to keep an eye out for your former servants. I wouldn't want any of them to end up like Mlle Bernard."
The marquis nodded, "Of course, Inspector."
"Then I will be off and trouble you no more today. Thank you for your time, Your Lordship," he said, bowing. He then left, satisfied that his threat had been perfectly understood.
His appetite finally returning – and with a vengeance – he consumed his meal at the Verrat. One of his first acts in town had been to befriend the barkeep (Anton) and the server (Camille). When the latter approached him to clean away his plate of well-picked-at chicken bones, he asked, "Do you know of the gypsies who supposedly live in the woods?"
She paused. "They're not gypsies, Inspector."
"No?"
"Gypsies move around, don't they? And they put on their shows and do their little tricks. I've seen their wagons pass through here. But these people do not. They live out there, never coming out of the woods."
"Never?"
"Not that I know of."
He did not open his book, but his hand instinctively fell on it. "How long have they been there?"
"A few years. Not much longer. I don't think they're gypsies, Inspector. I think they're ruffians. You know, ex-soldiers and refugees – the bad sort."
Like Simon Roux. "Where is their camp, exactly?"
"Way out there." She gave him a look of concern. "Inspector, if you're thinking of it, you shouldn't. It's dangerous."
"So they're violent?"
"I've never heard anything, but why else would they be living out there, building fires so high we can see the smoke from here?"
"Why didn't anyone tell me of this?"
"Did you ask?"
It was the kind of answer that made him either want to slap the person asking or himself. It was the latter this time, because she was a woman. "I would prefer to know, for the record, if there are any violent people living in the woods when someone is found murdered just outside them."
"Oh, they usually don't come out this far. You're safe for a mile or so in. But no safer." She leaned over. "I am serious, Inspector. If you die because of some bandits, I doubt they'll send another inspector that's half as cute as you and we'll all suffer for it."
He smiled shyly. "I will take all the necessary precautions."
"Good to hear, Inspector."
Taking his satchel and book, he headed upstairs. He had no serious designs on Camille, but he was not going to discourage her to be friendly with him if it would lead to information not otherwise granted. It did not pass the professional line – he had forgotten her comment (not the first she had made) by the time he removed his coat and vest and laid down to sleep for a short nap. He would need to be rested for the evening's planned activity.
Among his things that normally stayed in a locked trunk beneath the bed in his room at the inn was a rifle. He took this along with his normal pistol. He had no intention to use it on anyone, but animals could not be discounted, and it would hardly look good if that young inspector from Paris was knocked off by a bear. Or a wolf.
Lantern lit, he donned a wide-brimmed hat and set out with only a note on his bed stand, lest he not return. It was nearing midnight now, and the full moon lit most of his path on the road until he came to the spot where the cross for Simon Roux had been planted in the ground. It had fallen over, knocked over by a passing animal or the wind, and no one was caring for it. He picked it up and was about to force it back into the soil when he noticed writing on the back. Not writing – more like scribbles. Holding the cross close to his lantern, he tried to make out the character before realizing they were unidentifiable, but they were not scribbles. This was done with a careful hand.
It looked like a lowercase "t" and an uppercase "R" but in the wrong order, and bizarrely done. Some kind of ancient script? None that he recognized. I've paid my respects to Simon Roux, he thought, and broke off the part of the cross that was marked and stuffed it into his satchel.
He could indeed see the smoke of the fires, from somewhere deep in the woods. Using his compass, he determined the direction. South. With that, he blew out his lantern and entered the woods. The moon provided enough light, even through the trees, as his eyes adjusted. He treaded silently except for the occasional branch or leaf pile. There were minor streams running through various parts of the woods – obviously there was a larger river somewhere, probably coming down from the mountains.
Audley did not realize how nervous he was until the silence was broken by a howl and he gave a little jump, then tried to reason himself out of it. It was the deep woods. It was night. There were bound to be things that howled at night. Not necessarily werewolves. There was no good reason for his breathing to be so heavy, or for him to wait so long against a tree for it to steady again. And then, another howl. Damnit, he would get nowhere with this!
He focused on the compass, squinting to see its directional indicator. South. He focused on south, and continued for a while, until he could smell the smoke and hear the laughter in the distance. So, the rumors were true. He squinted in the distance, but saw no wagons or horses. He saw tents and shacks. The voices were almost entirely male. This was no gypsy camp, as Camille had warned him. It was, however, a camp of very likely suspects, especially if Simon Roux had crossed them somehow.
How to approach them? Should he do it at all, or just observe? The second option seemed safer, but he had not yet decided when a blunt force rammed against the back of his head and everything went dark.
To Be Continued...