Chapter Fifteen: Accusé
Unease bubbled in her stomach as she reached the door.
She had stood a while across the square, staring attentively at the hovel, watching for any movement within. When she had satisfied herself that the house was, indeed, unoccupied, she had crossed the courtyard with an air of purpose which no one questioned.
Her intent had been to seek out the key, slide it into the lock and enter the small dwelling as if it were hers all along. However, she had faltered on the door step, staring with bemusement at the weathered portal as it swung inwards with only the slightest application of pressure from the tips of her fingers.
Instinct told her to run, but hubris and curiousity conveyed her over the threshold. She lingered in the doorway, the scene before her summoning a nauseous lump to her gullet. The once rough flagstones on the floor were now slick with blood, dark and congealing. The source of the blood was a crumpled mass by the foot of the hearth and, though she could not see the man's face, she already knew his name.
Deftly, she pushed the door back into its frame, not daring to move her eyes from Purcell's lifeless body. Transfixed, she found herself approaching, paying no mind to the boot prints she cast in the crimson pool beneath her, nor to the way in which her petticoats and skirt seemed wont to try and soak up the blood with each step she took further into the space.
She came within arm's reach of the discarded man, lowered herself into a mindful crouching position and outstretched a hand to turn him, fighting back a grimace when the fisherman's face came into view.
A bloated mess of split and swollen skin greeted her. The muscles around the man's right eye had bulged and sealed the eye from view completely. The socket itself was a purple, black colour daubed with a smattering of blood, the exact origin of which she could not fathom. There were multiple fissures from whence it might have come; the man's exploded lip, the toothless gaps in his gums, the criss-cross of welts and gashes on his forehead, the widened nostrils of his force-engorged nose.
She felt a prick of pity, but her heart hardened subconsciously as she shifted her focus downwards to the body. It was clear that Purcell had acted on instinct as soon as he hit the floor, withdrawing into an involuntary coil in an effort to curtail the force of the assault. This had not worked, it seemed; every inch of exposed flesh was turned black and blue and red, even despite the pallor that came with death. Purcell's left wrist rested at an unnatural angle, as did his ankle on the same side.
She could only imagine the pain the man must have endured at the hands of his attackers, whoever they were, but these thoughts did nothing to soften her contempt for the dead fisherman.
She had returned to the house of Davin Purcell for one reason and one reason only...
She had not come for revenge for his behaviour on the night they had first met, nor in order to permanently ensure his silence on the matter of her presence in Paris. No, she had come for her clothes. The clothes the dead man currently wore.
The linen shirt, once white and bleached by the sun of far flung shores, was now patchy and pockmarked with scarlet, in some places so thickly saturated that it glistened in the sunlight from the window.
The brocade waistcoat was in a similar state, though it was harder to tell given the darker hue the garment possessed. She lay a hand on the embroidery, traced the gold filigree with tentative fingertips, careful to avoid the copper-tinged strands. She found a few of the buttons to be missing at the front. She felt the itch of moisture in her eyes again, knowing that she would never again wear the vestment, the waistcoat left to her by a great man, and it was all Purcell's doing.
Why had he even put it on in the first place? Had he done it out of spite? In the hope that she would return and see him wearing it as an added insult? Or had he been discontented that he had been prevented his revenge on her and thought it compensation, in part, for the misfortune he had suffered at her hands?
Whatever the reason, she found she detested him for it and she was sure that she would have made this known, had she caught him alive wearing it. It could not even be repaired, she lamented, she might be able to find similar buttons and sew them back on, but the blood stains? Not so easy to remedy. And then of course there was the rip in the left shoulder, a jagged scar of ruptured fabric.
Her brow furrowed and she leant in to further study this fissure. It was not a straight tear, jagged, but, it appeared, decisively so. The whole split was only a mere three inches in stretch and, though the edges felt tacky with blood to the touch, it was probable that this was dealt after death. The precision with which it had been dealt would have been unachievable if the victim had been writhing in agony. She parted the slit with forefinger and thumb, all at once noticing a flash of green cloth that should not have been. Gingerly, she pinched the fabric free of its hiding place.
She recognised it immediately, almost dropping it in her surprise. It was a scarf, a faded summer green and cut from a fine muslin, embellished with an ornate black printed pattern that hid within it decals of birds, beasts and men. It was an item not easily forgotten and she had seen it more than most.
Disbelief clouded her thoughts and for moments she could do nothing but stare at the bandanna. It couldn't be the same one. It just couldn't. She found herself stepping backwards, away from the body, turning the soft fabric over and over in her hands. Fear coiled itself around her spine as her knuckles brushed against a line of stitching. It was clumsily wrought, but secure. Her hands had been shaking when she had sewn it, a task given to her as punishment. She had been crying, she remembered, aching as well; her muscles resisting at the slightest movement.
In that moment, it soon became clear who had murdered Purcell and with this revelation, she supposed the reason why. Purcell had been killed because of her. True, he had not been a fortuitous acquaintance, but her stomach still bubbled with guilt: if she had meant the fisherman dead, she would have killed him herself.
No, this was a message, a warning, a threat and it was meant for her.
Her breath hitched in her throat suddenly, the magnitude of the situation dawning on her. She had assumed he would follow, discover her missing and fly into a blind rage, pursue her at all costs. She knew this, but she had not expected him to have caught up to her so soon. She shouldn't have stayed so long. She should have left after a day or two, results or no.
And she shouldn't have come to Paris; he knew her connections to the place and she had been foolish to think him forgetful of such things.
Something burned in the back of her throat and she all at once felt dizzy. If she had been followed to Purcell's then there was a chance that she had been charted elsewhere around the city. She felt her breath quicken in her throat, thought back on her dream; the hand, the pistol, Gaspard.
She swallowed hard the urge to cry out, tied the scarf hastily around her waist and made for the door. However, just as she was but an inch from the handle, it twisted unaided. She stayed half a second longer, watching the door creep inwards only an inch, before gathering her wits, pivoting on her heel and making for the staircase, devouring the steps within moments. She listened with baited breath at the top stair, flattening herself against the wall so as not to cast a shadow.
'That's strange…Don't remember closing the door…' someone croaked, the male voice thick with shock, maybe even tears. She imagined the heavy set man from the night before, but couldn't be certain.
'And this was how you found him?' another man queried.
'Hasn't moved any?' questioned another.
'No- I mean, I haven't touched him...No, wait. There!'
'What?'
'Footprints. Look!'
'And they weren't there before?'
'No, I'm telling you…and look there! He's been moved!'
Her heart skipped a beat at the metallic whisper of unsheathing swords. She counted two.
'Someone's in the house.'
'Upstairs!'
Without a second's thought she flew across the small space, battled with the catch at the window and threw it open. There were footsteps on the stairs by the time she mounted the window sill, looking back only a second to behold the face of the man she had seen the night before. He stood between two Red Guards who both brandished their swords. One of them called to her to halt and for a moment it looked as if she might obey, leaning back into the room. The second Red Guard repeated the warning, but she was tired of taking notice.
She caught the flash of movement in her peripherals as she offered a smile in mock innocence and threw herself skilfully from la fenêtre. There was a commotion behind her, a cacophony of shouting voices and stampeding feet. She landed with a grunt on the unctuous cobblestones below, fought to her feet and fled the square to desperate cries of 'Murderer!' and 'Stop her!'
In truth, she gave no thoughts to her destination, letting her feet merely carry her away from the danger as fast as they could. She cast a glance over her shoulder once by a tavern whose name she could not glean at her speed and once again at the bakery owned by Monsieur Fortin.
The first time saw the Red Guards still in pursuit, seemingly indefatigable, young and energetic as they were, but at the second glance, they were further behind and this lent an opportunity to escape from their sight completely.
She took a left and another, stealing herself away behind a high wall which she had clamoured up and over with little difficulty, even despite her cumbersome attire. She sank to the ground, beside a barrel that contained dried fish (judging by the smell) and listened attentively for the frantic gaits of her Red Guard hunters.
She calmed herself, settled her breathing and was about to stand when she finally heard the tell-tale signs of confusion beyond the wall. Her would-be captors argued a moment, scuffed their boots in indecision and then decided to give up the chase, proceeding from the alleyway with decidedly calmer paces than before.
She released a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding and rose cautiously from her hiding place.
Surveying her surroundings she found herself in a narrow passage, the end of which opened out onto a familiar shop front. She felt her lips form a smile in relief and she ran subconsciously to the mouth of the passageway. She turned her gaze rightwards, fixed her eyes on her chosen sanctuary and leapt from the backstreet.
She had only taken a few steps when she was halted by a confusing chorus of male voices. They all called out at once for her.
'Licia?'
'Elle?'
'Elle?'
'Richelle?'
She pivoted slowly to face the quartet of bewildered brows and narrowed eyes. She was spared the men's gawking for only a second or two as they turned to each other, no doubt, telepathically attempting to investigate each man's knowledge of her.
When their collective attention was once again upon her, she could do no more than offer a slight nod of the head in greeting and uneasily afford them an almost inaudible, 'Bonjour!'
