Title: The Plot
Author: vanillavinegar
Prompt: 028 – Children. (9/100)
Rating: PG for this particular prompt (for violent themes)
Author's Notes/Disclaimer: Count Cain and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Warning: this chapter contains a lot of (possibly mangled) French. If you know French and I've made some horrible mistake (due to online translators), please let me know so I can correct it. :) Part two of three – it WILL NOT make sense unless you've read the previous prompt/chapter ("The Idea" for prompt 'Christmas'). Thanks to everyone who read the last one, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears for reviewing!
Write a review, get a reply from the author - promise. :D
When the bell rang at the Hargreaves' door, it took everyone by surprise. Cain, who had been scanning old newspapers (more out of boredom than actual curiosity), looked up sharply, a frown tugging at his mouth. He exchanged a glance with Riff, whose brows had been drawn down in shared uncertainty, whereupon the butler whirled and left the sitting room. Merriweather looked up from the puzzle she had been trying to put together for the past week.
"Who could that be, Brother?" she asked, head tilted to one side. "One of the family here early for Christmas Eve?"
Cain shook his head. "They shouldn't need to come before tomorrow." I certainly hope it isn't one of the family.
"I hope it is not the family," Merry sighed, unconsciously echoing her brother's thoughts. "Unless it's Uncle Neil, because he and Brother get on so well."
"Maybe it's Oscar," Cain suggested, mostly because her frowns made him laugh.
Merry barely had enough time to open her mouth with indignation before loud footsteps in the hall gave them both pause. A moment later, the door to their parlor was flung open and Riff reappeared, looking greatly harassed.
"Madame Adèle Girard to see you, milord," he announced breathlessly. Not a moment later, a young woman rushed past the butler and threw herself to the floor before Cain's chair.
He leapt to his feet in astonishment, but his instincts immediately took over and he knelt, taking up the lady's gloved hand soothingly. A distant part of his mind noted that her face was veiled, an odd accessory for such a young lady to wear indoors. "Madame, calme vous-même (calm yourself)," he said smoothly. "Ce qui vous afflige (what ails you)?"
"Pardonnez-moi, mon seigneur (pardon me, my lord)," his guest whispered pleadingly. "Forgive me, but I have been afraid – so afraid!"
"Of what, madame? Vous êtes sûr ici (you are safe here)."
Behind them, Merry too had stood, her frown deepening, but Riff managed to catch her eye before she could say anything and interrupt her brother's 'flirtatious mode'. He threw her a wink and her eyes lit up. She hastily resumed her seat, smoothing her dress and practically bouncing with delight until she regained control of herself.
Madame Girard had been quietly and rather convulsively sobbing into a handkerchief she clutched desperately with one hand, her other still held by Cain. He waited patiently, unaware of (or perhaps merely ignoring) his audience, until she caught her breath again. "Pardonnez-moi," she repeated, looking up through the veil to meet his eyes with her own tearful ones. "I have been disgracing you."
"Not at all, madame."
"Lord Rochford, he told me you had discovered what happened to his sister when she disappeared, non? And my Henri, he is missing – I am afraid they have killed him, mon seigneur!" She collapsed again, wailing "Henri!" into her handkerchief.
At this renewed bout of tears, Cain, with a rather burdened expression, looked up at Riff imploringly. With his usual uncanny way of understanding his master, Riff helped him half-lead, half-carry Madame Girard to the settee, where she lay weakly until Riff offered her a tumbler with a thumb's length of brandy. She knocked it back professionally, causing Riff's eyebrows to leap up and Cain to smirk.
"I'm sure she needed it," Riff said softly with as much dignity as he could muster.
The brandy did seem to help, as Madame Girard's weeping soon subsided. She arranged herself into a more proper sitting position as Cain took a seat in his own armchair. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his clasped hands, eyes studying her intently as she dried her face. She was older than he had first taken her for – at least in her mid-twenties; her veil distorted most of her features, but he could tell that much. She was very slim, to the point where Cain thought a strong breeze could knock her over, and dressed all in black, even the veil – though it was a very fashionable black dress. A widow, Cain surmised, still young or vain enough to care about the latest fashions while also mourning her late husband. His guess didn't explain the veil, though – at least the fact that she continued to wear it inside a building. But perhaps that was merely her way of grieving.
"Madame Girard, whenever you feel able, could you tell me your story, from the beginning?" he asked, still wearing his most sympathetic aristocrat face. Behind him, Merry endeavored to remain as unnoticed as she had been during the entire interview; she was interested to see how events would play out. Riff stood in his customary place next to his master's chair, his eyes too fixed on their visitor.
"Naturellement, mon seigneur (of course, my lord)," she replied, sounding stronger than she had a few moments before. She cleared her throat and tossed her head; her veil shook violently but stayed in place. "As I told your domestique (servant), my name is Adèle Girard, wife of the late Eric Girard. My husband had been a good friend of Lord Rochford's, and when he died two months ago Lord Rochford kindly offered to let us stay with his famille (family) until I found a place of my own."
"Us, Madame?"
"Myself and my son – Henri." Her voice shook slightly. "He is six years old next week, mon seigneur. Yesterday, I took him for a walk in London, and when I was buying a hat at one shop he disappeared – like that!" She snapped her fingers before sniffling into her handkerchief again.
"I see," said Cain softly. "Henri could not have run off by himself, Madame?"
"I have told him not to do so," she replied, somewhat indignantly. "Jamais (never)! But he is only a child, and Henri will have his own way when he wants it."
"Yes, children can be like that," Cain agreed. He glanced over to Merry quickly, as if to remind her he was perfectly aware of her presence, then turned back to Madame Girard.
"I do not think he did this time, though," she was continuing. "Not to leave for so long without telling me. He knows how to get home by himself, so I do not think he can, or he would have yesterday."
"Are you still at Lord Rochford's, Madame?"
"Oui. We were to move after Henri's birthday, but now I do not know what I shall do…" she trailed off.
"After you found that he was missing, what did you do?"
"I looked for him, naturellement. But I could not find him, and none of the shopkeepers had seen him – hier ou aujourd'hui (yesterday or today). Then I spoke with the police, but they are imbéciles, non (fools, no)? They think Henri may have gone with a friend – as if he would leave his maman (mama) to worry like that! Then I remembered how Lord Rochford told me about you helping him – so I came to you, mon seigneur. He did not come himself because he was – comment vous dites (how do you say)? On holiday? His family does not even know that Henri is missing!"
Cain nodded. "And who do you think has taken him, Madame? You said you were afraid 'they had killed him'."
She brought her handkerchief to her mouth again, her hand trembling. "I received a note, mon seigneur." She unclasped her purse and handed a scrap of paper to him. "Lord Rochford's servants found it nailed to his front door this morning."
Cain held it up to the light and scanned it quickly. It was written in a rather difficult-to-read scrawl: We have him. If you do not wish him dead, you will bring it to the British Museum by six o'clock tonight. He turned it over, but the reverse side was blank. "What is 'it', Madame Girard?"
"I do not know!" she exclaimed. "I am afraid they think I am someone I am not, or have something that I do not. If it was money, I would give them all I have, but…" She shrugged miserably. "I do not know what to do."
"You showed this to the police?" he asked sharply.
"Oui. But since I do not know what it means, and it was not mailed, they think it is a joke. They said it was obviously written by a child and does not refer to Henri at all."
"Hmm," was all Cain's reply. He studied the note for a moment longer before returning it. Madame Girard's hand shook a little as she smoothed it before replacing it in her purse. Cain studied the ceiling for a moment, his eyes half-hooded in thought. Without looking at her, he asked, "Madame Girard, with which hand does Henri write?"
He missed her startled look. "His right, mon seigneur."
"And the Rochfords?"
"All with their rights as well, I believe."
"And the note is not any of their writing – even Henri's?"
"Non, mon seigneur."
"Did the Rochfords' servants note the placement of the note on the door? Say, how high it was, whether it was close to the handle?"
"I… I believe they said it was at about their eye level."
"I see." Cain didn't speak for a few moments, then he suddenly stood with his customary lazy grace. "Shall we go look around this hat shop, Madame Girard?"
"Certainly, mon seigneur. But I have already asked them about Henri…"
"Yes, I am aware. We shan't be asking any more questions."
Behind her veil, the Frenchwoman looked bewildered, but readily followed a maid Riff instructed to order a carriage. When the two had left the room, Merry eagerly pounced on her brother.
"What shall we be looking for, Brother?"
"We shall not be. You are staying here."
Merry watched Riff arrange her brother's cloak and felt a strong sense of déjà vu. "But Brother—"
"That's final, Merriweather."
"Fine!" Merry stormed from the room in high temper.
Cain hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "Perhaps I should buy her something to apologize while we're in town…"
"I could speak with her if you'd like, Lord Cain," Riff offered as he fetched his master's hat and cane.
"Oh, no, Riff," Cain said with a glint in his eyes. "You shall be going with me."
Suppressing the notion that his master knew everything his sister and himself had planned (sometimes those golden-green eyes could be far too knowing for Riff's comfort), Riff said laconically, "Shall I then, sir?"
"Indeed yes. It seems there's a kidnapper on the loose, after all. And make sure that my gun is loaded."
Riff hated to criticize his master (unless, of course, his master genuinely needed it), but he simply could not see the point in lingering around the hat shop where the supposed crime had occurred. He freely admitted (silently and to himself) that his opinion was rather subjective, as he knew the secret to the mystery his master was now investigating, but that did not change the point that they weren't particularly doing anything productive. His master was simply strolling up and down the street around the shop in question.
Finally, however, even Cain seemed to tire of this occupation and began to throw questions at Madame Girard.
"Was it busier than this when you came with Henri?"
"Less, I should think."
"And what was Henri wearing?"
"A new suit Lord Rochford had bought him – dark green."
"Henri and Lord Rochford were friendly?"
"Oh, oui, mon seigneur – Lord Rochford was always so obliging to Henri and myself."
"And Lady Rochford?"
"What about her?"
"Was she as obliging as Lord Rochford?"
"Ah, cette femme (that woman)! She was not obliging to anyone, Comte Hargreaves, least of all Henri. She was always insinuating the most unspeakably horrible things, about her husband, about myself, even about Eric! Have you ever met her, mon seigneur?"
"No, I have not."
"Vous êtes fortunés (you are fortunate)."
"So it would appear."
At last Cain halted his meanderings and glanced at the sun. "Is it five o'clock, Riff?"
"A bit before, sir."
"Excellent. To the museum, then?"
"Mais mon seigneur (but my lord) – we do not have—"
"Do not worry, Madame Girard." Cain flashed that brief, dangerous smile. "You asked for my help, did you not?"
As they walked back to the carriage, Madame Girard suddenly let out a very soft scream and clutched at Cain's arm faintly.
"Madame?"
"That man! He was here – he was here when Henri was taken!"
Cain snapped his head in the direction of her trembling finger and narrowed his eyes. She was pointing at a squirrelly-looking man, dressed in several layers of rather dirty clothes, topped off with a hat that concealed his hair and forehead, who stood at the head of an alleyway, watching the passersby nervously. As if noticing their combined stares, he suddenly looked up and then vanished quickly into the alley. Riff moved as if to chase him but Cain put up his hand.
"No. He'll be long gone before you can reach him."
"But if he has Henri, mon seigneur!"
"Then he will be at the museum, madame. Either way, we cannot do anything about him now." He patted her hand on his arm reassuringly and continued toward the carriage. She cast another longing glance at the alley but allowed him to tug her along, Riff following in their wake.
"Unfortunately," Cain said as the three of them entered the museum at quarter after five, "whoever wrote your note was a good deal less than specific about where to meet. So I suggest that we wander around a bit and make our presence known. Perhaps they will find us."
At first, he thought his plan was turning out rather well. Almost from the moment they had stepped foot in the museum he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffening as though someone were watching them. However, as they trekked through the natural history collections for the third time (it being now only a quarter until six o'clock, the designated time), he realized why there had been eyes on him.
"Merriweather Hargreaves!"
Merry turned quickly from her scrutiny of the nearest visitors. "Oh," she said in a rather soft, sheepish voice. "There you are. I lost you back in the ethnographies."
"What in blazes are you doing here?" Cain said angrily. He stalked toward her and fixed her with his most intense golden gaze. Forcing himself to lower his voice, he growled, "I told you to stay at home."
Merry had drawn herself up to her full height. "And I said that I wanted to come. You can't keep me locked up forever!"
"Apparently not," Cain retorted with a scowl. "How did you get here?"
"I gave your driver half a crown to take me on the driver's box with him, and then another half crown not to tell you." Merry shrugged, unable to keep the pride from her voice. "It wasn't that difficult."
"This is not a game, Merriweather," Cain snapped. He was vaguely aware that Riff and Madame Girard had come up behind them, far enough not to interrupt but close enough to keep away other potentially prying eyes. "There are dangerous people about."
"I know that," Merry sniffed. "That was why I wouldn't let you come by yourself."
"You are going home," Cain informed her, tone steely. "Now. Riff!"
At his call, the valet walked forward to join them. "My lord. Miss Merry."
"Take Merry back to the carriage. Do not let her out of your sight. I will be there shortly."
"But Lord Cain, I can't leave you—"
"You will and you are." As they both hesitated, Cain's temper boiled over. "Now!"
As the two of them walked away (Merry with her nose still stuck in the air pointedly, an air of noble indignation about her, and every line in Riff's body speaking of his reluctance), Cain suppressed a shiver and massaged the bridge of his nose. He still occasionally had nightmares of Merry being kidnapped by Dr. Disraeli after Lady Drew's death; he did not want her to be taken by Henri's captor as well. If he closed his eyes, he could picture a shadowy figure slowly stalking his innocent young sister…
He sighed and looked toward Madame Girard. Her gaze, however, had shifted beyond him.
"Mon seigneur… the man from the alley…"
Cain whirled to see, indeed, the same ragged man he had first laid eyes on an hour before. "Stay behind me, madame. And do not say a word!" he cautioned her in a whisper. Slowly, with forced casualness, he strolled toward the man, who had not yet seen them, Madame Girard anxiously following him. Just as he had nearly drawn level with the man, he abruptly looked up from the placard on fossils he had been reading and the area of his face visible beneath the hat turned white as a sheet as he apparently beheld them. Then he turned and fled once more.
Throwing caution to the winds, Cain ran after him, one hand going immediately to his gun. He heard a faint cry of "Comte!" behind him; evidently Madame Girard had not been able to keep up with his breakneck pace. He did not halt or even slow; all of his concentration was fixed on his fleeing quarry. He barely even noticed where the chase was leading him until he suddenly slammed through a door and found himself in a shadowed, narrow lane outside of the museum.
Keen eyes glanced around quickly, but the man was nowhere in sight. He pulled his gun out from his jacket anyway, unwilling to go unarmed in such a disreputable-appearing place. He had already noticed that one end of the passage led toward an empty-looking London street; his instincts, however, directed him toward the opposite end, whose destination was hidden in the shadows. He cautiously made his way in that direction, constantly scanning for movements in the dimly lit alleyway. Thus he was not at all taken aback when the figure he had pursued leapt from a doorway and removed a knife from under those dirty clothes.
Cain was faster; his gun was already raised and pointed at the figure. He fired.
To be continued (sometime in the new year)…
