“Of course not.”
“I am glad of that. I should have been very angry with you if it had been true.”
”Please don’t be flippant. I cannot endure that. I feel far from flippant.”
“This Charles,” he said, “he was what you call the great lover?”
“You mean, did he have many love affairs? I think he had something of a reputation for that. He and his wife saw each other rarely. He married her for her money and they agreed to live separate lives.”
”Perhaps this was a crime passionnel. Do you know any of his mistresses?”
“I know little of his private life. But there was a woman…”
“Ah, one you know.”
“I heard she visited him. Her name was Madalenna de’ Pucci. I have a picture of her. We were taken together at a function.”
“I should like to see it. Perhaps she knows something of this little matter. It would be worth while rinding out and asking.”
“I don’t think we should find her. She was here … some time ago. She may have gone back to Italy.”
“So she is Italian. They are a very passionate people. Where is the picture? Shall we see it?”
“Stay here. I will get it.”
I was astounded at the effect the picture had on him.
“Madalenna de’ Pucci!” he said. “What an outstandingly beautiful woman.”
I felt angry. I took the picture from him but he took it back and continued to gaze at it.
“You are clearly impressed by her,” I said coldly,
“Yes … impressed. Madalenna de’ Pucci. I think I may have met her in France.”
”I daresay she is a much travelled woman. She was here with her brother… on business.”
“Did you meet the brother?”
“No … no. He was travelling … in the Midlands, I think. She was waiting for him in London.”
“Tell me more of Madalenna de’ Pucci.”
“Do you really find her so interesting?”
“Immensely so.”
“I first met her when there was an accident outside The Silk House. Her carriage was overturned and she sprained her ankle. She came to the house and stayed a few days.”
“When was that?”
”It was just after I was married.”
”So your husband was alive then?”
“He died soon after.”
“You say she stayed in the house with you?”
”Yes, for a few days. She made a great impression on Charles … as she obviously has on you.”
“She is one to make an impression. Go on,”
“Well, Charles was very taken with her. I remember he, with my husband, went to London for the day on business and during that day her brother sent the carriage for her. She was to go back to London as they were leaving for Italy immediately.”
“And you say your husband died soon after that?”
“Very shortly after. I forgot all about Madalenna de’ Pucci then.”
“Naturally. And your husband was found shot, you say.”
“In the forest, yes.”
“With his own gun?”
“Well, with one of the guns from the gun room.”
“And then she returned to London … not long ago.”
“Yes, Charles met her in the street by chance.”
“Fortuitous, eh?”
”He was delighted.”
“I can understand that, cannot you?”
“He was attracted by her as you obviously are.”
He smiled as though well pleased. He could not keep his eyes from the picture.
”How far did this affair between Charles and the beautiful lady go?”
“I don’t know. Julia did mention that she had been at the house to visit him. His rooms could be reached by a rather private staircase … a back staircase which led only to them.”
“So there were two ways to the rooms?”
“Exactly. The rooms were at the end of the first floor corridor. There was a door, I believe, which opened into the sitting room and the back staircase stopped at the dressing room door. I had never been on the staircase but Julia told me about it when Charles went there after his house was burned. She was saying how private he could be.”
“So his house was burned down?”
“Oh yes. He had a narrow escape. He would have been burned to death if his valet had not come back unexpectedly early. He had been drinking heavily, I think … and that was probably why he was trapped.”
“How dramatic! And this poisoned wine … that was in-tended for him. Does it not seem strange that he should have been almost burned to death and then shortly after there should be this attempt to poison him?”
“You think the burning of the house was deliberately planned?”
He looked steadily at me and lifted his shoulders.
I said slowly: “It is like a pattern. There was my husband. I never really believed he killed himself. There was no reason. It was very strange because there was a man … and that was in Italy. …”
“Tell me.”
I reminded him about Lorenzo who had gone into the streets of Florence wearing my husband’s opera cloak and hat and had been stabbed to death. “And then … when we came home Philip died.”
The Comte was thoughtful. “This is interesting. This Lorenzo could have been mistaken for your husband. Then soon after he is shot. This Charles … he is nearly burned to death and saved by his valet. Then he could have been poisoned and is saved by his sister who is killed instead of him. Does it not strike you as strange, Lenore?”
“It is very mysterious.”
“Now what I want to hear is about your politician.”
I told him about our childhood meeting and how we later became good friends.
“How good friends?”
“Rather special good friends.”
“And he was in love with you?”
I nodded.
“And you?”
“I thought it would be good for me … and for Katie … not to be alone.”
“My poor Lenore, so you were lonely.”
“No … no. I had my grandmother. I had my daughter. I had good friends but…”
“And the thriving business. Yes, you had much. But you thought this Drake could make you happier. But he married Julia … and you were hurt and then you came to France with your father … and I found you. It is all becoming very clear to me. I am a little jealous of this Drake.”
“Please, this is too serious a matter for meaningless gallantry.”
“Is that how you regard me … as a flippant gallant?”
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
“At the Park Hotel.”
“And you are … comfortable?”
“I do not know yet. I took my room … I leave my bags and I come at once to you.”
“It was good of you.”
“I will go now. I will see you soon. Do not fret. This will pass. The truth will be discovered.”
“I appreciate your coming,” I said.
”But of course I came.”
He took my hand and kissed it.
When he had gone I realized that he had taken the photograph with him, and that took away the pleasure I had had in seeing him again.
Depression descended on me once more.
How long the days were! I seemed to be walking about in a dream. I was deeply apprehensive.
I had visitors—steely-eyed men who hid their suspicion under cool politeness. The endless questions began again. I could see that they were trying to trap me into betraying something which would assure them of my guilt.
I wondered how long it would be before they came to a definite conclusion.
I believed Drake was undergoing the same sort of interrogation. The papers announced that the police were continuing with their enquiries. There was an account of Drake’s career, of his marriage to Julia, one of the Sallongers, it was stated, a member of the silk manufacturing family; Mr. Charles Sallonger was the one who had revolutionized the silk industry by putting on the market one of the finest silks ever known. There were accounts of how I had married Philip Sallonger who had shot himself shortly after the marriage. They had cast me in a very dramatic role—a woman whose husband had killed himself almost immediately after the marriage must be a femme fatale.