Floats the Dark Shadow (49 page)

Chapter Forty-One

It is the tomb, I am off to the worms, oh horror of

horrors! Satan, you buffoon, you want me to waste away

with your spells. I implore! I implore!

A stab of the fork, a splash of fire.

~
 
Arthur Rimbaud

RESCUE Matthieu. Rescue Matthieu. Rescue Matthieu.

The words drummed in Theo’s head, echoing the galloping beat of the horses’ hooves. At last they turned off the highway onto the country road approaching Casimir’s domain. They were lucky, first with the strong police mounts, then with the choice animals they’d rented at their one stop. Long shadows stretched across the dirt as the sun slowly lowered. Their pace was good, but it seemed forever before Theo recognized the crumbled remnants of the monks’ dwellings on the outskirts of La Veillée sur Oise. Just past them, Theo pointed to the neglected road that led to the chateau. They’d barely turned onto it when Rambert’s mount stumbled in an obscured pothole and wrenched off a shoe. Michel and Rambert dismounted to look at the horse’s hoof. Theo stayed on her mare. She had no trouble guessing the outcome of this twist of events. She’d be expected to give up her mount and walk Rambert’s into town while the men went on ahead.

“My horse can’t go on,” Rambert said. “He could bruise the foot irreparably.”

Michel frowned at the upturned hoof, then turned to look at Theo. She instantly wheeled around and sent her mare running toward the chateau.

“Theo!” She heard Michel call after her. Had he ever called her Theo before? She kept riding, listening to hear if he was pursuing her. The docile mare had some speed, but not as much as Michel’s solid gelding. After a moment, she heard his horse closing in on her. She spared one glance over her shoulder and Michel yelled again, “Theo, stop!”

Instead she urged her new horse to higher speed, searching the uneven road for rocks and hidden holes. A quarter mile and she crossed a bridge over the River Oise and began to travel up the hill. The mare was flagging, so halfway up Theo slowed, letting Michel catch up to her at last. His glare spoke volumes, but he said nothing. Together they continued to climb the winding, rutted road. At the pinnacle, the road curved round a stand of trees. Between the tall trunks and rich spring growth, they glimpsed the derelict estate. Then they were riding on the overgrown gravel drive that led to the burned-out hulk of Casimir’s chateau. Fresh wheel tracks cut a pathway through the spring growth of grass and weeds. Vines crawled over the shabby caretaker’s cottage. Half-hidden behind it stood a black fiacre. Freed from its traces, the horse that had drawn it wandered under the apple trees of the small orchard. They rode over to the nearest tree, dismounted, and tied their mounts.

“Stand back.” Michel drew his gun. Motioning her back, he kicked open the door of the cottage. There was no one within. If there had been a caretaker, Casimir had dismissed him when he started bringing his victims here.

Together they walked to the burned ruins of the chateau. Theo led him through the ravaged foyer with its skeletal staircase leading nowhere. Beyond it were the remnants of a grand hallway flanked by elegant rooms opening to the sky. The back was in slightly better condition. Here they found the kitchen, with an old stone fireplace standing, three walls, a bit of roof. And a door of charred oak. Theo expected to find the door locked, that Michel would have to force it, but it opened smoothly. Below, faint light glimmered. The smell of corruption wafted upward, sweetly rotten.

A chill iced Theo’s spine. She wondered if Casimir had killed Matthieu and buried him. Burned him? She tried to thrust her fear to the back of her mind. It would only cripple her.

Stepping forward, Michel descended first. The stone steps were worn in the center from centuries of use. They reached a small passage where an iron gateway stood open. Looking inside, Theo fought back a cry. Votive candles formed a circle in the center of the room. Above them, a man hung from a hook in the rafters. His throat gaped and dried blood covered his clothing. His belly was gutted, the exposed entrails looping down from the wound. The reek of blood and excrement saturated the room.

“Corbeau. He was killed before he was hung there.” Michel glanced towards the far corner, bloodier than the floor beneath the body.

Theo saw the flagstones beneath the corpse were darkened with old bloodstains. The flash of pity she’d felt for what had once been a living man was squelched by the knowledge of his crimes. This was the man who had helped murder Alicia and the others. Denis and Dondre might have hung from this same hook. Had Matthieu?

“He is staging this for us like some obscene spectacle,” Michel said in a low voice.

“Then Matthieu must be alive, or he would be hanging there.”

“Perhaps,” Michel said.

That horror might still await them. Theo went forward and picked up one of the glass votives. Michel did as well. Looking around the brick-walled room, she saw some dilapidated wine shelves and a few broken bottles. There was a faint sound behind them. Michel heard it too, and they both turned at the same time. Was it nothing more than a rat lurking in this cellar, or was it a summons? They walked toward the back of the room. Obscured in shadows a scrolled metal gate stood open. An invitation. Theo followed Michel through into a long corridor. At its end was another door, ominous, strapped with leather and studded. Theo’s heart thudded, heavy and dull as an iron clapper pounding the wall of her chest. With every step the stench of death thickened, falling over them like murky veils. Death. Death and some other strident, sickening odor.

“Petrol,” Michel said. “Put the candles out.”

They extinguished the votives and went forward along the darkened corridor, led by the rim of light beneath the door. When they reached the end, Michel turned to her. Theo met his gaze and nodded, her mouth too dry for speech. Then he pushed open the door.

Swaying slightly, a hanging lantern with yellow glass panels illuminated the center of the room. Beneath its sulphurous light was a row of four tall wooden stakes. A cry choked Theo’s throat. On each stake was a head…the small head of a child. They faced her, their eyes glazed, their rotting lips exposing little white teeth in false leers. Revulsion clutched her with icy claws that twisted into her belly. Theo shut her eyes, fighting the quaking that swept her. She should have known that an imitator of Gilles de Rais would display this grotesque beauty pageant. Michel gathered her to him, blocking the sight. Theo felt the burn of rising tears. She fought back a sob, swallowing a breath of the putrid air. There was no escape from this horror. She pulled away from Michel and forced herself to turn. Her tears blurred the grisly display, but she could see now there was another lantern on the side of the table beyond. She went forward, forcing herself to look at the ghastly decomposed faces. She must know if Matthieu was displayed there. But no—these poor children had been dead for weeks—or months. Light gleamed at the corner of her vision and she turned to see Casimir step forward from the darkest corner, pushing Matthieu in front of him.

“You’ve come at last—my witnesses.” Casimir smiled, the golden, boyish smile Theo had always found so lovely. Even in the flickering candlelight, he looked radiant. A terrible sadness mingled with her abhorrence. Did a sliver of that Casimir exist? Did it matter, after what he’d done?

She looked to Matthieu and saw a noose looped around his throat. It trailed down and tied to Casimir’s waist. Wet streaks glistened on their clothing and the reek of gasoline floated around them. Casimir carried another lantern, its thin glass walls all that kept the flame from igniting the fumes. Tears stained Matthieu’s face, but he was not crying now. His eyes were wide with fear, but Theo saw courage and hope in them too. He searched their faces, watching for some clue to his salvation.

“Drop the gun,
Inspecteur,” Casimir said as he walked Matthieu to a table behind the staked heads. “If you shoot me, the lamp shatters and we both die.”

“Let the boy go,” Michel said. “You cannot believe you will escape.”

“I did not escape before. This time I must achieve my goal. Drop the gun and kick it here.” He lifted the lantern he held aloft.

Theo cursed silently. She had not thought to bring her colt—but even if she had, it would be too dangerous to use.

Michel dropped the gun.

“Here,” Casimir said, his voice, his face growing hard.

“Not to you.” Michel kicked the gun toward the back corner. It skittered on across the stones.

Casimir laughed. “Theo, fetch the gun and put it on the table.”

Theo glanced at Michel, then did as Casimir bade her. She would not defy him when there was still a chance to save Matthieu. She laid the gun down, watching the lantern light dance over the horrible array of knives and pincers, a hammer, a saw. She shuddered. Beneath the table was a streaked jug that must hold the gasoline. Casimir nodded for her to back away, then pulled Matthieu with him as he went to pick up the gun. He checked it, then trained it on Michel. “I will not go back to Paris, Inspecteur
.
I will not go to the guillotine.”

Casimir yanked Matthieu back to the gruesome display. Matthieu flinched away, but Casimir gripped his hair and held him still. Nodding toward the heads, Casimir asked, “Which is the most beautiful, Theodora?”

“They are all hideous.”

“Do you think so? I do not.” He tilted his head, a smile teasing the corner of his lips. “Do you think Averill would see their beauty, the implacable lure of Death?”

“No!”

Keeping Matthieu close, Casimir went to the head on the far end. “You must remember Dondre?” Theo had all she could do not to be sick as he bent slightly, watching her as he kissed the curling hair. Disgust, fury, terror were a pack of vicious rats clawing over each other inside her belly.

“Six boys—but you killed more,” Michel said.

“Only the prettiest are here.”

“Did you kill your grandfather, too?” Michel asked.

“I tried twice—but I only succeeded once.” Casimir smirked, but then his expression warped into a mask of loathing.

“What did he do, that you hated him so much?” Theo asked.

“What do you think?” His voice was scornful. “I endured every form of abuse at his hands—and from whatever other part of his anatomy that he chose.”

“So you set the fire that burned this chateau?” Michel asked.

“I wanted him dead, but she died instead—” Casimir broke off suddenly. “It was the judgment of God on my sin, taking the only one I loved, the only one who loved me.”

“We know about your Jeanne,” Theo said softly. At least once he had been able to love.

“You know nothing,” he accused, hatred igniting in his eyes. “I lived with him, year after year, afraid to try again, afraid some greater calamity would befall me. I suffered every atrocity he wanted to inflict. I waited for God to take him—but he lived on and on and on.”

“But you did succeed in killing him,” Michel said.

“The fire at Averill’s country house was a portent. My grandfather was the cause of Jeanne’s death as much as I. He had to die. It did not matter what happened to me after. I pushed him down the stairs. I was free of him at last.”

No, Theo thought, not free. More trapped than ever.

“When I returned to Montmartre,
Là Bas
was sitting on the table, waiting for me. Averill had left it out. Another portent. I saw who I must become. Jeanne was good, but I was never good except with her. Goodness needs miraculous courage. God punishes the good, like poor mawkish Job, seeing if they will succumb. But God, like the Devil, is intoxicated by evil. I had only to be wicked enough, and I would be gathered up with love. Forgiven. Blessed. I would be taken into her presence again, she who protected me though I was not worthy of it.”

“You were going to frame Averill for your crimes.” Michel said. “Was that another offering of evil?”

“Averill could not have taken Matthieu.” Casimir looked at him as if he were the madman. “I ordered Corbeau to take him for me.”