The Orchid Shroud (40 page)

“Then who the devil was he?” demanded Loulou.

“That,” admitted Julian, “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure who he wasn’t. He was not a de Bonfond.”

“And the baby in the wall?” asked Prudence.

“Was.”

“Cécile and Hugo’s?” Mara proposed doubtfully. Were they back to that?

“No. Hugo and Henriette’s.”

“Bigre!”
exclaimed Paul, flinging himself back. His chair creaked ominously.

“It was the only explanation I could come up with. I think that’s what Didier meant when he said there was another baby, and he’s in a position to know because his family has worked for the de Bonfonds for generations.”

Prudence said slowly, “So—the person who grew up as Dieudonné wasn’t Hugo and Henriette’s child. But Baby Blue was, and he was the one who was killed. Why?”

“Think about it. Shortly after Henriette gave birth, Hugo was badly injured in a hunting accident. He was dying. Henriette’s annuity, her right to remain at Aurillac, depended on her producing a male heir to survive Hugo.”

“Well, then, she’d have had a good reason to make sure her baby lived,” Mado pointed out.

“Ah,” said Julian, allowing himself to look wise. “But it would have been in other people’s interests, particularly those who hated her, to make sure the baby predeceased the father.”

They all stared at him.

“I’m beginning to understand,” Mara said after a moment. “Someone smothered Henriette’s baby as a way of getting rid of Henriette?”

“Exactly.”

“And this,” said Loulou, plucking at the wattle under his chin, “is where the second baby came in, I suppose?”

“Right,” said Julian. “Henriette was one step ahead of the killer. I think she anticipated that someone would try to kill her child—maybe there had already been attempts—and she was smart enough to realize that if anything was going to happen it had to be before her husband died.”

“Then all she had to do was make sure no one got to her kid until Hugo snuffed it,” declared Paul. “Guard him round the clock.”

“Sounds simple, but she couldn’t be with him every second—she had to sleep, eat, and also nurse Hugo. Trouble is, he lasted seventeen days. And, from the sound of it, except for the maid Marie, she didn’t have many friends in that house. She might have even been afraid they’d drug her food. She did the only thing she could do.” He paused for effect, looking around at five expectant faces. “As a contingency plan, she lined up a substitute baby that she could pass off as her own in the event her child was murdered.”

“Ça alors!”
uttered Paul. “She was a cool customer.”

“She was desperate,” said Julian. “She probably loved her baby like any mother would, but she was facing not only a determined killer but the prospect of a life of poverty. She did everything she could to protect her baby, and at the same time she did what she had to do to survive.”

Prudence looked doubtful. “Where would she have gotten the second baby? Kids don’t grow on trees, you know.”

Julian rubbed his beard. “A foundling? An unwanted bastard? In those days, it might not have been that hard. The critical thing is that one very young baby looks pretty much like another. All the
same, it would have been tricky. The transfer had to be seamless, and I’m sure she had very little time to work with.”

“I don’t see why she didn’t just bundle the dead baby up and go outside with it as if she wanted to get some air,” reasoned Paul. “Make the switch away from the house. Whoever provided the substitute could have taken the kid away and buried it somewhere. Why stick it in a wall?”

Julian shook his head. “Too risky. She would have been watched by Odile and Cécile and all the inside and outside servants. Supposing she was stopped? The moment her dead baby was discovered, it would have been game over. Also, it would have looked suspicious if she’d been caught trying to take it away. She might even have been accused of killing the child herself.”

“So that’s why she secretly prepared a hole in the wall through the back of the armoire,” Mara mused. “She wasn’t a stonemason’s daughter for nothing. You’re saying that, as soon as she found her own baby dead, she put it in the wall and somehow managed the substitution?”

Julian nodded.

“Someone must have helped her,” put in Mado. “No way she could’ve carried off a thing like that alone. That maid you mentioned, Julian, maybe she was willing to do it for a price.”

Prudence objected, “She still couldn’t have gotten away with it. The killer, if nobody else, would have known it wasn’t the same baby.”

Julian had the answer ready. “Ah, but how to expose Henriette without self-exposure? The substitution was something the killer couldn’t have anticipated. Where was the body? There couldn’t have been a case without a body. That was the beauty of concealing it in the wall. And who could prove the second baby wasn’t the real Dieudonné? As I said, one very young infant looks pretty much like another. Henriette would, of course, have sworn it was her baby, and a mother should know her own child. The question
is”—his gaze traveled around the table—“which one of them did it? It had to be someone who had access to the baby, and that means Odile or Cécile.”

There was a long silence.

“Cécile,” Mara said eventually. “It may explain why she eventually went mad. Imagine having to live with someone you smothered in infancy, so to speak.”

Julian shook his head. “I think it was Odile.”

Everyone debated the merits of each case. Cécile hated her sister-in-law, Mara said. Despite Hugo’s abuse, she was probably insanely jealous of Henriette for stealing Hugo’s affections, such as they were. The clincher was that Henriette had used Cécile’s shawl to wrap her baby in, an accusation in itself.

Julian countered that Odile hated Henriette even more. The Horizontal Blonde had taken her only son. But, more important, the family estate was at stake. “Don’t forget,” he pointed out, “at the time that Hugo lay dying, Cécile was about to waive her inheritance rights and enter a convent. Because of the way French succession law follows bloodline, if Hugo had died childless, and with Cécile out of the picture, his sole heir would have been his
mother
. The entire estate would have passed from him to her.”

“Ha!” declared Loulou. “Look to whom the crime profits. It always boils down to land or money in the end.”

It was interesting how the vote split. The women agreed with Mara, preferring Cécile and the psychological motive. Besides, Mara pointed out, even if Odile had hated Henriette, Baby Blue was still her grandson. What woman would kill her own grandchild, even for money? The men, perhaps feeling more comfortable with murder for profit, felt Odile was up to it. Cécile, on the other hand, stood nothing to gain by Baby Blue’s death.

“It also,” said Loulou, adding a brick to the blockhouse of the male argument, “could have been Maman Odile’s way of ensuring that the Verdiers got their own back. Don’t forget: the Verdiers’
hopes of uniting the two estates were crushed when Hugo dropped Eloïse to marry Henriette. But with Baby Blue out of the way, everything Odile inherited from Hugo would have passed across to the Verdiers on her death.”

“The substitute changed all that.” Julian clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned back in his chair. “It’s ironic. As I said, the killer couldn’t even denounce the false Dieudonné without giving herself away. Henriette had her cornered. As far as everyone knew, Hugo died leaving a surviving heir. Henriette had fulfilled her part of the contract. She got her annuity plus a life interest in the estate, and the fake Dieudonné inherited from Hugo. You have to hand it to her. She outsmarted them all.” Mentally he swept a bow to the Horizontal Blonde.

“Then that’s it!” Prudence, who had been following the back-and-forth discussion like a tennis match, suddenly exclaimed. In her excitement a strand of hair came loose from the black casque of her coiffure. “That was what Jean-Claude tried to blackmail Christophe about. He figured out Baby Blue’s real identity. As a genealogist, he would have known about things like genetics, and he must have run into other cases of identity fraud. He threatened to tell the Verdiers about the substitution, which would mean
they
were the rightful heirs.”

“In fact,” said Mara ruefully, “I pointed out the differences in family features to him. Only I wasn’t thinking about eye color.”

“Well, then, he would have been quick to figure it out. Christophe is rolling in money. Jean-Claude’s prospects for blackmail would have been huge.”

Loulou raised a hand. “
Un petit moment …
As a hypothesis it’s very compelling. Unfortunately, you’re forgetting one important thing.”

“What?” Prudence’s slim-line eyes dared him to upset her theory.

“Time. All this happened a long time ago. The Verdiers, if they
took the matter to court, would undoubtedly face some kind of statute of limitations.”

“He’s right,” said Julian. “The case would be dead in the water. Guy’s a lawyer. He’d know that straight away. So would Jean-Claude and Christophe.”

Loulou nodded. “There’s also something called
‘la théorie de l’apparence.’
The false Dieudonné was to all intents and purposes the apparent heir of his father. Moreover, he inherited in good faith, since Henriette wouldn’t have been likely to tell him the truth. If he and
his
heirs held the de Bonfond property continuously and legally since the time of the substitution, and especially if their labors enhanced the estate, your Verdiers would have a poor chance of making a claim today. And Guy, as you say, is a lawyer. He’d know that.”

Prudence sighed. “Well, it was a good idea while it lasted.”

Julian held up a hand. “But I have a better one, and since you like psychological motives, Mara, this should suit you. Christophe learns he’s not a de Bonfond. His world is turned upside down. You know how the family name defines him. Plus, his neck is on the line professionally. Editions Arobas is about to publish a book on the glorious history of the de Bonfonds, for Christ’s sake! I’m sure the book already suppresses the facts that the de Bonfond ancestral tree is bogus and the family was never ennobled, and I suspect Jean-Claude already got a consideration in return for keeping quiet about that. But Baby Blue is harder to suppress. Everyone wants to know who the kid was and why he was killed. So let’s say this time Jean-Claude ups the ante: Pay out and I’ll concoct some kind of cover story that’ll satisfy the public. Otherwise, I’ll let the world know not only that your book is a farce, but that the de Bonfonds are baby-killers and frauds. Moreover, you’re the biggest fraud of all. How would Christophe have felt to learn that he’s not even related to the people he’s worshiped all his life? That he’s nothing more than the descendant of some maidservant’s brat?
Supposing the Verdiers pushed for a DNA test and were able to show that they, but not Christophe, are related to Baby Blue? He’d be a laughingstock on all fronts. It might have been enough to send him over the edge. Or, more accurately, to make him send Jean-Claude over the parapet.”

Julian paused and said apologetically to Mara. “I’m sorry. I realize this buries your lycanthrope theory. But surely you must see that if Christophe isn’t a de Bonfond he couldn’t have inherited a tendency to lycanthropy from Xavier. And if Jean-Claude had figured out that Christophe’s grandfather wasn’t Hugo and Henriette’s child, he would never have tried to blackmail Christophe for his werewolf connections.”

They were all looking at her. She gave way with as much grace as she could manage. “All right. Congratulations. You’ve solved the mystery of Baby Blue. And Jean-Claude. But you still haven’t explained away Xavier and his link with the Gévaudan and Sigoulane Beasts. Also, something out there right now is terrifying people in the valley. If Christophe’s not behind it, what is? And since both Baby Blue and Dieudonné weren’t missing any body parts, who cut off whose head?”

LATER FRIDAY NIGHT, 28 MAY

D
espite everything I said, I still can’t see Christophe as a killer,” Julian said unhappily. He was standing in the doorway of Mara’s kitchen. It was a model kitchen that integrated good layout and the latest European designer appliances with a pleasingly rustic decor. Mara rarely put it to its intended use. Living in a country that boasted some of world’s finest gastronomy, she avoided whenever possible tackling what others could do much better than she.

The microwave beeped. Mara pulled out two mugs of steaming milk to which she added generous spoonfuls of Horlicks, purchased from what Paul called
le rayon anglais
, the English section, in that part of Chez Nous that served Grissac as a general store.

Mara handed Julian his drink and a spoon. “How well do you know him?”

Julian shrugged. “We go back a long way. I count him as a friend.”

“All right, then, is he gay?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Julian stirred irritably. The contents of his mug turned a pale-dun color. “You sound like Mariette. What does it matter—”

She cut in, also stirring. “It doesn’t. I’m just proving that you can’t answer the question. You don’t know Christophe as well as you think.”