“Elena approached Beniamino and asked him to help her disappear. She chose well. She and Beniamino were first cousins and kindred souls. We’ve had our eye on him for a while. He’s been involved in thievery, extortion, fraud, minor crimes.”
“Perhaps to you, but not to me,” Loffredo said, wrapping his arm around Serafina’s waist.
Valois smiled and continued. “Together the photographer and Beniamino helped Elena fake her own death.
“How?”
“Seems the photographer knew a guard at Prison Saint-Lazare. Are you familiar with it?”
Serafina shook her head.
“You will be, I fear. Confiscated from the Lazarists during the Reign of Terror in 1793, it was turned into a keep for women by Napoleon. It’s a large prison with an all-female population on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis. For the most part, the women are well-treated. The prisoners don’t think so, of course-they call it ‘Saint-Lago’. But the first offenders and those awaiting trial are allowed to rent large cells. They have maid service and special food.”
Loffredo closed his eyes.
“In one wing, prostitutes are medically treated for crimes against the city’s sanitary laws, namely for having a venereal disease. In this city, street women must pass a physical exam every month. If they fail, they’re rounded up and taken to Prison Saint-Lazare.”
“And how does this guard fit into the…” Serafina stopped herself, suddenly understanding. “That’s where they found the woman to take Elena’s place.”
“Exactly.”
Serafina’s feet grew cold. “But I thought she was an acquaintance of Gaston.”
“Perhaps she was at one time. Or she became a symbol to him, I’m not sure. A ready scapegoat, someone he could blame for his disease. Don’t forget, we are dealing with diseased minds, desperate souls,” Valois said.
“Prostitutes are always made the scapegoats, no?” Serafina asked.
Loffredo and Valois looked at each other and shrugged.
“Syphilis is a terrible disease, and because of it, the European populations are thinning out,” Loffredo said. “Especially German and French males.”
“Venereal disease and war,” Valois said.
“So to continue,” Serafina said.
“Most of the women are cared for by an order of nuns and are given good care. As you can imagine, the female prison population can be a rough lot, foul-mouthed and ungrateful. The nuns put up with insults, salty language. Their lives are not easy. But this guard watched les cachots, the cells housing those in solitary confinement, and according to their plan, he promised one of these women, a desperate prostitute, freedom in exchange for a small favor. All she had to do was deliver a package to a woman in the Rue Cassette. Thrilled by the prospect of being free, she agreed. And so in the early morning hours of April 16, the guard led her out through the prison courtyard, threw her into a wagon used for transporting the women, and drove her to the Rue Cassette, releasing her steps from where Elena and Gaston waited.”
“Terrible,” Loffredo said.
Valois nodded.
“How much did Elena pay?” Serafina asked.
“In return for finding the woman, Elena paid Beniamino a sum of two million francs, but asked for IOUs to explain the withdrawal, should her father ever question it.”
“And that’s where the IOUs come in,” Serafina said.
“Right. Since Beniamino wanted to hurt his youngest brother, he created IOUs totaling two million francs, but signed them with his brother’s name.”
“Nice brother.”
“How is it that children from one family can be so different?” Serafina asked.
“You don’t want to hear my answer,” Valois said.
“I’ve heard your answer, and I don’t believe it. I believe we can all grow, make amends, and change.”
Loffredo nodded.
“Some of the rest of the story you know. When we discovered the body, I asked our photographer to record the event. Later he stole the prints and the plates. What you don’t know is that he presented them to Beniamino and was paid his fee. And bad seed that he was, Beniamino pleaded with Ricci to hide the plates and photos in the store he managed on Rue du Mont-Parnasse.”
“The beast. And Sophie knew of this plan?”
“She denies having any knowledge of the plan to obtain the woman, but there are discrepancies in her story. In the end, we know she agreed to the fraud and was happy to take her share of the two million francs. But along with her son, the photographer, and the prison guard, she will be tried for conspiracy and murder. As of now. She’s an old woman, going blind. I doubt she’ll be made to live out her days in prison. The jury will have mercy.”
“How could she not know about the plan to procure a woman of the streets?” Serafina asked.
“Blinded by greed?”
“What about Gaston?”
He shook his head. “The four men-Beniamino, the photographer, the guard, and Gaston-are held without bail in Prison de Mazas, accused of conspiring to murder. For now Sophie’s in Prison Saint-Lazare.”
“And Busacca knows all this?”
“Perhaps not everything. He knows his sister awaits trial for her part in the murder and attempted fraud. But our case is weak. We are certain she knew about the murder of the woman, but she hasn’t admitted it. She has a large cell separated from the rest of the inmates for which she pays seven or eight francs a month. The nuns take good care of her and listen to her sobbing tale, but there she is.”
“I must visit her,” Serafina said.
“I hoped you’d say that. Permission has been granted.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “I’ll be interested to hear what you find out.”
She heard Maria’s piano wafting down from above and wrinkled her brow. “It’s not Scarlatti.”
“Saint-Saens, perhaps,” Loffredo said. “A French composer, anyway.”
They were interrupted by the butler carrying a silver tray followed by Renata and two maids carrying the cafe, profiteroles, and cannoli.
“Upstairs all of you, or you’ll miss the glace au four!” Renata said.
Chapter 44: Prison Saint-Lazare
Serafina paid the driver and looked up at Prison Saint-Lazare, a mammoth gothic structure converted to a women’s prison in the beginning of the century. She walked up to the front door and rang the bell, feeling her stomach do somersaults, coming to rest on her bones. After presenting her papers to the porter, Serafina was ushered into a small waiting room. She looked at the drab walls and the plain furniture, the shutters on the window, the crucifix on the wall, and decided Sophie was in a warm place in the prison, well cared for by the sisters of Marie-Joseph.
“Why are you here?” Sophie asked after she was guided into the room and helped to her seat by a nun. The old lady’s sight had diminished in the few short weeks since Serafina first met her.
“Because I have questions and you’re the only one who has the courage to answer them.”
Sophie scoffed, but for the first time looked at Serafina.
“The first time I met you, you spoke of your oldest son, Beniamino.”
Sophie looked away.
There was silence. It filled the room, the corners, the crevices in the worn floorboards and stretched beyond the prison’s gates to the world outside where all street noise for the moment seemed to stop. Serafina’s heart thudded against the walls of her chest. She must not fail, she must find the truth, and she believed this woman was the key.
“Do you know where Beniamino is? Last time we spoke of him, you mentioned the south of France.”
Sophie worked her mouth back and forth, but made no reply.
“Why did you encourage Elena to feign her death?”
Sophie straightened. She opened her mouth, but closed it again, moved her jaw from side to side. She said nothing.