“Don’t know, monsieur. But I can find out. One of the other maids is sure to know.”
“Do so then. And be quick about it,” Radnor said, annoyed at the prospect that he’d been mistaken about the maid and Vincent correct. He dropped a coin on the table between them and stood up, before remembering to ask, “How about Madame du Sonton? Has she a lover?”
“If she has, she’s kept it secret well. None of her household suspects a thing. But then she’d have to be especially good at lying to cheat her husband. He’s a jealous man. Very jealous. Hardly lets her out of his sight.”
Unwilling to give up his initial theory, Radnor instructed, “See what more you can discover about Madame.”
Cynicism was a coward’s approach to life, death, and love, and Vincent decided Radnor was in need of a lesson. He would prove Radnor wrong. He would find the maidservant and learn the truth. But first, he would pay a visit to Catherine Pousse at the laundry where she worked to ask her about her friend.
Catherine stood in the doorway of the large establishment, steam billowing out into the street from behind her, wiping her wet, red hands on her dirty apron, and pushing her damp hair from her face.
She was one of his favorite customers. A bouncy young woman with a fresh round face and a ready smile, honest, spotlessly clean, though always slightly disheveled and moist. Pleased to see him, she gave him a peck on the cheek in greeting as if he had been her father. He asked after her well-being, then described the maidservant who’d come to see him.
“I don’t know anyone like that, Monsieur de l’Amour. You sure it was my name she mentioned?”
“Yes,” Vincent said with a sinking feeling. “You’re certain you don’t know her?”
“Yes,” she said nodding. She smiled at him, and apologized, “I’ve got to get back to work now, monsieur. I’ll stop by for another letter to my mother soon.”
Disappointed to find that the maidservant had lied to him, Vincent turned towards the Hotel du Sonton. Was it as Radnor suggested? Was she involved in something illegal? Poor girl. Another one who had lost her way. That’s what happened to young people when they came from the provinces to Paris and were set adrift without guidance from parents or priests in the most corrupt city in the world. The lucky ones found him, and he willingly guided them, serving as a father to them. The unlucky ones found themselves in Radnor’s clutches, or worse.
That evening, the Sniveler appeared at Radnor’s apartment.
Angrily, Radnor pulled the man inside. “What are you doing here? I told you never to come here. If it’s known you inform for me, you’ll be no good to me.”
“Sorry, Monsieur Radnor,” the Sniveler said as he pulled his hat from his head, “but I thought you’d want to know that Marie Lasourde has disappeared.”
“How do you mean disappeared? Has she left town or been kidnapped?”
“Don’t know, monsieur. No one knows where she went. The other maid who shares a chamber with her says her things are gone.”
“All of them?”
“She left her gowns.”
She couldn’t very well have made a discreet escape lugging a bundle. Perhaps she didn’t need the gowns if she intended to live off the fortune that the necklace and earrings would bring. “What did she take?”
“Personal trinkets. Ribbons, a locket, letters.”
“Was she wearing her favorite gown by any chance?”
The Sniveler looked at him blankly. “Don’t know, monsieur.”
Disappearing in a favorite gown was a sure sign of flight rather than kidnapping. Every informer knew that. “Well, find out!” Radnor ordered, irritated by the man’s ignorance.
Radnor’s instincts had steered him true once again. He’d unearthed crime. Either blackmail or theft or perhaps both. Most likely the maidservant had taken flight the moment she suspected they were onto her. When they found her, they might even find the stolen jewels, and then he’d make a tidy sum to add to his savings. A few more lucrative cases like this one and he’d be able to purchase the more respectable office of inspector which he had held until the new, reforming head of the Paris Police had taken over a year ago.
The next morning, Radnor was awakened by a messenger sent by the Sniveler. A skinny, twelve year old recited to him: Marie Lasourde had been wearing her favorite gown when she’d disappeared. And she was sweet on Nicholas Keplin, the son of a successful chandler.
Nicholas — N. Just as he had suspected.
Radnor dressed carefully before setting out for the Keplin shop. He gave a quick brush to his coat, shoes, and tricorne, and tied and retied his cravat several times before he was satisfied with the knot, then smoothed his hair in its queue.
The Keplin shop was small and narrow, nestled in among the other shops on the fashionable and expensive Rue St. Honore, around the corner from the Cemetery of the Holy Innocents.
At the bell that rang upon Radnor’s entrance, a man came out of a curtained back room. Obviously expecting to see his usual kind of customer, the servant of a rich aristocrat, the man hesitated in confusion when he saw Radnor. “May I help you?”
Just as skeptical, Radnor eyed the pale, balding man. Marie Lasourde was obviously one of those women for whom security meant everything. “Are you Nicholas Keplin?” Radnor asked, glancing at the shelves full of candles, candle holders, lamps, and wall sconces.
“Nicholas is my son, but no doubt I can help you. We sell the finest candles in all of Paris here,” the man said out of habit, his eyes and voice still uncertain of Radnor.
“I’m not here to buy anything, Monsieur Keplin. I merely want a few words with your son. Can you tell me where I can find him?”
“What business do you have with him?” the shopkeeper asked, becoming openly suspicious.
“That’s my affair.”
“He’s not in town at the moment. He’s away on business.”
Radnor wondered whether the father was somehow involved. On closer inspection, however, the man seemed not so much guilty as confused. “Maybe you can tell me if your son has ever mentioned a young woman by the name of Marie Lasourde?”
The man’s face instantly reddened with rage, and he nearly spluttered as he asked, “Is that the name of the harlot who’s seduced him?”
“Then he does know her?”
“To my shame and disgrace. She’s a strumpet. Willful and indecent. What does he see in her? I’ve forbidden him to speak to her. He was such a good boy before he met her. He’ll marry the girl I’ve chosen. Marrying for love! Ridiculous idea!” Keplin fished in his waistcoat pocket and produced a lace handkerchief with which he mopped his perspiring forehead. “Is that what this is about? I knew it.” He squinted at Radnor. “Are you a relation to this Lasourde creature?”
“Hardly,” Radnor answered dryly. “I’m an under-inspector for the police and I believe this woman and your son may have fled the city with stolen jewels. Anything you can tell me about his whereabouts will help.”
The red of the man’s face deepened, becoming an ugly purple. He gasped, gripping his chest as he slumped to the floor, pulling candles off the shelf with groping hands. An apoplexy. Radnor strode to the curtained-off back room where he found apprentices to help.
After they’d helped the gasping man upstairs to his apartment, Radnor asked one of the young men if he knew where Nicholas Keplin was. “Toulouse, I think, monsieur.”
“Merde,” Radnor cursed under his breath. That meant contacting the Marshalsea of Toulouse for help, which meant that the reward for the recovery of the stolen jewels would slip out of his fingers into theirs. “Merde,” he repeated.