Remember Paris

Chapter 6

December 2 1909
Traugott von Jagow
Department IIIb

Raymond Duclos has returned to Paris stop Inquiring after Depard and Montclair stop Advise as to best course of action.

FS
German embassy – Paris

And then, when I thought they were coming back for me…

Le Larron returned to Paris a little more than two months after he had left.

Terror had driven him out of the city that fateful evening. As he approached the meeting-place that had been prearranged between him and Louis, he had come upon a grisly scene. His henchman Depard was stretched out on the cobblestones, a pool of blood spreading outward from his body. Le Larron recognised the signs of a fresh kill and dodged into the shadows. He heard the slam of the door of a motorcar and saw a figure approaching the dead man. It was that bastard Krause carrying a tarpaulin. He used it to bundle up the body, then dragged it back to the automobile and dumped it in the back. Duclos didn’t need to see any more. He moved with the ghostly silence he had learned in his years as a burglar back to the street where his auto was parked.

He drove to his home in a panic and ran inside, rudely ignoring the sharp inquiries of his mistress, Estelle. He left her undressing in his boudoir as he went out the door less than an hour later, taking only a few clothes and all of his cash-on-hand. Morning saw him driving through the French countryside heading for Marseilles – a place where a crook could make a living or take ship to far-off shores. He wasn’t sure yet what he would do only that he needed to distance himself from that ordinary-looking devil that had killed Louis and would likely kill him too if he got the chance.

Duclos spent a great deal of time trying to figure out what had happened. Depard had sent a message to tell him the paper had been destroyed – that would get Krause off their back. The messenger had told him that Adrienne had gotten away. They had arranged to meet in a quiet alley a few blocks away from the Moulin Rouge where they could talk undisturbed.

Obviously Krause had gotten there first and killed Depard. But why? The papers were destroyed. He’d sent word to the German embassy the moment he’d heard. Krause should have been satisfied. That should have been the end of it.

It was obvious now that Krause hadn’t been content with just getting the papers back. He was going to make sure there were no witnesses left alive. Duclos got occasional reports saying that Depard and Adrienne Montclair hadn’t been seen since the night he left. Rumour had it that they had run away together, but Duclos knew better. Adrienne must be dead too. A faint regret ran through him followed by anger and self-pity. Adrienne could have had it so good but she had double-crossed him and ended up getting herself killed - and she’d ruined his life in the bargain. Greedy little bitch.

Duclos missed his Paris home. People from the criminal underworld told him how his turf was being divided up by his rivals. He was too old to start over as a cat burglar here in Marseilles. He needed to go back to Paris and get hold of the money that was sitting for him in his accounts. Maybe he could reclaim his territory. Surely Krause had lost interest in him. After all, he didn’t know anything about any papers and Krause knew that. It must be safe by now. He started packing that night.

It didn’t take long for word to get to Boyd’s ears that Le Larron had returned. The instant that he’d heard he raced over to Marguerite’s boarding house. She wasn’t there. The landlady told him she’d said she was going shopping. He ran to the market.

Marguerite could see him coming, dashing down the street, weaving his way through the slower-moving pedestrians. Her feeling of anticipation dissipated as she took in his tense expression.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Le Larron is back. He arrived yesterday, said he’d been holidaying in the South. No sign of Depard or…” he stumbled to a stop.

The fear built in Marguerite’s gut and radiated outwards. It seemed obvious now - Duclos had killed Adrienne – likely Louis as well. He might have come back to Paris to get rid of her as well.

“I guess it’s time to go,” she said tremulously.

“I guess it is,” Boyd agreed reluctantly.

“I’d better pack.”

“Wait a day, Marguerite. I’ll wire my superiors. They’ll send some money for a ticket, help find you a place to stay in Monte Carlo, Nice – wherever you say. Just say the word that you’ll work for us and I promise you, we’ll – I’ll- take care of you.”

“Maybe – I don’t know. It’s dangerous.”

“So is running away from a desperate criminal without any money.”

“I’ve saved up a little,” she hedged. “Would you come with me if I agreed to become a spy?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see. I’ve used up my credits staying here in Paris with you when I should have returned to London.”

“Alright, I’ll wait a day and see what your British government has to offer me. No promises though.”

A bright smile lightened his features. “I’ll go work things out. Stay low. I’ll come to your boarding house - tonight.”

“Believe me, I will. I have no intention of running into Le Larron in some dark alley. I’ll be home packing.”

***

In Berlin Ralf Krause read the telegram handed him by von Jagow and tossed it back on the desk.

“The infamous Le Larron has finally popped out of hiding.”

His superior puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “What do you think, Ralf, can we just let this go?”

“Perhaps. I don’t think he knows anything,” replied the spy.

“He knows that you were looking for papers stolen from a German who had met with an Indian nationalist. If Duclos was questioned by a British spy, they might be able to put two and two together. Especially since he’s met you, Ralf, and can describe you.”

“Perhaps you’re right sir. Maybe I should return to Paris.” Krause agreed thoughtfully.

“I wonder if there might be a quicker solution – one that leaves you at arm’s length from the situation.”

“Hire someone, you mean? Good idea, sir, I’ll look into it.”

A phone call and a few telegrams later the arrangements were made. He had contacted a man he knew - a mercenary who used to arrange assassinations in Eastern Europe who now lived in Paris. Krause wired him money from an untraceable account and waited to hear that Duclos was dead.

***

Marguerite pulled out her carpetbag to begin to pack. She pulled out the small velvet bag that held the pearls and ran them across her palm. Their opaque radiance mocked Marguerite’s reverie. Had they been worth Adrienne’s life?

It had only been in the last week that she had become resigned to the finality of her friend’s death. She picked up the envelope that Adrienne had given her the last time she had seen her. The package had remained sealed in the faint hope that her friend would show up to reclaim it. Even now she could imagine Adrienne walking through the door, scolding her for her hesitancy. “What are you waiting for, silly? Go, make our dreams come true.”

She broke open the seal on the envelope and read the contents. She swallowed hard as she realized she had the sum total of Adrienne’s life in her hands. There was a letter addressed to her asking if she would make sure the Montclair family received news of her death and her share of the money from the pearls. There were a few other items she wanted her family to have – some cheap jewellery, her baptismal certificate. A tear slipped down Marguerite’s face as she placed the contents back into the envelope. Brushing a hand abruptly across her cheek, she placed the envelope in the carpetbag and straightened her shoulders. There was much to do before she could leave. She’d forgotten that she needed to close out her account. She left her room, exchanged a word with the landlady and headed for the bank.

December 2 1909
Nikola Popov

Contract confirmed stop Finalize immediately stop

Krause

I took the jewellery - and I went to Monte Carlo

Nikola Popov followed Raymond Duclos as he walked from the Moulin Rouge to the La Fosse Usée It had taken very little time for the experienced assassin to pick up the trail of his prey. It was only a matter now of waiting until it was darker and finding a place where he could cut the man’s heart out without being seen. He had made his living by killing people for many years, first in his homeland of Serbia and now in his adopted country. He slipped in the door and sat at the back sipping a glass of wine, waiting for his target to leave the busy bar and go somewhere less public.

***

Duclos walked past the entertainers and into Grosman’s office. He’d heard rumours – one of the most interesting was that La Pinsonne was still looking for her friend Adrienne. Apparently she and some British fellow had been asking a lot of questions right after Louis had been killed and he’d taken off. That could mean Adrienne was still alive. If so, that would bring Krause back to Paris as sure as could be. He had to know for certain. He stepped into Grosman’s office, interrupting the fleshy club owner as he pored over the ledgers.

“Have you seen La Pinsonne lately?” Duclos asked.

“No, not for a couple of weeks. I had to let her go. She got sick – couldn’t sing. Don’t know what she’s doing now.”

“Where is she living, Gaspard?” Duclos voice had an edge to it now.

“Why, Raymond? Why are you so interested in her?” Grosman replied guardedly.

“She’s a friend of Adrienne’s. I thought I’d ask her what happened back then, tell her what I know.”

Grosman knew that Marguerite had been searching for information about her friend ever since the girl had gone missing. It was like she was haunted by a ghost. He would pass this tidbit along to her, but he didn’t want to give away her whereabouts to Duclos. It seemed that he had developed a soft spot for the little songbird. He supposed there was a first time for everything.

“Well, if she happens to drop by, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.” Grosman rose to his feet and came around the desk in a bid to end the conversation. Duclos rose also and bowed slightly. As Grosman bowed in response he was staggered by a blow to the gut that doubled him over. An elbow to his neck drove the enormous man to his hands and knees. He gasped to regain his breath, his head ringing from the second blow.

“You misunderstand me, Gaspard. I would prefer to speak to La Pinsonne immediately. Can you tell me where she lives” Duclos voice was filled with steely menace.

Grosman looked up to see a lethal-looking knife held loosely in Duclos’ hand.

“Raymond, what are you doing? We’ve done business together for years,” he protested.

“I’m afraid, old friend, that desperate times call for desperate measures. Her address.”

Grosman was defeated. Too fearful to resist, he told Duclos her address. Once started, he couldn’t resist adding more details.

“She moved there after she and Mlle Montclair quit here and moved out of their old place.”

“They quit together?” Duclos asked.

“Yeah, just before you all disappeared.”

“Thanks, Gaspard, you’ve been a good friend.” He helped Grosman to his feet and into his chair. The Fat Man sat gasping and clutching his belly as Duclos left the room. Grosman opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of cognac and a glass. He poured a stiff drink and downed it, hoping to still his fear and the wash of regret he felt when he thought of the beautiful singer and the desperate criminal who was after her.

***

Duclos’ thoughts were racing as he left the club. So, Adrienne and her roommate had quit at the same time. Obviously they had been partners in this little caper. If anyone knew what was going on it was the singer – La Pinsonne. He walked swiftly toward the nearby rooming house. Absorbed in his purpose he didn’t notice that he was being followed.

Duclos tapped on the door of the rooming house, bent on discovering which room was occupied by La Pinsonne. He wove a tale of being her uncle and finding that she was out, asked if he could leave a package and a note. With smooth flattery, he managed to convince the landlady to escort him to the singer’s room so he could write the note on her stationery. He surveyed the contents of the room and the access with a practiced eye, noting that most of her belongings were packed up.

“Is my niece leaving?” he asked.

“Yes. She’s moving to Avallon, a small town in the Bourgogne region. She said she’ll find a job there. Such a shame she lost her voice when she got so ill. She sang beautifully, I hear.”

“Yes, quite a shame. Her family was very upset.”

“It’s nice to know she has family. Until you showed up, I wasn’t so sure she had any. We get so many girls that have run away to the city. I’m glad to hear she has people who love her.”

“Family are a comfort, aren’t they. I must be on my way. Don’t tell her I was here. I want the present to be a surprise.”

The landlady saw Marguerite’s uncle to the door. It would be good for her boarder to have a nice surprise. Mlle. Smith looked like a haunted waif sometimes and the screams she let out in her sleep at night – well it was enough to curdle your blood.

Duclos left and in minutes had skirted around behind the building and clambered up the drain spout. He jimmied open the tall window and slid noiselessly inside Marguerite’s bedroom. There would be more than a present to surprise her when she returned.

Popov cursed as Duclos scaled the side of the building. The man was a bloody cat! He’d have to wait out here until the burglar made his exit. He found a vantage point where he could watch both the window and the front entrance and prepared to wait a little longer.

***

Marguerite hurried home, having withdrawn her money from the bank and purchasing a few items she would need for her trip. She waved at the landlady as she dashed up the stairs and turned her key in the lock. She had no more than stepped in the room when she found herself pinioned by a strong arm, a hand clapped to her mouth to stifle any screams. A voice by her ear whispered.

“Don’t struggle or I’ll kill you right now. We’re going out this window and we’re going quietly. I only want to ask you a few questions, but I’ll slit your throat if you try to run.” For emphasis he ran the flat of the blade along her cheek and jabbed the sharp point into her ribs. “Understand?”

Marguerite nodded. As he loosened his grip she turned a little to take a look at the figure she had known was there at his first words - Le Larron.

“Smart girl. Now I’m going to tie this around your waist.” He had twisted her bed sheet into a long line. He fastened one end around her waist and pushed her to the window. “Hold on to the window frame; then I’ll lower you far enough. You’ll drop the last bit.” Seeing no point in arguing, she nodded once again. Soon she was dangling a few feet off the ground. She heard the whisper in the silence. “I’m going to let go.” The rope went slack. She landed on her feet but overbalanced and fell backwards. In the seconds it took her to get back up, Le Larron had descended the side of the building and was by her elbow guiding her away from the house and further into the alley.

“So you were in on it – with Adrienne?”

“In on what?” Marguerite stammered.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Answer me.”

I don’t know what you think you know, but it’s not true. Someone killed Adrienne because they thought she had done something and they were wrong. Now you’re accusing me of the same and you’re wrong too.” Though terrified, Marguerite schooled herself to appear innocent and incapable of such bold trickery that would be required to cheat the most well-known thief in Paris.

“So she’s dead, is she? Did you see the body?”

Marguerite was confused. She had been sure Duclos or some of his agents had killed Adrienne. Now he was acting like he was in the dark about her death. Was this some kind of trick to gain her trust?

***

Hidden in the shadows the Serbian assassin waited unseen. Popov had lost his patience . This was a perfect spot to do away with Duclos, but now there was a witness. No matter. Two lives for the price of one. Krause would get his dead man and one more body for free. He inched closer as his two victims stood face-to-face, silent at the moment. He would attack as soon as someone spoke.

“No, I didn’t see her body. But she must be dead. I waited…” Marguerite’s voice broke off with emotion. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of motion behind the burglar. Had Percy come to save her?

***

Percy Boyd walked down the street where Marguerite lived, his steps light. He had convinced his contact at the Secret Service to pay for the train fare to Nice and to secure a position for her at the casino where she could spy on the enemy agents. There were many foreign agents who made deals at the table that had nothing to do with cards. He had been less successful at being allowed to accompany her but he was hopeful he could join her later. He had to admit he was not looking forward to their parting. They must make a thorough job of their goodbyes this night; the train left early the next morning. He enjoyed a delicious daydream as he drew closer to her lodgings. He was startled by the sound of a faint scream coming from the alley behind the boarding house. Marguerite!

***

Two swift steps and Popov had closed in from behind the unsuspecting Duclos. He put a hand across the man’s mouth and as his victim reached up to grab it, he brought his knife up under the ribs, through the tough muscle of the diaphragm and into the man’s heart. He tried to release the blade as the dying man crumpled, but it stuck. Popov abandoned it. He leapt over Duclos to deal with the woman who had turned to run. Her scream was cut off when he looped a thin rope around her throat. Popov tightened the noose with both hands ignoring the woman’s flailing hands.

Marguerite had stood there frozen for the handful of seconds that it took the stranger to execute Duclos. She recovered swiftly but not as quickly as the trained killer. She’d barely turned when she felt a cord tighten around her neck. Her breath was cut off by the garrotte. It was pulled so taut that her scrabbling fingernails could find no purchase to pry it away from her windpipe. She could feel her breath rasping through the constricted passage, the loop growing ever tighter. Spots swam in front of her eyes. Her chest heaved in a vain attempt to get air. Her lungs were on fire.

She twisted around to rip at the face at her tormentor. Her nail scored one gouge and the noose released infinitesimally. She redoubled her efforts and succeeded in feeling the tie go slack. Marguerite took a deep shuddering gasp. She was stunned by a blow to her cheekbone that spun her to her knees. She felt the killer’s foot on the small of her back, slamming her to the ground. The noose tightened once more as the assassin pulled the cord back against his braced foot. Marguerite lost consciousness. A tinny shout was her last awareness.

Popov continued to hold the garrotte tight, the woman now a rag doll at the end of his arms. He swore under his breath. The damned bitch had fought like a wildcat! She’d marked his face with her nails. He would have to make doubly careful he made his escape without anyone seeing him. One more minute to make sure she was dead and he’d be gone with their valuables. Just another gangland slaying, the newspapers would say. With a sudden jolt he was knocked flying across the cobblestones.

Percy had run as fast as he could toward the ghastly scene. Marguerite’s limp body dangled from a garrotte held in the killer’s hands. Absorbed in his brutal attack the assassin hadn’t heard Boyd’s approach. Percy launched himself in a flying tackle that would have done him proud on the rugby pitch of his youth. With a guttural roar he caught the killer around the knees. Wrapped him up and smashed him onto his back in a whoosh of expelled air. He leapt to his feet, drove a pile driver right into the man’s jaw then turned to the unconscious woman.

He rolled her to her back and loosened the thin cord wrapped around her throat. Boyd listened for her breathing. He heard nothing. He pulled her arms out and then pressed them to the centre of her chest –using a new artificial respiration technique he’d learned. After a few presses he heard a gasp and then Marguerite was breathing on her own. He returned his attention to the deadly killer behind him.

He was almost too late. The woozy Popov had crawled over and freed his knife from Duclos’ body. He struck at Boyd in a powerful but sluggish lunge to the abdomen. Percy blocked the blow with his forearm feeling a searing heat as the blade opened a gash across the bone. He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted the weapon from his grasp, driving a knee into the killer’s gut to finish the fight. The assassin rolled to the side and tried to crawl away. Boyd kicked him in the head – a manoeuvre his rugby coach would not have approved of. The killer lay still.

Boyd tied the man’s hands with his own belt and picked up the cord he’d loosened from Marguerite’s neck. He wound that one around the man’s ankles and left him trussed in the alley. A cursory examination told him Duclos was dead. The burglar looked deceptively peaceful, only a small patch of blood at the point where the knife had entered the body. A real professional killing, Boyd noticed, the man’s life’s blood draining into his abdomen. There was no telltale trail of blood to leave evidence on the killer.

He turned back to the unconscious Marguerite. Her colour was better now and she was breathing normally. Thank God. It was evident from the livid marks on her neck how deeply the cord had bit into her flesh. Lucky that it hadn’t swollen up to impede her breathing. He gently whispered her name. Her eyelids fluttered a little. He patted her cheek with his palm. She tried to brush away his hand, still not opening her eyes. He gripped her hand.

“Come on now, Marguerite. Wake up! We have to get back to your room and I don’t want to have to carry you. That would make just too much of a scene. Come on, my dear.”

Marguerite frowned at the buzzing noise that annoyed her. Her throat! Oh god, did she have that dreadful throat infection again. It hurt badly and she could barely breathe. She opened her eyes. Percy! Suddenly she returned to full consciousness, recalling the violent few minutes before she passed out. She craned her neck to look past Boyd.

“It’s fine now, dear. Your attacker is out of commission. And so is Duclos,” he said encouragingly.

She gathered her strength to croak a question. “Are you hurt?” She gestured at his bloody arm.

“Oh, damn,” He frowned as he looked at the gash, “and I’m getting blood all over you. So sorry.” He shrugged off his jacket, ripped off the sleeve of his shirt, wound it around his forearm and donned his jacket once more. “Are you able to stand?” he asked.

She nodded and managed with a little steadying from her companion.

“Aren’t we a pair?” he laughed, “I can’t imagine what the landlady is going to think.”

“Especially since I left through the window,” Marguerite croaked, “She’s going to think this is an elopement that went wrong.”

A little giddy with relief, they shared a brief laugh then quietened.

“Why did that man kill Duclos?” she asked after a brief pause.

Boyd hesitated. Some day he would tell her about the soulless depths of espionage where agents would kill the innocent and not so innocent for the greater good – the interests of sovereign and state. Where lies would follow each other so thick and fast that the truth would be irretrievably lost. Where friends and lovers might be agents for the other side or double agents or, heaven knew, mercenaries working for a number of countries. Someday he’d tell her everything, but not today. Boyd was pledged by oath to secrecy. He would have to wait until she was part of the Great Game, as snarled up in espionage as he was. Then he would tell her about Krause and the secret document that had caused such awful destruction and death in her world.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Probably something to do with the gang wars over his turf.”

“I guess so,” she said thoughtfully, with a nagging sensation Percy was withholding something.

“I hope this is the end of things but I don’t think you should come back here. We’ll take your belongings and spend our last night together at my hotel. I’ve got the money for your ticket. The Secret Service came through for us.”

“Our last night together? You’re not coming with me?” she whispered, her throat still throbbing.

“No, I got my marching papers, too, I’m afraid. I’m to return to London.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll finagle a posting to Nice; you just wait for me. Till then you just report to the man mentioned in the letter. Oh, here’s the letter,” He held out a manilla envelope to her. “He’ll take care of things. You’ll be fine.”

***

Marguerite slept poorly that night. Her throat throbbed and she was wakened by the nightmare – the picture of Adrienne floating in a sea of blood more vivid than ever before. After that she lay awake until the first pale light washed the sky.

***

The train chuffed steam as it sat at the platform in the thin morning light. Percy Boyd handed Marguerite her valise and wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.

The conductor was directing all passengers to board the train. Marguerite turned to go.

“I’ll see you soon – in Nice!” he shouted after her as the train began to move.

“Au revoir, Percy.” She waved goodbye. With a huge cloud of steam and the sharp sound of the whistle the train slowly rolled out of the station.

Marguerite watched Percy Boyd walk off the platform. She opened the envelope and counted the bills within. Enough, she thought, along with the pearls in the packet she had pressed inside her chemise, it should pay her way for a while. She would leave the train in Lyons, make her own way to Monaco. She would follow her dream – hers and Adrienne’s – go to Monte Carlo, get rich and be happy. Percy Boyd was charming and kind, but he had lied to her from beginning to end. One thing she knew for sure- she would never become a spy.

She has told me everything, Lord Roxton. But she knows you and she have no future.

Marguerite eased up the stairs to the main level of the treehouse, bracing herself a little against the discomfort of her injuries. She really had done it to herself this time, she mused ruefully. She clutched her robe tighter against the chill in the air. The last time she had climbed these stairs it was to the upsetting sight of the Adrienne-spirit locked in an embrace with Roxton.

She was surprised at the sense of betrayal she had felt when she had seen them together. Marguerite had been disappointed more than once in recent months by John’s capacity to be taken in by the scheming seductresses that seemed to infest the plateau, but she had thought things had been different between the two of them recently. Ever since their sojourn in that horrid village run by Edgar Gray there had been a kind of closeness, an unspoken admission of the emotions that had been bared in the crucible of that dreadful experience.

Lord Roxton looked up from where he was adding wood to the fire. He hailed her quietly.

“Ah, there you are. I’ll pour you a cup of Veronica’s special blend – valerian and chicory. I’m going to let mine steep a little longer.”

“Not taking the time to double-brew it?”

Roxton flinched slightly as her comment brought back memories of the conversation he had had with the Adrienne-creature. Some of her cryptic words gnawed at him.

Challenger had said that the manifestations were ripped from their friends’ minds. Why had she told him that Marguerite didn’t love him? Say that Marguerite had only given in to her passions because of the danger they were constantly in? Had it been a true insight into Marguerite’s thoughts or only a warped version designed to torment him? He hesitated to ask Marguerite. Such a question would leave him vulnerable and he knew that a direct approach usually made the otherwise-courageous Miss Krux turn and run.

And what had she meant when she said earlier she hadn’t been sleeping the whole time? What had she heard? The hunter flushed as he recalled the words he spoke as he sat by her bedside, how he had acknowledged aloud the important part Marguerite now played in his life. In a way he hoped that she had heard. He doubted he would have the courage to tell her face-to-face. He handed her the just-poured tea.

Marguerite looked at the play of emotions on the open face of the man before her. Embarrassment mostly, she decided. What about? For almost spoiling Challenger’s plan with his ill-considered confrontation at the entrance to the cave? What had made the army-trained lord disobey Challenger’s direct orders?

Face it, Marguerite, it was because of you . He had said he couldn’t leave the plateau without her. He must have lost control when he thought she and Challenger were going to their deaths in that cave. A warm feeling spread through her, flushing her cheeks. Bloody hell, she was reacting like a giddy schoolgirl. Where was her habitual sangfroid?

Roxton began to feel awkward in the silence. He looked at the woman before him, concerned that she might be hurt more badly than she had let on. She looked at him over the rim of her teacup – almost as if she were hiding from him behind the delicate china. She had looked down when he had made eye contact just now. He felt the same discouragement he’d felt so often in the past. Without taking a single step she was running away from him, fleeing the budding connection between them.

“That hits the spot,” Marguerite broke the silence before it became oppressive. Lost in his gloomy thoughts, Roxton made no response for a moment, then collected himself.

“Hmm, what?”

“It’s good– the tea,” she prompted.

“Oh – good, I’m glad. I’d better pour my own before it turns to tar.” He rose abruptly and went to the fire where the teapot simmered over the flames.

Marguerite gave a little sigh as she read the tension in the hunter’s broad back. She hadn’t meant to drive him off; it had just become a habit.

She couldn’t deny the depth of her feelings for John. He had proven again and again his sincerity and inherent decency. She had been around the world, had more liaisons than her reputation could bear and her soul was damaged beyond her own recognition. But never before had she met a man that she could trust. She knew now John Roxton was that man.

Marguerite allowed herself a little fantasy, one she hadn’t had since she was a girl – the one where a handsome knight would fall in love with her and show her passion and respect and kindness. She’d known even then that it was an impossible ideal, but this was as close as she could imagine. With all Roxton’s flaws – his stubbornness and recklessness, his soul so wounded by his brother’s death – he was still right for her.

No Lord John Roxton could be trusted. She was the one she didn’t have any faith in. And if he had any sense, her self-appointed protector wouldn’t believe in her either. If he knew even a tiny portion of what she had done - the people she had betrayed. The war had been a long grim trail of dubious, sometimes despicable actions taken for the ‘greater good’. She remembered once possessing honest emotions, but after years of espionage all she had now were cold-blooded responses necessary for her survival and the accomplishment of her objectives.

Ever since she could remember she had always had a shrewd understanding of what she needed to do to survive. Yet it seemed that after the death of Adrienne something had been extinguished within her. She had blamed herself for a long time for letting her friend get killed. She had done many things after that which served to reinforce her inner feelings of - what had that evil thing called it yesterday - self-loathing? Somewhat overstated - that wretched creature had a vicious way with words - but perhaps true to some extent.

How many deaths were on her hands? Dieter had asked her that when he threatened to expose her history to the other expedition members. Lives lost in battle and others as well. No wonder the field marshal was gunning for her. Life beyond the cliffs of this plateau really was like being on a knife-edge of danger.

How had she managed to put her past out of her mind in recent months? She had been behaving as if she belonged in this place – as if there would be no reckoning for what she had done. She’d let herself forget and behave as if she had a future with these people – with him.

It wasn’t until she sat in the cave sharing her inner secrets with what she thought was Adrienne’s ghost that she considered how deeply she had become attached to Lord Roxton. She had given John hope for a future together. He had prattled on about taking her back to London with him and she had eaten it up. It had given her strength when her own was being sapped by the evil creature that had given form to her memories of her best friend. But there could be no future.

Marguerite was suddenly aware that Roxton no longer faced the fireplace. Instead he was watching her with a worried expression – the same look she imagined he had worn the other day when he had whispered about a shared life together while she lie there drifting in and out of consciousness.

“Sorry, I’m not very good company, am I?” she apologized for her abstraction.

“You look like you’re a million miles away. Back in London. Or maybe Paris?’ He left her an opening. If she wanted to talk about that chapter of her life, he was more than willing to listen.

“Wishing I were anywhere but this god-forsaken place.” Her sarcastic words told him not to press the subject. He nodded in acknowledgement of the shift in tone

“I suppose I should try to get some sleep,” she continued, “Veronica will likely be rousting me out of bed in a very few hours.” She rose and placed her cup back on its saucer. Roxton moved toward her, supporting her as she took her first few steps.

“Don’t worry, my dear, on this one occasion, I doubt that Veronica will be pressing you for an early start.”

Roxton matched his pace to her deliberate descent to the lower level of the treehouse. He restrained himself from just picking up her slight form and carrying her down the stairs. With gashes on her left arm and right side and the bruises from her fall, she might find his kindness more painful than dashing. At the entrance to her room, he turned her to face him.

“I hope we’ve chased away those bad dreams,” he said softly.

They were very close and he was wearing that warm half-smile that never failed to distract her completely from any coherent thought.

“Veronica’s tea is reputed to cure almost everything – perhaps even a guilty conscience.”

Marguerite’s humorous words were belied by the searching look in her eyes.

Without thinking Roxton bent his head to kiss her lips, perhaps hoping to stem the words that he feared would shatter the mood. He was heartened by the way that after a brief hesitation she responded. It wasn’t words that caused him to back off next; it was a flinch and her muffled groan when he tightened his embrace. He had hurt her. He raised his lips to her forehead and whispered a sorry into her hair.

Roxton stepped back, the warm smile still lighting his face, his passion chained by remorse. Best to let her get some rest. There was plenty of time to set things right between them. Someday he’d convince her to trust him, he vowed; he need only be patient.

“Sleep well then.” He continued to look at her as she disappeared behind the curtain to her room.

***

Fair is fair, Madge. You stole mine when you betrayed me.
That’s not true.
True or not, it’s what you feel. It’s what’s in your mind – fear and guilt and self-loathing.

Marguerite waited a moment to allow her heart to calm its pace. The man was unbearably attractive. No wonder she continued to forget herself and her purpose on the plateau. Perhaps she should just forget that purpose. The search for the ouroboros had turned out to be a fruitless venture and life with her companions had grown familiar to her – perhaps too familiar. But maybe she could allow herself to enjoy Roxton’s affections just a little – here, on this plateau. She had done nothing to betray his trust here. It was only back in the world she had left behind that she was damned by the wrongs she had done in her past. Maybe she could steal a little happiness. Just while they were here on the plateau. Just for a little while.

It had been ages since she had thought about Adrienne and how she had died. For years she had felt like she had betrayed her friend and profited by her death. It seemed to Marguerite now that perhaps she had taken on a greater burden of guilt than she actually deserved. She had confronted more than an evil spirit yesterday when she had stood up to the Adrienne-creature and denied responsibility for her friend’s death - Marguerite had finally confronted her own feelings of guilt.

Memories she had suppressed for a very long time flooded to the surface of her consciousness. It had been Adrienne’s decision to keep the pearls. She had done so against Marguerite’s repeated warnings. Marguerite had remained loyal to her, waiting for her friend until it was almost too late to save herself. The threat to her life had been real; she had been right to flee. So why did she still have that awful sense of guilt whenever she remembered Adrienne?

Marguerite walked to her valise and pulled the fragile baptismal certificate from its secret hiding place. These meagre items – earrings, papers, the money from the pearls – this was Adrienne’s sole legacy. Marguerite had kept it all here in her case. Including the letter.

A tear rolled down Marguerite’s cheek as she looked at the yellowing piece of parchment. She could recite by heart the words that Adrienne had written. Addressed to her, in Adrienne’s laboured hand, it was a request that she give the papers and the money to her family. A request that Marguerite had failed to respond to until it was too late. The memories came back, unbidden.

***

Marguerite sat in the carriage of the passenger train as she left Paris that day, clutching the document which attested to the actuality of Adrienne Montclair’s existence. The baptismal certificate with dates and places and names, all in an old-fashioned script that proclaimed the authority of church and state. It proved that Adrienne was a real person. It made Marguerite even more aware that she herself was an illusion – a creation of her own imagination and desperation. With an authentic document and a good story she could create an identity. She could be Adrienne Montclair. If she bribed a skilled counterfeiter she could become someone else - Marguerite Montclair perhaps.

Marguerite held the package and debated with herself. She knew she should obey Adrienne’s last wishes. Her family deserved to know of her death. The money would make their lives easier. But…

But Marguerite needed the money and the identity papers to forge a new life. It had been ages since Adrienne had written her family. Marguerite knew that because her friend struggled mightily with the written word. Adrienne’s sighs and constant requests for aid made her roommate aware of every communication. Surely if she took some time to establish herself in Monte Carlo and let the furore die in Paris, it wouldn’t harm anyone. After all the family had no expectations of the windfall they would receive from the daughter who had gone to Paris to make her way in the world.

So it had been a full year before a well-dressed young woman stepped off the train in the village of Adrienne’s birth. Now a millionaire’s wife, Marguerite felt overwhelmingly guilty that she had kept her friend’s endowment for so long after she no longer needed the money. It was just that things had just been so – complicated. Wealth and marriage had not been what she had hoped for.

Conversations with shopkeepers and the curé gave Marguerite the unwelcome news that Adrienne’s father and her family had moved away almost a year earlier – to Paris, people thought, to find steady employment and rejoin his daughter who the village had heard was now a wealthy entertainer. Adrienne and her dreams, sighed Marguerite bitterly, so sure of a rosy future. She had boasted in the letters she had sent home.

The parish priest was surprised when the stranger requested that a headstone for Adrienne Montclair be placed in the cemetery. Since there were no remains he had objected at first, but she was adamant – and willing to donate a substantial sum to the benevolent fund. He had asked the woman if she wanted him to hold a service. The strange benefactor merely shook her head and boarded the next train leaving the village. Gossip raged for a time but finally lapsed. The curé left flowers on the grave.

***

A stain on her soul , Marguerite chuckled mirthlessly, as she wiped the tears from her cheek and returned the letter to the case. It wasn’t the living Adrienne that Marguerite had let down; no, it was the memory of her she had betrayed.

There, she had finally admitted it. Marguerite had done what she thought she needed to do to survive and the price for that decision had been paid by Adrienne’s family. She was tarred with guilt with that selfish act and it would be with her always.

Adrienne had been her best friend but she had crossed the wrong people. That wasn’t Marguerite’s fault. But when Adrienne had made her final request – to give her papers and money to her family - Marguerite had put her own needs first. Because of that she would feel the silent reproach of her dear friend forever. So maybe it had left her soul a little the worse for wear. Still she would survive; she always had.

And if she could grab just a little happiness in this strange land that Lord Roxton insisted was a kind of paradise, well, maybe she would give herself that chance. She’d found a new beginning here on the plateau. If John was willing to take a chance with her, she’d hear him out. All bets were off once they left the plateau – that would be far too dangerous, but here…

She slipped back under the covers. The nervous exhaustion left over from the nightmare surrendered to the soothing effects of Veronica’s herbal tea. Thinking through the conflicts that haunted her had somehow brought her calm. She closed her eyes and envisioned a loving half-grin, hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, a stubbled cheek rough against her own. The vision held her very tight. It didn’t hurt a bit. She slept dreamlessly until morning.

The End

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